AN: Aramis obviously needed to talk to someone after that mess with Marsac. It also seemed to me that Porthos hated Marsac more than the others for no discernible reason, so I ran with that. Sadly, I don't own any of these characters. If I did, scenes like this would take place in the show.
Porthos bit down a growl as Aramis rose to leave the table. He'd barely touched his food and he hadn't drank any of the excellent wine Porthos had procured specifically for him. And now he was leaving early, in the rain, despite already being wet through.
Porthos wanted to reach out and grab the other man, to shake him until the deadened look left his eyes. His face was devoid of any emotion, utterly still in a way that didn't suit him, didn't even seem natural. His skin looked like wax in the torchlight, and his eyes were empty.
The same emptiness had filled his eyes for months after Savoy.
Porthos was no fool. When Aramis had arrived for the duke's departure, Porthos knew instantly that something had gone terribly wrong. Aramis was moving like he'd forgotten how to, standing stiffly as the Duke and Duchess left the palace. After they'd been dismissed, Porthos had followed him back to the barracks, but once there Treville had called to him and both men had disappeared. Porthos was left to find out from another Musketeer that Aramis had shot Marsac and saved Treville's life.
The man had looked so proud as he explained that Porthos had wanted to punch him. He didn't deserve it, he knew, didn't know what he was talking about, but that did little to appease him. He didn't know that Aramis would never forgive himself for murdering Marsac, even though the man had deserted their brotherhood years before. Porthos had loved Aramis since long before the massacre, in the days when Aramis had loved Marsac and very few had known.
Aramis had been gone for hours with Treville. When he'd finally returned, he'd slapped on a mask of confidence and hidden behind it, saying nothing of what had occurred. But it was clear from his forced smiles that all was not well.
Sighing, Porthos now met Athos's eyes across the table and stood to follow Aramis into the street. It was an unspoken agreement that whether he told Porthos what happened or not, Aramis should not be alone tonight. His mask would only last so long, and Porthos would be there when it fell to offer what comfort he could.
He was sure Aramis knew he was following him, but he neither spoke nor glanced in Porthos's direction as they walked through the downpour to his lodgings. Aramis did not live in the barracks, preferring to take quarters elsewhere. He claimed he simply didn't like the bustle of the garrison, but it was widely believed he simply preferred to entertain his female guests in private. Only Athos knew the quarters were not for wooing the women of Paris. Porthos had taken advantage of the landlady's discretion many times. And before him, so had Marsac.
They entered the building, still silent. Aramis walked into his rooms without lighting candles or a fire, just stood in the darkness near the window. It was Porthos who got a fire going and pushed Aramis before it to dry out, ordering him to strip off his wet things. Aramis obeyed him mechanically until he stood before the fire in only his breeches and shirt, looking lost, though his detached mask hadn't slipped yet.
Porthos had removed his own wet things and thrown them into a pile with Aramis's. They could wait until morning. He moved to the fire and wrapped his arms tightly around Aramis's waist, letting his head rest on his lover's shoulder.
"Tell me what happened," he said softly.
He did not expect Aramis to laugh bitterly at his words. "Are you sure you want to know?" he asked acidly. "You didn't want to believe before."
Porthos's heart sank at Aramis's tone. Anger was always a possibility with Aramis, and it was better than apathy, but he hadn't expected resentment.
Not directed towards Porthos, at any rate.
"I want to know," he insisted gently, noting that at least Aramis hadn't pulled away. That was a hopeful sign. Porthos hadn't been able to offer him this after Savoy. It had been much later when Aramis had finally taken Porthos aside and confronted him about his poorly disguised feelings, and afterwards dragged him laughingly to his quarters. Maybe the grief would be easier to bear this time, because this time he was not alone.
"I want to know." Aramis still didn't speak, and Porthos found himself wondering if he truly did want to know. He hadn't wanted to believe Treville guilty, but surely even the slightly mad Marsac wouldn't have attacked him without some evidence?
"Treville didn't know about the ambush," Aramis said at last, voice quiet. "But it was he who allowed the information to reach the Duke of Savoy. The king ordered it, but it was the Cardinal's plan."
Porthos swallowed heavily, hearing the unspoken words: Treville hadn't swung the ax, but the blood was on his hands regardless. Treville knew what the Cardinal was capable of. He didn't know what to say.
Aramis went on, not noticing or not caring about his silence. "Marsac wasn't satisfied with that. He tried to kill Treville."
"And you?" Porthos asked, finding his voice. "Were you satisfied?"
Aramis laughed bitterly again. "Well, I killed Marsac to save him. So what do you think? Orders are orders." Porthos could see his lips twist into a smile. He was eerily reminded of a skull. "Treville followed his, and I followed mine. Ever the good soldier." His smile vanished and he stared into the fire, a shadow crossing his eyes.
"You did what you had to," Porthos murmured. This must have been the wrong thing to say, for Aramis broke suddenly from his arms and paced to the fireplace, bracing his hands on the mantle. His shadow danced on the wall like a nightmare.
"What I had to," he repeated coldly. "It is so simple for you, isn't it? You can look at something and see the villains from the heroes. It's all black and white. Tell me, Porthos," he spun around to face him, "what would you have said if Treville had been the one to arrange the ambush. Would you say he was doing what he had to?"
This was unfair, and they both knew it, but Aramis was in no state to apologize. His eyes burned in his face like embers, seeking answers to questions he hadn't asked. Porthos stood silently, offering no resistance, offering nothing but himself.
"I did what I had to do and killed the man I loved for duty," Aramis spat out.
A knife twisted in his ribs because Marsac was the past, the past, and Porthos was the present, but he knew it wasn't that simple, not to Aramis. Aramis, who could love all the women of Paris and still belong to Porthos, but could not say he loved him. Who had never recovered from the loss of Marsac, now far more cutting than ever before.
"You killed him to save a good man." Porthos stepped forward tentatively, drawing back when Aramis glared at him.
"What does the reason matter? He is dead, and I put him there." Aramis's breathing was ragged. "I am the only survivor of Savoy now."
"I'm sorry," Porthos said simply, reaching out a hand placating.
Aramis recoiled. "Sorry?" he hissed, furious again. "You aren't sorry. You hated Marsac! You wanted him dead!" Porthos said nothing.
It was true.
He hated the ex-Musketeer, hated him as he had never hated anyone in his life. Ever since he'd learned of Marsac's desertion, he had wanted to wring the life from him with his bare hands. He'd found out in Savoy…
He had been in the yard when the messenger came, splattered with mud and looking exhausted, heading straight for Treville's office. It was clear right away that the news was bad. Treville had emerged, face grim, and as his eyes settled on Porthos and Athos, standing side by side, Porthos had detected a note of sorrow in his gaze, tinged with despair.
"The men in Savoy were ambushed," he'd said shortly, no minced words. "There were no survivors reported."
The words hit Porthos like a physical thing, leaving him breathless, ears ringing. He wasn't sure how it was that he and Athos had ended up on the road to Savoy alone, or wondered why Treville had let them go. In his head, the words rebounded upon themselves over and over. No survivors. No survivors.
It must be a mistake. Aramis wasn't dead. He wasn't.
When they arrived in the forest, the very air seemed to hold its breath. Nothing moved. Snow had fallen, muffling their footsteps through the trees.
The dead were everywhere. Some lay stretched out on the ground, killed in their sleep, throats cut, lying in pools of blood. Others had fought. All had perished just the same.
Athos was moving among the bodies, searching methodically. Suddenly Porthos couldn't bear the silence. "Aramis! Aramis!" Athos had nearly leapt out of his skin, looking more shocked than Porthos had ever seen. In another situation, it would have been funny. But not here. Nothing was funny here.
He'd expected Athos to silence him, to tear down his hopes and tell him Aramis could not have survived the slaughter. Instead he turned away and shouted too, an indescribable emotion on his face. Together they yelled until they were hoarse, stumbling blindly among the trees.
If it hadn't been for the horse, Porthos might have found Aramis too late. A mare cantered out of the trees ahead of him, spooked by his yells. Startled, Porthos had cursed and leapt back, tripping over a tangled bush. Swearing, he'd pushed himself up and froze. Leaning against a tree in front of him, silent and still, had been Aramis.
He'd screamed for Athos and dropped to his knees beside his friend, who was coated in a light dusting of snow and matched its stark color. Porthos, to his shame, lacked the courage to reach out and feel for a pulse. It was Athos who checked, groping numbly at Aramis's neck.
A choked sound issued from his mouth and he yanked back his hand as if burned. "My God," he'd whispered, staring at Aramis in disbelief. "He's alive."
At those words Porthos had leapt into action, dragging off their cloaks and wrapping them around the still form, cleaning the poorly bandaged head wound as Athos lit a fire. Aramis opened dull eyes but didn't move, didn't respond when Porthos spoke to him. Perhaps his head wound was worse than it looked. Porthos sat beside him and wrapped him in his arms, trying to warm him but also desperate for proof that he still lived.
"How did you survive?" Athos had asked him in amazement once the fire was roaring. They'd both been shocked when Aramis had actually answered, breaking his silence at last.
"Marsac. Saved me."
"Where is he now?" Porthos asked, frowning. He couldn't recall seeing Marsac's body among the scattered dead.
"Gone," Aramis had sighed, closing his eyes. He would say no more.
It hadn't been until much later, when Athos had counted and realized there were only twenty dead Musketeers, that Porthos understood. Marsac was missing. When at last Athos came back carrying a crumpled uniform, Porthos was forced to comprehend what his mind had not wanted to consider.
"Deserter!" he'd whispered furiously, and Athos had nodded, face grim.
"Someone had to send that message."
Porthos had felt fury burn through him like wildfire, charring the edges of his grief with its flame. Aramis must have sensed his rage, for at that moment he had groaned weakly and opened his eyes once more, leaving Porthos too concerned to waste a moment on the man who had abandoned him.
"Yes, I did," Porthos said at last, staring sorrowfully into Aramis's burning eyes. "I hated him." Aramis nodded, as if satisfied, and turned away, but Porthos raised a hand.
"Do you know why I hated him?"
Aramis whipped around, glaring. "Because in your eyes he was a coward, a deserter! You cared nothing for him. And now he is dead. By my hand."
"You're right," Porthos told him calmly. "I thought him a coward, but not for the reasons you think. I don't blame him for running from the slaughter. Maybe it isn't in me to do so, but I can understand it. I hate him," he said, raising his voice when Aramis opened his mouth to speak, "not because he deserted the Musketeers, but because he deserted you."
Aramis stared at him blankly. "What?" he asked at last.
"He left you in that forest to die," Porthos growled, anger at last seeping into his tone. "He left you injured and alone in the cold while he ran for safety. He abandoned you!" Porthos was struggling not to shout. "He fled to a village and sent a message about the slaughter, and didn't bother to say that he'd left a wounded man in the snow to freeze to death! How dare he? How dare he leave you like that? He didn't deserve you."
Aramis was gazing at him with an unreadable expression. Porthos took a deep breath. "So yes, I hate him. Because of him, I nearly lost you." Something shifted in Aramis's eyes, a kind of softening.
"You still aren't sorry he is dead," Aramis's voice was barely a whisper.
Porthos crossed to him in two long strides, placing his hands on either side of his face. "Of course I am," he breathed. "Of course I am sorry. You are in pain, and as much as I hate that man I would will him alive again at this moment if it would spare you this pain. I would that I had killed him. Then you could have hated me, rather than yourself."
For a moment, Aramis stared at him, firelight flickering in eyes that no longer looked angry. Then his face crumpled and he buried his head against Porthos's shoulder, soundless sobs wracking his body as he finally allowed himself to feel what he had tried so desperately to suppress.
Porthos dropped to the floor, pulling Aramis along with him, and held him as he let go of Marsac for the last time.
It was much later when Aramis finally looked up at him. His eyes were dry. He opened his mouth to speak, but Porthos cut him off.
"Wait. Before you speak, there's something I want to say." He took a deep breath. "I am sorry. For not standing with you. I didn't want Treville to be guilty, and I didn't want Marsac to be right, not about anything, ever. I let my hatred of him blind me. It wasn't about choosing between him and Treville. It was about you, and I wasn't there when I should have been. And for that I am sorry. It won't happen again."
Aramis blinked at him, looking rather thrown. "You did your duty," he pointed out, voice hoarse. "I don't fault you."
"My duty was to you," Porthos insisted. "I should not have left you to deal with the ghosts of Savoy alone. No man should bear that burden."
He didn't know what to expect after that brief speech, but he certainly hadn't expected Aramis to kiss him desperately. He pulled back, gazing at him searchingly.
"What was that?" he asked, nonplussed.
"For five years I have carried Savoy with me," Aramis murmured. "I have carried Marsac with me. But now I have my answers, and I have accepted them. It is over. So let it be over. I will never forget, but I can't have it hanging over me like a noose for the rest of my life. I don't want to remember Savoy tonight, Porthos. Please."
Porthos wanted nothing more than to say yes, but something in him hesitated. "Aramis, do not do this to forget Marsac." He would not be a replacement for a dead lover, not tonight.
But Aramis shook his head. "It is not about Marsac, Porthos. Marsac is gone. It is not him I want tonight. He would not have done this in your place. I know that. What I said before was wrong. I do not love Marsac." He paused, then hesitantly added, "He is not you."
Porthos stared at him in utter disbelief. Aramis would tell every woman he lay with that he loved her, but he had never said the words to Porthos, not once in the years they had been together like this. Porthos knew, instinctively, that he loved him, but the words never left Aramis's mouth. He had blamed the specter of Marsac that lurked in Aramis's mind. But now…
Porthos pulled Aramis closer to him and kissed him deeply. He understood the need to feel alive after so much death, and so he lifted Aramis from the floor and dropped him onto the bed with a broad grin, which Aramis echoed tentatively.
Aramis had never been able to bring himself to tell Porthos he loved him, and technically he still hadn't, but it was close enough for tonight. He would take it. For the first time in years, Porthos allowed himself to dream that one day Aramis would be able to say it out loud. It was more hope than he had felt in a long time, and as he clambered into the bed above Aramis, he felt alive.
I might do a similar sort of fic dealing with Porthos's feelings after Aramis kills Charon, but I'm not sure. Thoughts?