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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Too transfixed to not, Aramis lifts a hand, brushing it against Porthos' shorn scalp after he places the souffle on the table. "Spoken like a man who does not understand the necessity of coffee in the morning," he says with a smile.

When he takes a sip of his own brandied coffee, however, Aramis pauses, eyes raking Athos for a telltale tremor. Transformed or not, Athos' body has been without strong liquor for many days - he does not seem to have suffered any ill effects that Aramis can see, though, thank God. Still, Aramis raises a brow in question.

“And soufflé, too.” Athos presses his lips together, displeased by the question that lurks in Aramis’ eyes, but he shakes his head. Though he feels ill and his head aches, the power that brought about this change in him has spared him the worst of those miserable effects. Thank God for that.

He does not sit, but stands by his chair, looking from Aramis, to Porthos, and back again. He has so much he must say - so much he does not know how to say - and barely knows where to begin. With another swallow of coffee he says finally, “I must thank you both for your overwhelming kindness these past two weeks. It was more than I deserved, given my behavior."

"What were we supposed to do?" Porthos wonders gruffly, arching his brow as he gives Athos a questioning look. "Abandon you and not give a damn when you needed it most? It'd be an awful thing for two men who love you to do," is what he has to say about that, and even if he'd been uncomfortable for some of those days, it hadn't been nearly as bad as it could have been.

He shrugs, staring at his place setting, remembering what Aramis had said the night before. "It's what you were taught, as a child."

Aramis takes his own seat, pushing out Athos' chair with his toes as he sets to serving up the souffle. "Indeed," he says, "It will take far more than that to see us turn from you," he says lightly, but he cannot pretend they have not been changed by it. Porthos has shaved his head, for heaven's sake, and Aramis wishes he could say it only goes as far as that.

"Are you alright?" he asks at last, sharp eyes not allowing Athos to escape.

“That does not mean I hurt you any less.” He holds his gaze on Porthos, expression tired and pained. Even as a naive youth, Athos had understood how uncomfortable he made Porthos, even if he had not quite known why; now, it seems obvious, for every gesture he made, every word he spoke had reminded the man of those many foolish souls who had thought less of him through the years.

He nods in reply to Aramis, but then stops, regretting the apparent lie. He can’t get Thomas out of his head, that is the trouble, memories of him as a boy mixing with the thought of him bleeding on the floor. Finally sinking into his chair, he answers, “I will be."

Porthos presses his lips together, unsure how much of his hurt had come from the words and how much had come from the stubborn determination to leave them. He leans into Aramis' touch to his head, but his concern is meant for Athos right now, not sure he's ready to move away from their issues. They have to come up sometime.

"You were awkward," he says. "And yeah, you might have made some comments that stung, but I think it hurt more, seeing you so damn determined to escape us and this place."

Aramis raises a brow at his hands where they curl around the warm cup, not having had expected to delve into this so swiftly, but that is his own mistake. He knows very well Porthos' habit of driving straight into things, sometimes a detriment, sometimes a welcome change from his and Athos' habit of dwelling in silence.

He drinks from his cup, not wishing to stand in the way of that.

Athos looks away, previously softened shoulders tensing once again. Porthos may have had time to consider what he needs to say, but Athos has just awoken, and is still trying to separate childhood memory from the reality of the last two weeks. He is ready for condemnations of his ignorance, for he has spent more than his share of time contemplating the failures of his youth, but is in no way prepared for the accusation that lurks beneath Porthos’ observation. “I was a stubborn, homesick boy,” he says in a voice that’s flat and carefully controlled. “That is all.”

Porthos rubs at his cheek with sweeping brushes of his thumb, nodding and understanding that, but it still stings to think of that in combination with the other. "And the rest?" he asks, a bit hoarse and anxious for the answer that's coming. "Is that what you really think of me, underneath it all?" he asks, praying the answer is 'no'.

Aramis sighs, reaching to squeeze Porthos' thigh. Of course Athos does not think so, but Aramis has already exhausted his own good word on the matter, and the only real comfort now can come from Athos, a man who already looks as if he hopes the floor will swallow him. He waits, still in silence, and gives Athos an encouraging look.

Athos flinches, though he knows he deserves the question. In dozens of small ways, his behavior has been abominable, and in his ignorance and innocence he had said things of Porthos that now, as Athos the musketeer, he would not have let stand. Selfishly, he might wish that Porthos could see that the stammering, foolish boy he had been bore no connection to the man he is now, but he knows that is an unfair expectation.

"I have only thought the best of you, from the moment we met." Athos raises his eyes, and after an uncertain moment reaches to rest his hand on Porthos', afraid that even the slightest embrace will be rejected. "My esteem has only ever grown."

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'.