So, I was suprised how much Athos/d'Artagnan fanfiction there is. I probably should not have been surprised, but I was. When I started reading a few though, I always thought: This is too easy. Homosexuality could get a man executed in the time of Louis XIII after all. So they should not rush headlong into a relationship. That's what I feel, at least.
And with that thought, a couple of plot bunnies started breeding, and this is the result. Hope you like.
A warning for the fluff fans: This might not be to your tastes, because I love me a good dose of angst :)
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Athos whirls and stabs, slashes and parries, a small, grim smile on his face. He loves those training sessions with his friends, the sound of his sword clashing with Porthos', the fluent, graceful movements, the answering smile on his old friend's face. The symmetry, the harmony of it all, just like a carefully choreographed dance.
It's the only time he feels alive these days. Then, and in the thick of battle, adrenaline rushing his veins, his life in the balance, every second possibly his last.
He craves those moments, though he will never admit it, even to his friends. Would never allow himself to grow reckless, rush headlong into danger, tempting as it might be sometimes. But his control is better than that, his inner demons never stronger than his will. He lives with the emptiness every day, but he will not let it destroy him, will not throw his life away meaninglessly.
He will not let her win.
He might try to fill the void with a bottle from time to time, but he will not give her that. Never.
Not as long as he has this.
He steps back gracefully, letting the tip of Porthos' sword pass him by an inch, and rolls on the ground, passing Porthos, his foot shooting out, kicking Porthos's feet from under him. As his friend goes down, Athos nimbly jumps up, the tip of his own sword pressing into Porthos's throat.
"You're dead", he says.
Porthos grimaces as Athos steps back, holding out his hand to help his friend up, grin on his face, a wild light in his eyes. Alive. If only for a minute.
Porthos grabs his hand and gets up with the fluid grace of a true swordsman. "Cheat", he grumbles, clapping Athos on the shoulder. "I'll pay you back next time."
"You can try", Athos states drily, turning away with a swirl of his cape.
That's when he catches d'Artagnan's eyes and nearly stumbles. They are fixed on him, dark and hot, burning with something between hunger and adoration.
Athos feels his heart skip a beat, caught in the boy's intent stare. An unfamiliar feeling settles in his stomach, something he has not felt for a long, long time. A fluttering, giddy sensation, making his heart beat faster and his breath catch.
Something he has not felt since…
And feeling it now is wrong on so many levels, he cannot even begin to count them. He feels blood rising to his cheeks and turns away abruptly, ripping his gaze from the boy's eyes, and catches the frown on Aramis' face as he glances from Athos to the boy and back.
Always too observant, Aramis.
Athos forces the feeling of shame down that threatens to choke him, clamping down on the whole unwelcome miasma of sensations with an iron will, as he marches out of the courtyard with long strides, seemingly unconcerned, his face showing the usual nothing.
But he knows he will need more than one bottle tonight to find some rest.