somepoorsoul | (no subject)

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Athos awakens in a weary haze of memories. Though the clock tells him it is mid-morning, he feels simultaneously like he has slept for days and not at all. A few moments pass before he realizes why he cannot shake the sights as senses of his childhood - the smell of forget-me-nots, Catherine’s bright red hair (he has not even thought of her for ages), Thomas’ boyish laughter. Then he remembers, and he exhaustedly presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He is tempted to remain abed until someone comes looking, but that would only delay his shame, and anyway, Athos is too honorable. He dresses slowly in garments that once again seem familiar as he tries to piece together the last few days, memories coming to him as though being relayed by someone else. Sheepishly, he misses the body and heart of his youth; he had been frightened and shy, world-weary too soon, but free and unfettered in a way he has not felt in some time.

Unfettered, perhaps, but also a fool. He has matters to explain, and hearts to mend.

When Athos carefully comes downstairs, his eyes are red-rimmed, and though he has tried to put himself back together, he knows he must still appear out-of-sorts. He can already smell coffee, thank goodness. But whether or not Aramis and Porthos will welcome his company is something he has yet to discover.

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Porthos is so desperate to hear any of this that as soon as Athos touches him, Porthos can't hold back. He pushes forward over the table to cup Athos' cheeks with both hands, kissing him as hard as he can because he's missed that and he's missed this and knowing Athos doesn't think poorly of him makes walls crumble down that he's been holding up. He's breathless by the time he sinks back, clasping onto Aramis like a lifeline.

"I was so worried," he admits. "I know I shouldn't have been, but it was always there..."

"No one blames you for it," says Aramis, holding on to Porthos in turn, for they all know what Porthos has suffered, "Nor you, Athos. There is much I would have wished differently for you in life, but I am glad to know you as you are now. My good opinion of you has never wavered."

He smiles a little. "Not even when I thought your young self might crack a tooth with all that tight jawed posturing."

Athos is so prepared for rejection that the kiss startles a tiny sob out of him, and he clings to Porthos, a fist curling in his shirt. Without realizing it, he has craved touch over these past two weeks, and now, with emotions so raw and close to the surface, he doesn’t hold back. He is flushed when they pull away, and Athos runs his hand through his hair as he steadies himself. “I was terrified,” he admits, offering Aramis a tiny grin.

Porthos doesn't necessarily let go completely. He keeps hold of Athos with one hand, the other still clasping onto Aramis as he breathes out, though he's wary of what Athos is saying, yet. "Terrified of what? Of us?" he asks, confused.

"We could have been very handsome brigands," says Aramis, thinking of Westley and the Dread Pirate Roberts. "Of course he was terrified to discover himself in such a strange land, not like last time with his friends, but alone. Or at least alone for a while."

He smiles again over the table at Athos. "I like to think you warmed to us."

“Quite handsome brigands,” Athos deadpans, running his thumb across the back of Porthos’ hand as he slowly, slowly relaxes. He takes a breath and adds softly, “I think I would warm to you whatever the circumstances."

Porthos feels all the barbs and ice melting around him and he feels better, feels like their home is finally back to the way it's meant to be. "You were a handsome young man," Porthos confesses. "Did anyone ... did anyone try and seduce you while you were young?" he asks, not out of jealousy, but genuine curiosity.

Aramis laughs aloud in pleasure for the memory for the young man Athos had been, noble and handsome beneath all his gawkish uncertainty. "Young," he says, touching his own chin, "And smooth. Were a young Aramis to have found you here under different circumstances, he'd have had a go for certain."

Athos flushes, appropriately looking younger for the blush in his cheeks. “Stop it, both of you,” he says with a shake of his head, having difficulty imagining anyone chasing after him when he was shy and awkward. He is still struggling to find his bearings, but merely the relaxed warmth of their presence is helping him settle into his skin. What did he do to earn this? Not enough, he is certain. “I do not deserve you."

Porthos is glad for Aramis bringing up his position, rather than a sixteen year old Porthos, who would have been a terror, a criminal, and dishonorable all at once. "You keep saying that and we keep telling you do," Porthos says firmly, giving Athos' hand a squeeze as he tries to shake off the comments and looks into the past. "So, you didn't feel anything down there for us? No riling of interest?"

"For our weapons," says Aramis knowingly, reaching to squeeze Athos' hand in turn. Now that he has seen firsthand an Athos unsure of his own self worth, Aramis is more determined than ever to cherish him.

"What about when Porthos' thighs were clasped tight against his horse?" he asks. "That always gets me."

“I thought I told you to stop,” Athos insists, but for all he tries to scold, long-suffering fondness still twinkles in his eyes. As both men must know, his lack of answer is answer enough. Frankly, his younger self had been well on his way to infatuation with both of them, and if at the time he had not so easily been able to untangle lust from awe, he can spot both in his actions now. “I was sixteen,” he reminds them dryly, “a fencepost could have riled me, so don’t look so smug."

Porthos lights up to hear that his thighs apparently hold a power to them that he hadn't truly counted on. His smile lights up his face and he squeezes Athos' hand again, happy to hear that he'd still had an effect on Athos. "One more," he pleads, because now that they've started, he can't bear to stop. "Did you think me some sort of brigand or pirate? You clearly didn't think me really a Musketeer."

"Not at first," Aramis reminds Porthos, and that has been true of a good many, unfortunately. It is regrettable, but also to be expected. Aramis strokes his hand against Porthos' back, pouring more brandy into his own glass with his free hand, and then into Athos'.

“At first, I did not know what either of you could be,” Athos insists, looking down at his hand clasped in Porthos’. “But I believed what you told me. I did not entirely understand, but I believed you.”

“Porthos,” he sighs, knowing there is more he must say, as explanation and apology both, though the words are difficult and come out awkward and stilted, “as a youth, I still expected men to fall into neat categories, and have you not always defied category?” Athos smiles faintly. “In time, I would have understood it to be your best quality. As I do now."

Porthos stays quiet, giving Athos the chance to explain and tell him everything he wants to. He knows Athos doesn't mean it, knows that he'd been young, but it had still stung to be looked at the way Athos had, because in all the time he'd known the man, he had never been like the others to look down on him that way. "I just didn't expect to ever see those looks from those blue eyes of yours," he confesses.

"Nor are you likely to again." Whatever Aramis' fears, surely this mad place will give them a rest now, a chance to recover from such upheaval without transforming or altering anyone. "You have the best of Athos now," he reminds Porthos. "Honed by years of wisdom and experience. Few men grow up as instantly wonderful as you."

“Never again,” Athos agrees, feeling a lump rise treacherously in his throat. It is as though some vestige of the more volatile youth he had been still remains, forcing emotions he would prefer to keep hidden to linger near the surface. Both the younger man nor the elder one shy from Aramis’ warm words, and he bites his lip and bows his head, a small tremble dancing across his shoulders. Neither can he easily offer the easy excuses for his behavior in youth - that he had been frightened and confused, or young and stupid, or had not really meant it, though all those things were true in part. Instead, thinking of La Fere, and all the pain it has brought both him and those he loves most, he says, “If I could cut that part of my life free, I would do it in an instant."

Porthos snorts derisively for Aramis' last comment. "You only think I'm wonderful because you didn't see me at sixteen," he feels compelled to point out, but is happy to move on from that because he knows that he's already forgiven Athos and hopes to move on from it, knowing that there's one last thing he does want to know. "Athos," he murmurs softly. "I know you don't think of me that way. I know you care for both of us and you learned from your childhood," he promises. "Can we please begin to tell people of what we feel for you? It makes my heart ache, lying to people when I want them to know how much you're adored."

Aramis sucks in a breath. This is not the conversation he expected them to have, yet as soon as Porthos says it Aramis wants it with renewed urgency, his heart aching for the reminder of the freedom they might enjoy, yet still do not. For all the shackles that Athos has thrown off, he still wears too many for Aramis' happiness, and now he and Porthos too feel their weight.

He clears his throat around the lump, nodding at Athos with bright eyes. "It is not easy," he says, "Hiding what we feel."

Athos swallows, looking at neither of them in his thoughtful silence, though one hand remains clasped in each of theirs. He is not expecting the soft request at this particular moment, but neither is he surprised, exactly. In so many ways, Athos has stood apart from them during these weeks in which he was returned to youth, and he can see now how it has pained them. It has pained him, too. And by forcing them to stay silent, is he not keeping them at arm’s length yet?

He may dread revealing the intimate details of his life to others, but more than that he does not want this distance to remain. Slowly, barely perceptively. Athos nods.

Porthos hadn't really expected victory. He'd thought this would just be one of the first moves forward, eventually bringing them to some sort of agreement, but now his entire face lights up with the joy of it, so pleased and proud. "I'm not gonna rush out and tell people," he promises, squeezing Athos' hand and Aramis' in turn. "But now, when people ask about me and my love life, I can tell them that you're as loved as Aramis, in the same way."

"It was hard, two weeks with you so young, not being able to share it with anyone but each other, a touch," he admits, not sure if Aramis had felt the same.

Aramis, too, brightens, and it is not as if he has expected Athos to be closed off from the world forever, a secret joy only for themselves to treasure, but that it is happening at last is a welcome surprise.

He laughs and claps his hands, seizing Athos so tightly after it's clear he's only just resisting pulling him into his lap, and nods for every word of Porthos'. "We have longed for it," he agrees. "Thank you, Athos."

Athos shakes his head, holding just as tightly to Aramis in return. He cannot accept the thanks, not when he had no right to beg for their silence in the first place. Oh how he has missed them, for even though he did not consciously remember them while he was trapped in the mind and body of his youth, he had felt the hole where they belonged, a rawness in his heart that he had not understood, at the time. He swallows back a lump in his throat. “I would not have you suffer because I am a bashful idiot."

Edited 2015-05-20 02:55 (UTC)

Porthos can't help his shaky smile for that, feeling like after so long apart, everyone needs both the comfort of togetherness, along with the affection that can only happen in a different room in this flat. "On your feet," he instructs. "The both of you. Athos, you're long overdue some affection," he insists. "I'm sure Aramis feels similar."