The Musketeers | Athos/D'Artagnan, Porthos/Aramis
prompt: soft despite all the swords
fandom: The Musketeers
pairing: Athos/D'Artagnan, Porthos/Aramis
rating: pg-13
word count: 2.175
written for gameofcards @ao3tags challenge
Somehow things got infinitely better and so much worse at the same time the day they accidentally adopted d’Artagnan - and that shouldn’t be possible but somehow it is.
“We shouldn’t have stopped, the rain isn’t that bad,” he says even as he is chewing on a mouthful of deliciously spicy pork. He doesn’t like stopping unplanned mid-journey and they all know it and they all know why and there’s a silent agreement among them not to pick at that barely healed scab.
A flat-chested red-head brings them more ale, vaguely cordial in her bored sort of way, given that they are the only guests at the inn, apart from some drunk man slumped over in one of the chairs. The drinks spill a little when she puts the tankards on their table and Aramis smiles at her like she’s a fallen angel he intends to dust down and mend the broken wings of. Athos can feel tense apprehension rolling off Porthos in waves and makes a point of ignoring the whole thing. D’Artagnan not too subtly rolls his eyes at all of them.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s their fledgling son or if he’s the only adult in their company.
---
They’re scared for him all the time, like he’s somehow become their responsibility, like a bird that fell out of its nest and is trying to fly on broken wings. But they’re also scared of him in a way because for longer than they care to remember, it’s been just the three of them, and they don’t know what d’Artagnan’s persistent presence will do to who they are. Which, admittedly wasn’t all that much to begin with but it was all they had. And sometimes, when days go by slow and there’s too much time to think, Athos is just scared. Because it’s only been two months and yet after one too many, when he’s finally ready to be honest with himself at least, he thinks he could almost admit that the way those few strands of black hair sometimes fall into d’Artagnan’s eyes, makes him almost want to live again.
---
“I’m going to take Porthos’ thick, throbbing cock deep into my mouth and suck until he spills his pleasure down my throat.”
Athos blinks and turns his attention away from where d’Artagnan is helping Constance with the chores. It’s his day off and he’s in his shirtsleeves, throat exposed to the summer sun, perspiration clinging to his skin.
Aramis is grinning with almost childlike mirth and Athos bites back a groan. He’s almost entirely certain Aramis was joking, and only wanted to finally get his attention, but with Aramis you never really know. And if this gets out of hand, Athos will have to be the one to crawl out of his self-imposed solitude and pick up the pieces.
So he fixes Aramis with a pointed glare. His friend laughs, loud and easy - that effortless kind of sound Athos never managed to make even before everything fell to pieces in his life. Suddenly there’s a loud noise from the yard, and when he looks, d’Artagnan is sitting on the ground between two buckets, drenched in water. He must have stumbled as he was carrying them into the house. Constance is laughing softly next to him and suddenly he’s looking up at her and there’s that sound - that same kind of effortless laughter like from Aramis before.
Athos gets up from the window and leaves to find Porthos. Suddenly he’s in the mood to shoot at things.
---
Porthos isn’t like him at all, he doesn’t wear his bruised heart on his sleeve for the whole world to see. He’s warm and funny and effective, so unlike Athos’ own constant storm and hail kind of nature. Porthos jokes, and drinks in good humour, not in order to forget, and it never feels like a charade. It’s just who he is.
It’s just sometimes, when Aramis is pointedly not with them, or when he’s smiling in a particular way, that something sharp and raw flickers across Porthos’ expression - and even though it’s fleeting, it’s so violent and intimate that Athos always has to look away.
---
It’s when Constance starts to subtly make sure the drink is never within Athos’ reach when they’re over with some thin excuse that he realizes she’s slowly becoming something of a friend and he’s not exactly sure how the universe can bear that without crumbling in on itself but apparently it does, and so should he somehow.
---
Sleep is elusive and fragile, nervously flickering at the edge of reality. Or it’s deadweight on his entire body and oblivion is so deep he’s shaken to the core that he wakes from it.
There’s no middle ground for Athos. It’s always one or the other. But neither saves him from a face, a voice, the smell of spring from a plucked flower. It’s worst when she’s smiling at him, trusting and loving - he prefers her screaming his name from the depths of Hell, calling for him, waiting for him. And he can’t in all honesty convince even himself that it’s not because a part of him still hopes they will be reunited in the world to come.
---
“No,” d’Artagnan says firmly and pushes the tankard out of Athos’ reach.
Piss off, he wants to say but it comes out as an unidentifiable, low grunt. He leans across the table but d’Artagnan just picks up the tankard and finishes its contents swiftly. He grimaces at the taste - it’s the cheapest, most vile drink they had in the tavern, for good reason, those are usually the ones that hit you over the head hard - but he looks smug nonetheless.
Athos tries to fix him with a glare but in his current state it probably manifests in a rather pitiful way on his face, because d’Artagnan’s lips twitch in thinly veiled amusement for a second. There’s something kind and warm in his eyes and it tears at the perpetual coldness under Athos’ skin. He wants to get closer to it, more than anything else, but he’ still conscious enough to try to put more distance between them instead. He really needs that drink.
But as he tries to stand, his knees feel weak, and at the first step they give out completely and Athos collapses on the filthy floor of the tavern. There’s laughter and a part of his mind thinks he ought to care but somehow he can’t bring himself to.
A moment later d’Artagnan is by his side, one hand tangling messily in Athos’ shirt, the other warm and steady at the nape of Athos’ neck and he can’t breathe.
“Enough,” d’Artagnan pleads softly. The mournful tone of his voice gnarls at Athos’ guilt and he can’t take it anymore. He shifts and somehow gains enough control of his body to lash out and punch d’Artagnan in the face.
There’s the faint redness of blood at his split lip, but what truly shakes Athos is that betrayed look in d’Artagnan’s eyes. He feels sick all of a sudden and vomits on the dirty floor, like so many must have before him. By the time he looks up d’Artagnan is gone and maybe that’s for the best, really. He’s faintly aware of being hauled up and thrown into the street, amid gleeful laughter.
He lies there, prays for oblivion that won’t come, until suddenly strong arms yank him to his feet not exactly kindly but without hostility.
“You, my friend, ruined a perfectly pleasurable night in a perfectly soft bed,” Aramis says but there’s no real venom in his voice. Athos frowns.
Porthos pats him on the back roughly, but in good humour. “Next time, invite us along, won’t you?” he smiles, then adds a little more soberly. “Kid was worried about you.”
Next morning, feeling miserable in every possible sense of the word, Athos tries to apologize without actually saying the words, but d’Artagnan just shrugs with an honest, even if somewhat uncertain smile. And even though the motion makes him flinch, because it strains his split lip, somehow that’s the end of it.
---
Things never get awkward between them. It might not make sense, but no matter how messy everything else gets within the confines of Athos’ chest - this is easy: days on horseback, too many fistfights, the ungrateful smirks of the Cardinal, honour, duty, friendship.
A soldier’s life might be hard - but it’s never complicated.
---
With increasing regularity, d’Artagnan disappears somewhere with Constance and there’s a familiar voice in Athos’ dreams that tells him he doesn’t deserve the absolution of d’Artagnan’s company, anyway.
---
There were so many mornings he woke to d’Artagnan training alone in the courtyard before dawn, that eventually Athos stopped trying to sleep through the sounds. He never fancied himself a teacher, not like Treville, who is mentor and father to them all. Athos never found it in him to care enough to take someone under his wings. But now he finds himself saying things like:
“Pay more attention to your left foot.”
or
“More control in your left arm.”
D’Artagnan is so startlingly young, and it’s never more evident than when they train. He’s impulsive and agile but entirely too sure of himself, no matter how often he’s knocked into the ground. Athos almost envies him that faith in his own abilities, his bright future.
He always glares when he falls, like it’s an insult, but a smile overtakes his features whenever Athos reaches out to help him up and Athos’ chest feels tight and crowded at the sight.
---
There’s something strangely magnetic in the way Aramis is around women. When they first met Athos thought he was just like many other men he’d known, who take prizes and don’t look back, but soon enough he had to admit he was wrong.
Aramis never takes what is not readily on offer and never promises what he can’t deliver. He has sweet words and charming smiles to fill many beds, but he never deceives. He chooses well, the women he goes after never look to gift their hearts, just to sate their bodies, and those little games of love they play with each other are always clear and light and never hurt.
Athos envies him that more than all the women he’s had the chance to bed over the years.
“Do you think she knows he had three other lovers just this week?” d’Artagnan asks, watching as across the street Aramis places a seductive kiss to the delicate hand of a lady in a carriage, and he sounds like he can’t decide if he should be amused, impressed, or just a little scandalized.
“Yes,” Athos says simply and looks away, patting the neck of his horse. “And if she doesn’t yet, she’ll know before long.”
D’Artagnan frowns like he can’t quite wrap his head around that. “He’ll tell her?”
“He cares for them deeply,” Porthos says in a strangely crisp voice. “Wouldn’t hurt any of them intentionally.”
“Wouldn’t hurt anybody intentionally,” Athos says not looking up and Porthos grunts. It’s not quite acceptance but it’s good enough. D’Artagnan looks like he’s only catching about one third of this conversation but is trying to cover it with an amused smile and Athos is suddenly gripped by the urge to kiss him.
He’s mercifully saved from his own thoughts by Aramis, who returns to them with a smirk on his face and a bounce in his steps.
“Hope you’re not too tired to ride, we have a long way ahead of us,” Porthos says with a teasing grin and almost makes it sound easy and companionable.
Aramis laughs and slings an arm around Porthos when he says: “You need to find yourself a woman, my friend. You’re wound too tight. Celibacy is not a good look on you.”
Despite himself, Porthos laughs and shoves gently at his friend. “I would. But you bed all the women we ever meet.”
Aramis pretends to think about that deeply and then with mock seriousness says: “Fair enough. I promise I will not woo any woman we meet in the next week…” he considers this, then adds: “Let’s say five days.”
They all burst out laughing at the same time and Athos suddenly realizes that none of the muck of love could ever destroy this. So what if Porthos is in love with Aramis and Aramis is in love with everyone he ever meet? What if Athos wants D’Artagnan more fiercely that he remembers wanting anything and finds it increasingly hard to cover up his longing. And D’Artagnan - well, it’s a bit of a mystery what he wants - Constance, or fame, or purpose or something else altogether. What matters, more than any of that, is that they belong together, and will stand by each other’s side no matter what time may bring. Athos can hear that promise in their shared laughter, and just for one fleeting moment, life is not quite so damnably bleak.
fandom: The Musketeers
pairing: Athos/D'Artagnan, Porthos/Aramis
rating: pg-13
word count: 2.175
written for gameofcards @ao3tags challenge
Somehow things got infinitely better and so much worse at the same time the day they accidentally adopted d’Artagnan - and that shouldn’t be possible but somehow it is.
“We shouldn’t have stopped, the rain isn’t that bad,” he says even as he is chewing on a mouthful of deliciously spicy pork. He doesn’t like stopping unplanned mid-journey and they all know it and they all know why and there’s a silent agreement among them not to pick at that barely healed scab.
A flat-chested red-head brings them more ale, vaguely cordial in her bored sort of way, given that they are the only guests at the inn, apart from some drunk man slumped over in one of the chairs. The drinks spill a little when she puts the tankards on their table and Aramis smiles at her like she’s a fallen angel he intends to dust down and mend the broken wings of. Athos can feel tense apprehension rolling off Porthos in waves and makes a point of ignoring the whole thing. D’Artagnan not too subtly rolls his eyes at all of them.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s their fledgling son or if he’s the only adult in their company.
---
They’re scared for him all the time, like he’s somehow become their responsibility, like a bird that fell out of its nest and is trying to fly on broken wings. But they’re also scared of him in a way because for longer than they care to remember, it’s been just the three of them, and they don’t know what d’Artagnan’s persistent presence will do to who they are. Which, admittedly wasn’t all that much to begin with but it was all they had. And sometimes, when days go by slow and there’s too much time to think, Athos is just scared. Because it’s only been two months and yet after one too many, when he’s finally ready to be honest with himself at least, he thinks he could almost admit that the way those few strands of black hair sometimes fall into d’Artagnan’s eyes, makes him almost want to live again.
---
“I’m going to take Porthos’ thick, throbbing cock deep into my mouth and suck until he spills his pleasure down my throat.”
Athos blinks and turns his attention away from where d’Artagnan is helping Constance with the chores. It’s his day off and he’s in his shirtsleeves, throat exposed to the summer sun, perspiration clinging to his skin.
Aramis is grinning with almost childlike mirth and Athos bites back a groan. He’s almost entirely certain Aramis was joking, and only wanted to finally get his attention, but with Aramis you never really know. And if this gets out of hand, Athos will have to be the one to crawl out of his self-imposed solitude and pick up the pieces.
So he fixes Aramis with a pointed glare. His friend laughs, loud and easy - that effortless kind of sound Athos never managed to make even before everything fell to pieces in his life. Suddenly there’s a loud noise from the yard, and when he looks, d’Artagnan is sitting on the ground between two buckets, drenched in water. He must have stumbled as he was carrying them into the house. Constance is laughing softly next to him and suddenly he’s looking up at her and there’s that sound - that same kind of effortless laughter like from Aramis before.
Athos gets up from the window and leaves to find Porthos. Suddenly he’s in the mood to shoot at things.
---
Porthos isn’t like him at all, he doesn’t wear his bruised heart on his sleeve for the whole world to see. He’s warm and funny and effective, so unlike Athos’ own constant storm and hail kind of nature. Porthos jokes, and drinks in good humour, not in order to forget, and it never feels like a charade. It’s just who he is.
It’s just sometimes, when Aramis is pointedly not with them, or when he’s smiling in a particular way, that something sharp and raw flickers across Porthos’ expression - and even though it’s fleeting, it’s so violent and intimate that Athos always has to look away.
---
It’s when Constance starts to subtly make sure the drink is never within Athos’ reach when they’re over with some thin excuse that he realizes she’s slowly becoming something of a friend and he’s not exactly sure how the universe can bear that without crumbling in on itself but apparently it does, and so should he somehow.
---
Sleep is elusive and fragile, nervously flickering at the edge of reality. Or it’s deadweight on his entire body and oblivion is so deep he’s shaken to the core that he wakes from it.
There’s no middle ground for Athos. It’s always one or the other. But neither saves him from a face, a voice, the smell of spring from a plucked flower. It’s worst when she’s smiling at him, trusting and loving - he prefers her screaming his name from the depths of Hell, calling for him, waiting for him. And he can’t in all honesty convince even himself that it’s not because a part of him still hopes they will be reunited in the world to come.
---
“No,” d’Artagnan says firmly and pushes the tankard out of Athos’ reach.
Piss off, he wants to say but it comes out as an unidentifiable, low grunt. He leans across the table but d’Artagnan just picks up the tankard and finishes its contents swiftly. He grimaces at the taste - it’s the cheapest, most vile drink they had in the tavern, for good reason, those are usually the ones that hit you over the head hard - but he looks smug nonetheless.
Athos tries to fix him with a glare but in his current state it probably manifests in a rather pitiful way on his face, because d’Artagnan’s lips twitch in thinly veiled amusement for a second. There’s something kind and warm in his eyes and it tears at the perpetual coldness under Athos’ skin. He wants to get closer to it, more than anything else, but he’ still conscious enough to try to put more distance between them instead. He really needs that drink.
But as he tries to stand, his knees feel weak, and at the first step they give out completely and Athos collapses on the filthy floor of the tavern. There’s laughter and a part of his mind thinks he ought to care but somehow he can’t bring himself to.
A moment later d’Artagnan is by his side, one hand tangling messily in Athos’ shirt, the other warm and steady at the nape of Athos’ neck and he can’t breathe.
“Enough,” d’Artagnan pleads softly. The mournful tone of his voice gnarls at Athos’ guilt and he can’t take it anymore. He shifts and somehow gains enough control of his body to lash out and punch d’Artagnan in the face.
There’s the faint redness of blood at his split lip, but what truly shakes Athos is that betrayed look in d’Artagnan’s eyes. He feels sick all of a sudden and vomits on the dirty floor, like so many must have before him. By the time he looks up d’Artagnan is gone and maybe that’s for the best, really. He’s faintly aware of being hauled up and thrown into the street, amid gleeful laughter.
He lies there, prays for oblivion that won’t come, until suddenly strong arms yank him to his feet not exactly kindly but without hostility.
“You, my friend, ruined a perfectly pleasurable night in a perfectly soft bed,” Aramis says but there’s no real venom in his voice. Athos frowns.
Porthos pats him on the back roughly, but in good humour. “Next time, invite us along, won’t you?” he smiles, then adds a little more soberly. “Kid was worried about you.”
Next morning, feeling miserable in every possible sense of the word, Athos tries to apologize without actually saying the words, but d’Artagnan just shrugs with an honest, even if somewhat uncertain smile. And even though the motion makes him flinch, because it strains his split lip, somehow that’s the end of it.
---
Things never get awkward between them. It might not make sense, but no matter how messy everything else gets within the confines of Athos’ chest - this is easy: days on horseback, too many fistfights, the ungrateful smirks of the Cardinal, honour, duty, friendship.
A soldier’s life might be hard - but it’s never complicated.
---
With increasing regularity, d’Artagnan disappears somewhere with Constance and there’s a familiar voice in Athos’ dreams that tells him he doesn’t deserve the absolution of d’Artagnan’s company, anyway.
---
There were so many mornings he woke to d’Artagnan training alone in the courtyard before dawn, that eventually Athos stopped trying to sleep through the sounds. He never fancied himself a teacher, not like Treville, who is mentor and father to them all. Athos never found it in him to care enough to take someone under his wings. But now he finds himself saying things like:
“Pay more attention to your left foot.”
or
“More control in your left arm.”
D’Artagnan is so startlingly young, and it’s never more evident than when they train. He’s impulsive and agile but entirely too sure of himself, no matter how often he’s knocked into the ground. Athos almost envies him that faith in his own abilities, his bright future.
He always glares when he falls, like it’s an insult, but a smile overtakes his features whenever Athos reaches out to help him up and Athos’ chest feels tight and crowded at the sight.
---
There’s something strangely magnetic in the way Aramis is around women. When they first met Athos thought he was just like many other men he’d known, who take prizes and don’t look back, but soon enough he had to admit he was wrong.
Aramis never takes what is not readily on offer and never promises what he can’t deliver. He has sweet words and charming smiles to fill many beds, but he never deceives. He chooses well, the women he goes after never look to gift their hearts, just to sate their bodies, and those little games of love they play with each other are always clear and light and never hurt.
Athos envies him that more than all the women he’s had the chance to bed over the years.
“Do you think she knows he had three other lovers just this week?” d’Artagnan asks, watching as across the street Aramis places a seductive kiss to the delicate hand of a lady in a carriage, and he sounds like he can’t decide if he should be amused, impressed, or just a little scandalized.
“Yes,” Athos says simply and looks away, patting the neck of his horse. “And if she doesn’t yet, she’ll know before long.”
D’Artagnan frowns like he can’t quite wrap his head around that. “He’ll tell her?”
“He cares for them deeply,” Porthos says in a strangely crisp voice. “Wouldn’t hurt any of them intentionally.”
“Wouldn’t hurt anybody intentionally,” Athos says not looking up and Porthos grunts. It’s not quite acceptance but it’s good enough. D’Artagnan looks like he’s only catching about one third of this conversation but is trying to cover it with an amused smile and Athos is suddenly gripped by the urge to kiss him.
He’s mercifully saved from his own thoughts by Aramis, who returns to them with a smirk on his face and a bounce in his steps.
“Hope you’re not too tired to ride, we have a long way ahead of us,” Porthos says with a teasing grin and almost makes it sound easy and companionable.
Aramis laughs and slings an arm around Porthos when he says: “You need to find yourself a woman, my friend. You’re wound too tight. Celibacy is not a good look on you.”
Despite himself, Porthos laughs and shoves gently at his friend. “I would. But you bed all the women we ever meet.”
Aramis pretends to think about that deeply and then with mock seriousness says: “Fair enough. I promise I will not woo any woman we meet in the next week…” he considers this, then adds: “Let’s say five days.”
They all burst out laughing at the same time and Athos suddenly realizes that none of the muck of love could ever destroy this. So what if Porthos is in love with Aramis and Aramis is in love with everyone he ever meet? What if Athos wants D’Artagnan more fiercely that he remembers wanting anything and finds it increasingly hard to cover up his longing. And D’Artagnan - well, it’s a bit of a mystery what he wants - Constance, or fame, or purpose or something else altogether. What matters, more than any of that, is that they belong together, and will stand by each other’s side no matter what time may bring. Athos can hear that promise in their shared laughter, and just for one fleeting moment, life is not quite so damnably bleak.