Title: Make Believe
Rating: General
Synopsis: Blois, 1639. While recovering from chickenpox, young Raoul tells a bedtime story to Athos.
Disclaimer: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.
To Kaloubet, with my respect and admiration.
Make Believe
by Arithanas
Childhood is a promise that is never kept
~ Ken Hill
Raoul sighed when he finished splashing the water around. Athos, who remembered his own encounter with chickenpox and the discomfort it brought, told the child that cool water surely would feel superb on his itching skin.
"Pa", the boy said, taking his toes out of the lukewarm water, a small blister in the arch of his left foot.
"Tell me, Raoul", Athos said absent-mindedly, his hands trying to contain the spillage. Grimaud was pretty upset with the way things were.
"I'm hungry…"
That was a good sign. Athos nodded. Chicken broth would be brought as soon as Charlot's wife finished cooking it, just like yesterday's broth was. At least now, Raoul was ready to do the honors to that simple dish. For the past three days, Raoul had barely tasted it. Athos had forced his mind away from those sleepless nights with Raoul groaning in pain and throwing up. It was more productive to plan how to take him out the tub once the food was brought in.
"You are to eat soon", Athos said to his boy, passing a wet rag to him. "Now wash yourself well behind the ears".
Raoul giggled and used the rag with excessive energy, so much so that Athos had to still his hands; he had forgotten that Raoul had blisters there and a good amount of itching. With gentle hands and supreme care he took care of that chore.
Raoul pouted; he was a big boy and could do it by himself.
"So, Raoul", Athos said, dipping the rag into the water, as he prepared it for a second review of his boy's ears. "What do you want to do once this bath is over?"
"Eat!"
Athos chuckled. "That's a good plan. Just remember: you don't have to eat until you are feeling sick."
"But I'm hungry!"
"Moderation will take you further than gluttony."
Things had changed much since Athos' childhood. If his father had given him a piece of his adult wisdom, he'd heard it and weighed it in reverent silence, as a good boy did. Regrettably, things did not happen like that anymore. He was reminded of this truth by a big splash of lukewarm water and oatmeal.
"Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne!"
Before he could utter another word, Raoul repeated his mischievous action, drenching him to the shirt. His curls dripped bathwater; his temper began to boil.
That had been a lot of effrontery from the little knave.
"Pa is wet!"
Reflectively, Athos tried to grasp the little body, but his hands splashed more water as the wee rascal escaped from the tub in his spotted birthday suit.
"Come here, Raoul!"
The physicians had made it clear that the boy was to rest as much of possible if his health was to be restored. Not that such was a concern for the child who was running buck-naked around the room, sprinkling him with water, spuds and laughter.
"Enough, Raoul!"
"I don't want to stop!"
Mischief was one thing, but naughtiness was quite another. Athos rose from his place, barely containing a grunt of annoyance. Laughing the whole time, Raoul shrieked and scampered about, but there was not much room to run in his little bedroom. Athos caught him a couple of times. Nevertheless, his wet body was too slippery and the boy managed to scurry away. To stop this slick body a more forceful approach was due. And so Athos used the towel and threw it over the young man while he was still running.
"Not fair!" Raoul protested as soon as he felt adult hands around his girth.
"That's none of my concern," Athos said with a smile as he carried his boy under his arm, like one could carry a bundle of dirty linen. Raoul's little feet poked under the wet towel and that make him recover his good temper. "All I know is that you are not allowed to run like that, at least not until Sunday!"
"But that is no fun!" the boy complained, twisting his body against the iron grip, using his hands to push his weight against the side of his father.
"Hush" Athos ordered. He gave Raoul's posterior a playful swat.
Suddenly, Athos heard sounds beyond the door; he had business to attend with whoever was at the other side.
Athos swung the door open without warning and found Grimaud crouched by the door, arranging the tray with his masters' dinners. At the sight of Raoul's wet feet, Grimaud was startled; his fear of being infected was obvious. In Grimaud's eyes, Athos knew, it was better to keep it short and sweet.
"Thank you," Athos told him. "Dry clothes, please."
Grimaud bowed low and responded to the order with a panicked expression. The look on his face had been there from the moment the doctor had named Raoul's disease. Apparently, the valet was one of the fortunate few never to catch anything more severe than a cold, and he wanted to keep it that way. Athos shouldn't have found his valet's fear so funny, but God's mercy, it was chickenpox, not smallpox.
Grimaud nodded frantically as he retreated down the corridor, his eyes glued to the form of his master.
"Scaredy-cat!" Athos called out to the scurrying, lanky form of his valet.
As Athos closed the door, he said a little prayer. He had caught the alastrim when he was young and Grimaud was not at his service. God knows, he had caught it pretty badly and to endure it in the company of a fainthearted fellow like Grimaud would be insufferable.
"May I have my share now?" Raoul asked while Athos carried him inside the room again.
"You should dress first."
Athos smiled when he took off the towel and found Raoul pouting like he was abusing his parental rights. Disregarding the expression, Athos patted the boy dry while keeping him standing over the bedspread; it was a thankless task, since the boy was more concerned with finding relief for his itch.
"Do not scratch yourself!"
"It itches, pa!" Raoul protested from within the light fabric of his nightgown.
"It wouldn't itch so badly if you hadn't flung the oatmeal around," Athos chided. He inserted his hand into the jar of rice powder. This, he rubbed around Raoul's neck and face as soon as both had emerged from the neck of the garment.
"There you are, Raoul," Athos said when he had finished. "Ready for dinner!"
Athos left the boy in the bed to retrieve the tray and find a pair of riding pants and a clean shirt. It took him some a couple of trips to get the things inside the room and by the time he returned his eyes to the boy he found a really appalling scene.
"Raoul!"
The name only elicited a perfunctory glance from the boy before he returned to the business beneath his shirt.
"What did we talk about your hands and your privates?"
"I'm not touching those!" Raoul protested, "My crotch is itchy!"
Athos, stunned and ashamed by his ill thoughts, shook his head and put the jar with rice powder in the bed.
"Rub this in your inner thighs," Athos advised and started to undo the laces of his wet shirt. "It will help."
Changing his shirt was a brief affair. Athos didn't see the point in changing his pants since Raoul and he would be sharing his little bed soon. When he managed to cast his eyes upon his offspring again, he found the bedspread speckled with white dust and the boy mesmerized with his toes.
"I can see you found relief…"
Athos picked up his boy and sat him in his knee next to the night table and the food. "Now, show your hands."
Raoul, quite obligingly, showed his white-dusted hands. Athos concealed a kiss while he removed the dust from the kid's hands with the wet towel, still surprised by the need to make a caress to the little person in his charge. The best thing was that Raoul was so used to them that he barely noticed when he was rewarded- he just giggled and asked for his meal again. This was good, since it saved Athos the trouble of dealing with that strange desire which still tasted like weakness in his mouth.
The food was consumed in silence, with Athos interrupting Raoul now and then to prevent the boy from filling his belly too quickly and feeling sick again. Athos was slower at eating, so Raoul choose to doze off in his lap. For Athos, this was a real treat; the boy had been bursting with energy a few moments ago, and he really appreciated the silence.
The candles around the bed started to spurt, as they drown in the melted tallow and, as the darkness grew around them, Athos found himself growing bolder in his caresses, he used the tip of his fingertip to clear the boy's forehead and the touch was tender and light but enough to draw a small pout into Raoul's lips. His boy was a reality he had not done digesting and he had had five years to get used to it, by the time he would grow accustomed to it Raoul would be a man, most likely, with his own mind and his own will. With Athos' luck, that's the most probable calculation, so he better steal these moments to cherish them when his boy will not be within his reach.
The time passed. Athos' arms were strong, but even they had their limit. He soon found he needed to get Raoul into his bed, or else the child would have a disagreeable encounter with the floor. Moving the bedspread and the sheets away singlehandedly was a challenge he had outgrown by now, after all these years of nightmares and childish ailments. The little hand of Raoul grasped his sleeve and a quivering voice muttered a drowsy "don't you go".
"I'm just going to get rid of my trousers, Raoul," Athos reassured him.
"I want a make believe…"
A make believe. Raoul always called bedtime stories his make believe, ever since Athos had explained him bedtime stories were not true, but that he just wanted to make Raoul believe they could be real. Of course, those make believes were for special occasions and those last days exhausted Athos' reserves.
"I have not a make believe today, Raoul," Athos admitted, folding his trousers and stockings. "I'll tell you one tomorrow, you have my word."
"I want one now," Raoul protested, trying to sit on the bed.
"Call it a day."
"I won't sleep if I can't have a make believe!"
Athos' patience was wearing thin; he was not in the mood to deal with yet another temper tantrum.
"Raoul, how about this? You tell me a make believe."
In the stunned silence, Athos found a way to fit his bulk beneath Raoul's linen; he was tired, reeking of sweat and wet oats, but the thought of a good night's sleep was delightful. Raoul seemed to be of the same opinion, although he embraced it with a face of profound concentration.
"Come on, Raoul," Athos encouraged his child, using his own arm as a pillow to make sure the boy had all the comforts, "Make me believe."
"There was a girl," Raoul said, starting the bedtime story. He was on his back, the itch completely forgotten. "No, not really a girl, she was old, like you."
"A woman," Athos pinpointed the word out of habit, but he was a little distracted by an oat flake in his nape hair. God knows how it got there.
"A woman, then. She had a lovely dress. Light yellow, I think, but is hard to tell since I saw her when the sun was going down, does it matter?"
Raoul waited for a signal and he received a negative one.
"The dress had flounces and frills and laces, I can remember that. She had a nice voice, like singing, but she was speaking. She was wandering by Monsieur's gardens and she found you, but you didn't notice her nice dress, or her pretty voice. You liked her eyes and the way the sun shone in her hair. One thing was sure, you brought her here."
Athos smiled; of course the theme chosen was of Raoul's complete interest. These months Raoul had been entertaining fantasies that are almost impossible to satisfy, except Athos consented in changing religions and turning to Islam, which obviously would be unthinkable. To his shame, Athos was a wife-killer, and that was a complete impediment to give Raoul a mother.
"And what's her name?" Athos indulged to ask, because he was sure his boy was talking about any of Madame's ladies-in-waiting.
"I don't know," Raoul said, with that dreamy quality his voice always had when sleep was gaining on him.
"Play the game, Raoul."
"I don't know," Raoul repeated, and nestled against Athos' chest, "And I don't care. I just would call her ma…"
And that was it. Raoul fell asleep, with the innocent confidence of all little boys. Mechanically, Athos tried to hug him, but the reddish radiance of the dying candle forced him to remember that he was completely unworthy of this little treasure. His blood drenched hands shouldn't dare to touch this blameless boy.
"I love you, pa," Raoul said in his sleep.
Athos closed his eyes, telling to himself that love redeems all and, if Raoul found him worthy of his love, then he could allow himself to make him a caress and to dream of a world where no one wrote an opinion on murdering a woman like his wife. It was a good make believe.
It wasn't long before Athos fell asleep, hugging the only person in this world that would make a better man of him.
Many thanks to crankyman7 for correcting my mistakes.