A reunion

[somepoorsoul]

If Athos can say one thing about this strange and baffling place, this Darrow, he can agree that it is quite clean and well-appointed, in its own way. Though choked with the ranging carriages of the like that nearly knocked him over, the boulevards are broader than any he would find in Paris, and the directions given to him by the attendant at the train station are easy to follow. Still, he enters the building grandly labeled The Bramford with guarded suspicion, for nothing he has learned since finding himself here has convinced him that this is a place worthy of trust. Could Porthos and Aramis really be here, as so many people had assured him? Where was here, exactly, and how did he go about leaving? Most troubling of all, if escape was possible (and it must be, he told himself), why had his friends not found it?

It is the thought of his friends, though, that keeps him going up the narrow stairway inside, to the floor where Porthos and Aramis are meant to reside. One door stands slightly ajar, and Athos approaches with one hand resting on his sword hilt, a posture both casual and vaguely threatening to anyone who might pass. Something does wait in the door, but it surely not what Athos expects.

A cat sits there, just inside the apartment, delicately cleaning itself. As Athos’ shadow falls across the threshold, it looks up and blinks thoughtfully.

Athos stares down at it in confusion, one eyebrow raised.

But the cat only stares back with its usual cool disdain.

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[somepoorsoul]

Athos does, indeed, grimace as the harsh light briefly fills the room, wondering how men do survive in such conditions without going wholly blind. Still squinting a bit as the light returns to normal, he observes, “I understand about half the words you say, I will have you know,” though at least the tone of their banter is familiar. He must take comfort in that much, no matter what else is in flux.

“I fear I will be forced to accept your advice in all things, I understand so little.” He eyed the coffee in its strange carafe, but then chose his more familiar wine. “God help me."

[afineseamstress]

"It is good of you to be so cooperative," Aramis tells him as he reclaims his seat, fork darting in for a chunk of Porthos' cake and out again with a marksman's ease.

"Start with the coffee," he advises. "You will like it, though it may rob you of some of the effects of the wine. But." Aramis casts a smile between them. "I hardly think you'll mind drinking more to make up the loss. Porthos."

Aramis drains the last of his wine in anticipation of the coffee. "What modernity shall we teach him first? And do not say phones."

[du_vallon]

Porthos gives a cry of offense when his own cake is stolen, but his smug smirk comes after as he leans forward to pour each of them coffee, putting a dash of brandy in Athos' as he slides it over to him, knowing what the man likes. His own is filled to the brim with sugar and he gives Aramis all his own fixings, to give him the control. "Clothes," Porthos says automatically, his gaze turning to Athos and sizing him up slowly, smirking as he raises his brows in Aramis' direction. "Wouldn't he look handsome in a pair of silk pajamas?"

[somepoorsoul]

“No.” But Athos knows full well what devils his friends can be when they turn against him together. He intends to hang on to his uniform for as long as damnably possible, but they will surely cajole until he relents. Has he not suffered enough for one night?

He will suffer one more slice of modernity, at least. The coffee before him smells like nothing he has experienced before: nutty and strange, with the brandy’s sweetness hidden underneath. Carefully, he takes it and drinks.

“Morbleu."

[afineseamstress]

"Strange, isn't it?" asks Aramis. He'd found it exotic himself, but once sugar and milk are added, the taste is pure delight. "Experiment," he suggests, pushing the little bowl and saucer towards him.

"And of course he would," he tells Porthos. "Athos would look handsome in a straw hat. I will vouch for them though." Aramis smiles at Athos, for now enjoying the picture he makes of home. "Silks are by far the most comfortable for sleeping in."

[du_vallon]

Porthos sips at his cup, raising a brow as he gives a firm nod that says they are, indeed, the most comfortable. He rarely uses them, but then, Porthos rarely sleeps in anything but a pair of comfortable boxer-briefs that allow him to wake up in the morning and do his yoga. At the thought, he perks up. "Maybe Athos could join me for my morning yoga," he says, eager for someone and if it isn't Athos, perhaps it's Constance and d'Artagnan he needs to convince. "Or," he offers, catching Athos' eye, "we could introduce him to the wonders of the hot shower."

[somepoorsoul]

“You’ve both lost your wits,” Athos declares. He hasn’t the slightest idea what this ‘yoga’ business might be, and isn’t sure he wishes to find out - though he suspects he will, by and by.

He pours some of the milk into the coffee, unsure how much would be necessary to cut the drink’s bitterness. Under that initial, unsatisfying sharpness, he had tasted something surprising, even wondrous, which he will not be easily forgetting. But as he lifts the spoon from the sugar bowl, he pauses. “Where does all this come from?"

[afineseamstress]

"As long as anyone not myself does the yoga I am happy," Aramis replies, leaning forward to regard Athos. "That is a difficult question to answer. If you mean the food itself, we procure it at a place they call a supermarket. Everything you could ever wish for and more besides may be found there, and there are many in Darrow. If you mean the coin by which we purchase it..."

Aramis looks to Porthos, as helpless on this subject as ever. "We have accounts. Once monthly, more funds appear from some unknown source, as mysteriously as we ourselves appeared here. It is not much, but it is enough to live on. Better than our commissions, even, though Porthos and I find work when we desire something more expensive."

[du_vallon]

"We try as much as we can to earn that money that appears," Porthos says, knowing that the money is a sore subject with both of them. He's happy for its appearance, but finds it strange that it comes from nowhere. He shifts so that his bare foot touches the outside of Aramis' far ankle, a quiet contact that he can draw strength from without having Athos see. "There's that money, then we have our security work, and beyond that, there are ways to earn money that aren't through a patroness."

"Prize fights, for instance," he supplies.

[somepoorsoul]

Athos finds this explanation as unsettling as the rest, but he can only grimace and nod. So this is a land where luxuries are cheap and incomes are provided. He can live with that, as puzzling as he finds the former, and discomforting he finds the latter.

At the mention of prizefighting, he sighs, long-suffering amusement brightening his eyes. “Hence the bruises. Just don’t get yourself killed for the sake of some coin, Porthos.”

He adds a spoonful of sugar to his cup, stirs it, and tries again. Better. Magnificent, in fact.

[afineseamstress]

"That is what I told him," says Aramis, not able to suppress the stern glance he sends Porthos' way, but his expression brightens at the clear pleasure on Athos' face.

"He has found his formula!" he declares, clapping his hands together. "Every man's cup is unique. There is no end to the fascination of watching them ordered in cafes. We will have to go with you - they speak an odd language there, at times English and at times Italian, but never fully either."

[du_vallon]

"It was for good cause," Porthos echoes for what feels like the hundredth time, but he is all too aware that this is a losing argument and he meets Aramis' glare with a pointed look (though he doesn't dare let his gaze drop to the ring, refusing to give Athos those sorts of clues when he would hardly need more). "And Aramis loves his coffee," he shares. "And his ice cream. He's very easy to cook for because he loves everything so much that he's put on at least ten pounds," he says with an infuriating smirk.

[somepoorsoul]

"It seems you are both treading into dangerous waters," Athos says with that same flicker of amusement. The tension has not left the room; no, it merely simmer beneath the surface, a strange thing among friends who have lived in close quarters for years. But for now, Athos tries to set aside his questions, his churning worries, his fears he does not like to admit. For now, things can be as they should.