Work Text:
Title: The Knock
Rating: PG
Raoul was six when Porthos and Aramis tracked him down. He was an energetic child, and Athos was taking a solitary moment to drink a glass of wine and watch him from the windows of his country home. He saw their horses on the road, and for a moment remembered the feeling of fear as they drew close to where Raoul was playing. When they rode by, and as they grew closer, he realized who was approaching.
Making his way through the lonely halls, he stopped at the front entrance and waited for them, mentally counting the moments it would take to reach the stables and speak to the grooms. His heart beat harder with every step that brought them closer to his door. It echoed in the very hallways. Finally—finally—the door opened.
Porthos, he noted, was limping slightly, and he wondered what his old friend had been up to. Aramis was as cool and severe as ever.
“Good day, Monsieur le Comte,” Porthos said, joviality in his words, despite the slight wince that drew his brow whenever his left foot touched the ground. “So…this is where retired Musketeers hide.”
Despite himself, Athos smiled.
Aramis, on the other hand, said nothing. Instead, his measured steps brought him to Athos’s side and he wrapped strong arms around him. It was strange. Athos had expected the years of priesthood to rob the familiar body of its musculature, but Aramis was as solid as he had been the day they had last parted ways. He automatically lifted his arms to embrace his friend, pretending that the scent of Aramis’s hair did not make his heart skip its beat. Over Aramis’s shoulder, Porthos watched with an indulgent grin, which only brightened when Athos met his eyes.
“Is that a local vintage?”
*
They were all seated in the study, trying to prevent the silence between them from becoming awkward, when Raoul raced in to join them. Aramis, perpetually uncomfortable around children, backed away and looked at the young boy with something akin to horror, while Porthos lumbered out of his seat.
“And is this the young Raoul of whom we’ve heard so much?”
Athos raised an eyebrow. He should have been surprised that Porthos even knew his son’s name, with the lack of correspondence between them these past seven years. It was born more of his own recalcitrance than any malicious intent, but the sudden weight of the years suddenly hung heavily upon him. He caught Aramis’s significant look, but chose not to rise to the baiting gaze.
Raoul looked uneasily at his father, and was rewarded with a smile. “Raoul, these are my friends. Porthos, the Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds—” Raoul ogled at the name, though Porthos seemed unrepentant “—and the Abbe d’Herblay.”
“Your father mistakes, me, my young friend. Please, call me Rene.” Athos frowned at Aramis, but it seemed to be Aramis’s turn to dodge his gaze. The introduction seemed largely in vain, regardless, as Porthos was currently scooping the boy into his arms, already launching into one of the many fanciful tales of his childhood.
Once he knew that Raoul was properly distracted, Athos crossed to his friend. “What was that?”
“What?”
“You’ve forsaken the priesthood?”
Aramis provided no answer, save for a small tugging at the corner of his mouth. Whether it was a smile or frown, Athos could not tell, and a moment later he was being called upon to verify one of Porthos’ assertions.
*
That night, Athos found himself lying awake, staring at his door. Waiting. The hearth fire had already burned low, leaving the room slightly cool.
The anticipated knock came well past midnight.
Athos lay awake, torn by indecision. He knew what waited on the other side of the door. What hope. What dreams. What exquisite agony. They had once stood at the beginning of that road together and turned aside. It had been before Rene had been called away by his faith, and Athos by the bottle.
He lay silently, not daring to move. He knew the knock would not come again. If he waited long enough, the man on the other side would return to his room. Torn by indecision, the next sound he heard was the hammering of his own heart in his ears and the sound of another door opening and closing down the hall.
*
He slept late the next morning and took his time with his morning ablutions. He convinced himself that it was because it was such a rainy, miserable sort of day, and not because he was afraid of showing his cowardice to the world. When he finally made his way downstairs, it was to face horror at realizing that Aramis was not at breakfast. Struck by the idea that he had left during the night, Athos tried to calm his quick-beating heart as it hammered in his chest.
Noting his sudden pallor, Porthos chuckled. It was a low sound that sent shivers down Athos’s spine.
“He is tending to your son’s errant education.”
Frowning, Athos retreated from the dining area and made his way to their far-too-humble library. Within, Aramis was ensconced with Raoul and a large, leather-bound book that Athos barely recognized as being his. Whispering a few words to his newly-acquired charge, Aramis stood and moved to Athos’s side.
“Are you unwell? You look very pale.”
“I…I feared you had left during the night.”
Aramis looked at him with piercing eyes. After a long, measured moment, he finally spoke. “I am not finished here just yet.”
He returned to Raoul’s side without another word, and no measure of intent gazes was enough to make him meet Athos’s gaze once more.
*
Another night, alone with torturous thoughts and nightmarish anticipation.
Porthos had charmed half of his housekeepers, and Aramis had won a lifelong friend in Raoul. It was only Athos who struggled with the presence of his two house guests.
The knock came again.
Once more, Athos found he could not answer.
*
After a night of restless sleep, Athos found himself drawn to the library first. He could feel the heavy bags under his eyes, and the heat behind his eyelids from the lingering exhaustion. Once again, Aramis was pouring over a dusty tome with Raoul. The library had been long-neglected; a hobby of his grandfather that the subsequent generations had allowed to fall to the side. Aramis did not look up from his place, and Athos was both gratified and shamed to see the same purplish bruising under the other man’s eyes.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head. Porthos stood to his left, as Aramis had always stood to his right. Drawing him aside, Porthos led Athos away from the library, a jovial smile plastered on his face as he nattered on about his latest conquest, a scullery maid named Heloise.
Once they were far out of earshot from the library, Porthos paused outside one of the many doors lining the hall. Reaching out, he opened it.
“Ahh. I thought, perhaps, the humidity of the spring had made the jam swell. But no. It seems to open without any trouble.” Athos blinked. Porthos was usually far less subtle. “Perhaps things are different for you upstairs?”
Athos took a deep breath. “My door has remained firmly shut, these past few evenings. If there is a concern with yours, perhaps I might suggest that you ask Heloise help you attend on it this evening?”
Porthos’s lips pursed. “You are a gracious host, and very wise. But I do not think that is the right answer.”
At some point, Athos decided, he had conveniently forgotten to wake up, and Porthos’s sudden acquisition of tact and Aramis’s quiet acceptance were merely productions of his fevered dreams.
*
That night, instead of the one light knock, there was a brief pounding on his door before it was forced open. Athos shot up in bed, staring in shock as Porthos barged in, a trail of curses following in his wake light waves breaking upon the shore. The man stopped at the end of Athos’s bed, and pinned him with a stern glare.
“I have known you to be many things, Athos. You change as leaves do, and each of your season has its own particular colours.” The scent of wine hung heavy in the air around Porthos, and Athos found himself rolling his eyes.
“You’re drunk, old friend.”
“And?” Porthos waited for only a moment before continuing. “I have seen your leaves during your winters of depression, the autumn of recovery and the summer of fatherhood.”
“Yes, yes, and I suppose now you would like to see them green with the love of spring.”
Porthos frowned, obviously unimpressed with having been preempted. “He is waiting for you.” With that, the Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds dismissed himself from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Athos lay down again, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He could imagine Aramis lying still in his bed, tormented by the same thoughts. Athos thought he knew where the road led. He had seen d’Artagnan walk down it beside his once-enemy Rochefort, the path lined with steel and promises of yet one more duel. He had known others who tripped along the way, unable to continue because of their own feelings or those of others.
He thought caught him, and refused to let go. He had just been given Porthos’s tacit approval, and their young Gascon was no hypocrite. What else did anything matter?
He turned again, restless. Without thinking, he stood and moved to poke at the fire. Then to the door, to ensure that Porthos’s over-vehement exit had not damaged it. And then into the hallway, to see if anyone else was about.
He ran out of rationalizations before reaching Aramis’s door. He stood on the other side, staring at the grain of wood, his heart hammering hard in his chest. Finally, inevitably, his hand rose and he knocked quietly. He half-expected it to fling open, and each moment it remained still sat like lead in his stomach. An eternity passed, and he took a shaky breath.
It seemed Porthos had been mistaken. Aramis was not waiting for him after all.
He turned, resigning himself to returning to his room. His feet felt heavy, and he could feel the weighty cross straddling his shoulders with every step that drew him nearer his own room.
Behind him, the tell-tale sound of squeaking hinges made him pause. Steeling his nerves, he allowed for a glance over his shoulder. Aramis stood in his doorway, a strange paradox with wet eyes and carefully sculpted neutrality. Measured stares passed between them, and Athos struggled with himself to hold Aramis’s heavy gaze.
Finally, the other man spoke. “I never again wish to be kept waiting outside your door.”
Athos inclined his head. “I seem to have a new appreciation for your torment.”
With a careful nod, Aramis stepped back, creating just enough space for Athos to pass between him and the heavy doorframe.
Surprisingly, the sound of the door closing behind him was not the terrifying crucible he expected.
*
Porthos rode out before the first snowfall, promising to return in the spring with d’Artagnan and a new wife that he would be very particular in selecting. Athos watch him ride away, standing as a lone sentinel until he was gone from view. Back inside, he trusted that Aramis would be waiting with Raoul, once again pouring over his father’s library.
“You want him to be well read, do you not, when he goes to court to be introduced as one of the King’s Musketeers?”
Athos had smiled. “Do you believe he will want to follow in our footsteps?”
“My dearest Olivier, can you think of any greater destiny?”
Their eyes met. “Only one.”
~C’est Finis