The sun is shining and René sits in the grass underneath one of the sables with his eyes closed, trying to chase away the cold that has settled in his bones by bathing in the sunshine. It doesn't really work, but it still makes him feel a little bit better, and on this particular day the memories are further away than they normally are, so he takes it as a good day of few.
The thick smell from the horses and the hay comforts him. It reminds him of his childhood, and of safety. His heart doesn't race as fast when he spends some time with his horse, and simply being near them gives him a wonderful feeling of solitude. Even his thoughts seems to have calmed, and even though René feels numb, he can't help but think that it's better than the pain, sorrow and guilt.
He couldn't save them. Any of them. He feels like he betrayed them, like he failed them. His chest tightens, and René closes his eyes shut tight, trying to breathe past the anguish that churns inside him. It feels as if the world is closing in on him, and blackness presses against him even as he has his eyes closed. He can feel his hands shaking slightly as he clenches them shut before opening them up repeatedly, trying to work out a way to distract himself from the panic attack that builds up inside of him.
As the anxiety slowly lessens, and the lump in his throat loosens, a voice suddenly invades his thinking.
"Are you Aramis?" René hesitantly cracks one eye open to frown into the glaring sunlight. A man stands before him, arms crossed over his chest, surrounded by shadows. René doesn't recognize him; he must be one of the new recruits. It takes him a moment to find his voice. Most of the people at the garrison tended to avoid him and leave him alone with his thoughts, so it was actually quite some time ago since had to use his vocals. As he opens his mouth to answer, the sound that first comes out is a bit squeaky. René is everything but proud of himself, embarrassment flushing his face slightly, but then he clears his throat and tries his best to ignore the way the other man frowns at him, eyes clouded by the big hat he wears.
"My name is René." René corrects him, harshly, leaving no room for discussion. In truth, he hates Aramis. That man had died alongside his brothers. Only a broken man had remained, and his name was René, and he was a coward and a failure. He didn't deserve to even be mentioned in the same sentence as the famous Aramis.
The dark skinned man snorts, glancing away for a second as if he can't even stand looking René in the eye, and the smaller man instantly feels mocked. He can feel himself get on edge, and sits up straighter, opening both eyes, squaring his shoulders; readying himself to take on a fight if he has to. Before he is able to get the chance to tell the curly bastard to "fuck off" the other man returns his attention to him and beats him to it, relieving his true intentions behind their little chatter.
"You think you could teach me how to shoot?"
René doesn't even think about it before answering, voice snappy and hard, eyes glaring at the other man. He can't help but to feel pissed about the fact that he can't look him dead in the eye, because he would if that is what it takes to get this man to understand that his presence is not wanted.
"Forget it."
A moment of silence follows, and René leans back again. He is still extremely on edge, whole body tense and rigid, yet he closes his eyes. He knows that he safe here, he just needs to convince himself so. Nothing bad can happen to him under Treville's command, and maybe if he just ignores the other man he will go away. Instead of focusing on the pressing uncomfort of being watched, René focuses on the sun. He breathes it in, trying to use it as a soothing sensation. He almost forgets that the other man is there and begins to think that he might have left him alone, when he speaks once again.
"You sure?"
René opens his eyes again, confusion taking over the irritation, and frowns up at the other man who, for some reason, is still standing there, looking right back at him, not missing a beat. Before even gets the chance to gather his wits, the other man continues: "I heard you were the best man with a musket here."
"You heard wrong." René says lowly and grits his teeth, trying to ignore the way his hands feels sweaty and cold. He presses his back up against the wall, trying to shrink away without making his discomfort so obvious.
"Really?" The other man huffs, and René can see it in the way that he rolls his eyes; he doesn't believe him. Not even for half a second. René can't bring himself to look away as he tips his head down, looking him over as if he actually waits for René to change his mind. When René keeps his dry mouth shut and makes no other indication he is going to agree with the other man, his patience runs out, he sighs, actually managing to look a bit disappointed behind the facade of confidence. He lets his gaze waver and Aramis swallows hard. The sun feels too hot. "Well then, I will just try to do it on my own."
He turns away, and briskly takes his leave. René stays put, and the tension doesn't bleed out of him for quite some time. He leans back against the wall again, heart racing. He feels sick to his stomach. Sweat breaks out of hin forehead, and it's not due to the bright sunlight. He doesn't know why, but the way the other man looked at him, like a kicked puppy, before he left, as branded a mark before his eyes. He bites the inside of lip, and realizes with a very uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that he can't go back to simply being like he had been before. He hunches over, placing his elbows on his knees. He tells himself curiosity is the only reason he follows the dark skinned man with his eyes.
As the man comes up to the shooting range, René notices how a crowd slowly gathers behind him. They are discrete, standing a good couple of feet away, but René can see in their stances that they are snickering, subtly gesticulating towards the muscular man. The way they look at him implies that they don't see him as an equal, and René feels sickened by the idea of why. Racial bastards. A bunch of red guards nods in his direction, a mocking smirk on their ugly faces. For the first time in a long time, René actually feels like throwing a punch straight at them. He has been discriminated before. Having a Spanish mother was something that the French often used as a reason to shut him out. He hated racism.
The black man lifts up his arm, and René instantly notices that there is something seriously wrong with his stance. He holds his arm out in a very awkward angle, shoulder not in the right position. It makes the musket look unbalanced even from where René is sitting, and he frowns, trying to understand how the hell that guy managed to join the armory.
When he fires, the weapon retaliates with a load BANG!, yet the bullet passes its target with at least a good couple of meters. René glances back at the men who has gathered around the range, and just like he has suspected, they are snickering, shaking their heads. René sighs heavily. The other man won't last a day if he can't even use a musket; not in nor out of duty.
The three following shots aren't any better, he misses the board every single time, and when René notices the defeated look in his stance as he notices the way the others are laughing at him, he can't take it anymore. The other man seems harmless enough, and René cannot do nothing as the others, his so called fellow brothers, looks at him as he if he is a misfit. René may deserve their hatred, but this man does not. Not yet at least.
Before he can change his mind he straightens himself up and briskly walks over the field to the black man. The sun shines on him, and he dares not to look any other way than at the other man who is staring incredulously at the target board, as if he himself can't even believe he missed so ungracefully.
"They are laughing at you." René states rather unhelpfully as he reaches him, casting a look behind his shoulder to see them still standing there, whispering behind their backs, and the other man huffs out a long breath of air.
"Believe me, I know."
"You're..." René pauses, and takes another moment to observe the way the other man is holding the musket, before he sighs heavily and takes the weapon away from him without a second thought. "You are holding it wrong. You're supposed to hold it like this, see?"
He demonstrates the grip with a carefully controlled blank look on his face, trying to ignore how the cold metal causes shivers to run down his spine and memories to press against his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. His hand shakes noticeably, so he tries to force the trembles to cease, mouth going even dryer, but the other man says nothing. He simply observes.
A beat of silence hangs between them, but René surprisingly doesn't find himself on the brink of a panic attack, so instead of hiding away like he normally does he gives the man a pointed look. As if in que, the other man nods, and René hands the musket back to him.
He changes his position and stance, trying to mimic the way René had held the musket, and he does it almost perfectly. He takes a breath. Closes one eye. Fires. And the bullet hits the target board on yellow. René takes that as an improvement, nodding slightly to show his approval. As he glances back, the others look slightly less interested in their mockery, and René hums silently for himself, trying to appear unfazed by the way they look at him when they notice him looking back at them.
The other man certainly does see it as improval, as he lets out an animalistic sounding cheer and waves around the gun like it some sort of unloaded toy, happily gesticulating at the board. René can't help the smile that slowly creeps up into his eyes for the first time since the cold had taken a hold of him.
It takes a moment or two before the other man calms himself down enough to pass René the broadest, proudest grin the smaller man has ever seen. With a stab of pain he realizes no one has even given a real smile since Savoy, and that was weeks ago. He cracks a broken smile in return.
"I'm Porthos, by the way." The man says, joyously, and offers his hand to René, who shakily takes it after a moment of hesitation. He feels warm, surprisingly so. For a second it almost feels like before, and it gives him a moment of confidence.
"Pleasure to meet you Porthos." He gets a firm shake of a warm hand, and the heat spreads through his arm up into his whole chest, filling the void in his heart with some much needed company. "I'm René."
"Pleasure is all mine, my friend."