Thrust. Parry. Riposte. The moves came easily and automatically, each response determined long before. There were no surprises in this calm sort of fencing, not yet anyways. However, Aramis knew that Athos could at any time leave the habitual patterns of expertly coordinated moves and make a wild, yet precise, sally that would sear through Aramis' defence and have him defeated. At those times there was something almost frighteningly ferocious in Athos' eyes. Then, when the point of his sword was at Aramis' throat and he had the other man's complete attention, he would smile wryly and lightly tell him to pay more attention. Aramis would stand completely still, stiffly, until Athos removed his sword and Aramis could relax once again.
A/N: This is the first in a series of drabblish fics without any real connection, except that most will center around Aramis and Athos and that most will contain no d'Artagnan.
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