Characters are not mine. Poem which inspired the title and while will appear in later chapters is by Pierre de Ronsard and was translated into English by William Hawley.

To Life, Gentle Hawthorn

Chapter One [tw: vomit, offscreen]

Twenty-five.

Fuck.

He wasn't vain, honestly.

Nor terribly prone to self-pity.

But- twenty-five.

At twenty-five years of age, Aramis had no wife, no children, no money; all he owned was some guns, some swords, some clothes, and some books. And a hat, of course. His mother still lived, for which he was grateful, but she was half a country away. As was his brother. As were his sisters and nieces and nephews.

And this was all without mention of- well.

He did have friends, though. Two of them, in fact. His twenty-fourth birthday had been nothing more than him and Marsac; they'd gotten blindingly drunk, played chess in the street. Gone to bed by midnight, too poor to afford working girls and too messy to attract any other ones. Just him and Marsac.

More than half of the garrison had attended Porthos' birthday a couple of months ago. Not that it was a competition.

Two friends with him was twice as many as he'd had last year, after all. Athos had given him an unexpectedly ornate book of poetry, and Porthos had given him a satchel for his surgical things and a massive hug, and now they were drinking profusely at Aramis' own apartment. It was marvelous, really. Now Aramis thought he'd like to move their little party to a tavern sometime soon, perhaps attract a bit of female company to wish him well; he was fairly certain he'd have to be sick a couple of times before he was fit to walk anywhere, but that was all right, small sacrifices had to be made-

"Aramis."

Porthos' voice had the tone of a man who'd had to repeat himself one too many times.

Aramis blinked. The world spun a bit, then settled.

"What?"

"Are you all right?"

A question.

He was supposed to answer it.

"I'm fine."

Porthos was unconvinced. "You're thinkin'. You've got that face on. What is it?"

Another question. Jesus.

"I'm drunk," Aramis replied.

"You're drunk, and thinkin'."

"I was thinking," Aramis said carefully, "that if I were in the position of not knowing my age- such as you are, mon ami- I would subtract a few years from my realistic estimation."

"That so?"

"Truly. You are, at your own best guess, twenty-six or twenty-seven, yes?"

Porthos grunted.

"Well then, I would subtract five and call it a day. Present yourself as twenty-one or twenty-two."

Porthos grinned, which made Aramis grin back.

"Don't think I could pass for twenty-one."

"Nonsense. Athos, what do you think?"

Athos raised his head mournfully. "I think that one cannot lie to God, nor to the natural decay of the organs. Therefore, lying about it at all seems rather useless."

"That is- eminently logical," Aramis choked out, not sure if Athos' statement had brought him near to laughter or near to tears. "Thank you for that, dear Athos. Cheers." He reached out with his cup of wine and clinked it sloppily against Athos' own, then sat back, panting with the effort. "Do not forget, your organs are at least a couple of years more decayed than my own."

"Tonight'll help you catch up," Porthos added helpfully.

"I shall make sure to return such cheerful sentiments at your own birthday," Aramis forged on. Athos smiled suddenly, and for the life of him Aramis didn't know if he'd just been the butt of a joke or not.

"Are you making fun of me, ami?" he questioning, squinting at Athos, hoping he looked appropriately accusatory.

"You don't do much to preclude it," Athos replied. There was honest-to-Christ mischief in his eyes.

"I? When have I ever been less than the picture of decorum?" He stood to bow-

And then a few things happened at the same time.

Aramis bowed.

The table tipped.

The wine found Athos' lap with a splash and a yelp.

And then Porthos was pulling him out into the street, preventing him from divesting himself of his stomach contents right onto his own damn floor.


His head hurt. Waking up, Aramis knew that he could have expected nothing else.

What he hadn't quite expected was to find himself wrapped up warm and snug in his bed- though he probably should have. Porthos was a saint on Earth. He'd deny it, conceal it beneath his stubborn layers of gruffness and debauchery, but he was the kind of man who'd tuck his drunken friend neatly into bed without a second thought.

Groaning, Aramis sat to scan the room for his wayward savior. This earned him a noise of groggy displeasure from his bed partner; Athos kicked vaguely at Aramis' legs and didn't open his eyes. Porthos was sitting at the table, reading by the morning light.

Aramis sighed, settling back down. He was old, and he was prodigiously hungover, but his friends were both with him.

And, he was alive.

Funny how that became something that you had to remind yourself about. Funny how there were moments when it was all you could think about- I'm alive, I'm the only one alive- and then at other times, it was a half-forgotten concept.

Marsac had saved his life. Saved his goddamn life. It was Porthos who'd helped him come to that realization, had sat with him calmly as it hit him like a brick. He'd wept a bit, carried on with life, then woken up that night and wept a lot. Tears which were sad but not angry. Which were, unexpectedly, grateful.

He'd be grateful now. Grateful to have reached twenty-five, when it had been far from a sure thing. Nobody was ever guaranteed their next birthday. And a musketeer, especially not.

That was all he needed, honestly: friends beside him, and a pulse in his heart. Aramis curled up against Athos contentedly. Maybe he needed a few more hours of sleep, as well. That couldn't hurt.

He didn't seem likely to get it. Porthos had noticed his movements and put his book down. "Good," he proclaimed, loudly, "Didn't wanna have to wake you."

"Is it time to get up?"

"Past time, I'd say. 's that one up too?"

Aramis nudged Athos' arm and shook his head when those pale eyes stayed closed. Porthos sighed. He came to the side of the bed- and with no warning whatsoever, ripped the blankets away.

The noise that Athos made was one of helpless, childlike distress. Porthos chuckled as he remembered what Aramis was only just noticing: Athos was wearing nothing but his smallclothes and shirt.

Ah yes: the wine. Oops.

"Cold light of morning," Porthos announced cheerfully. Aramis shivered. He shifted closer to the warmth of Athos' body, until the very moment that Athos, remembering himself, shot upright. His pained expression gave way to a neutral one almost instantly. Moving with the sort of grace that shouldn't have been allowed at such an hour, he slid from the bed and reclaimed his discarded clothes.

The whole bed his now, Aramis stretched. His hangover immediately reminded him of its presence, however, and he curled up in a hapless little ball.

Slowly he became aware that Porthos and Athos were both staring down at him. Athos was dressed and bore an expression of slight irritation; Porthos looked more sympathetic, but no more willing to accommodate. "We need to go, Aramis," he said firmly.

"Mm."

"Don't you think twenty-five's old enough to get yourself outta bed?"

"Is it?" Aramis sighed.

He got up, of course. The walk to the garrison was less than enjoyable, though; twice Aramis stopped and gripped at his belly, waiting to be sick. He never was. Porthos ushered him along with a gentle hand, Athos close behind. He should have been used to it by now, honestly. His stomach hadn't felt right since- well.

At least time this he'd had some say in the cause of it.

Treville called them up the moment they arrived; Aramis tried not to grip too tightly to the railing as he ascended, laughing to himself at his own absurdity. Treville favored him with an inquisitive glance, but forged on without comment.

They had orders. Of course they did. No reason the universe should stop and give him the day off, let him sleep off his headache in the armory doing a hypothetical musket inventory.

It wasn't that he was ungrateful, truly. It had taken nearly a month for Treville to let him back into the garrison- officially; he'd hung around plenty- and another after that to send him on any real errands at all. It was a mercy not to be bored. In fact, a ride into the country- some time in the fresh air- might do him some good. Delivering letters was an easy task to be sure.

Until: "I don't need three of you on this," Treville continued, almost offhandedly. Aramis' stomach flopped massively. "Porthos, a few of the new men could use some hand-to-hand training. It would serve better for you to stay and see to that."

The captain considered the conversation over; Aramis could see that clearly on his face. But Christ, what did his own face look like?

No Porthos.

The first errand they'd been given apart from one another since he'd been reinstated. The first time, honestly, that they'd be apart for any significant length since- well. Since Porthos had all but carried him out of that damnable forest, saved his life in a month-long montage of gruffly fraternal affection.

Aramis shivered.

Porthos could tell, Aramis knew; his eyes were shifted towards him, waiting to be met, asking a silent question. Are you okay with this?

No. But it had to happen some time, didn't it?

"Was there anything else?" Treville asked. He didn't sound impatient, exactly, but he didn't seem eager for a discussion either.

Then a hand came to rest on Aramis' back. Its warmth flooded Aramis' veins, and he relaxed enough to shake his head. "No sir," he replied, and Treville nodded and handed him the letters.

He continued to calm as Porthos' hand guided him towards the door. "Porthos!" Treville called. "Take a look at the list of men I'd like you to train."

Aramis sucked in a breath, preparing himself for the steadying hand to disappear as Porthos peeled away from them, returned obediently to Treville's side. Except the hand stayed. As Aramis crossed the threshold out of Treville's dim office, he realized that it had been Athos' the whole time.

Athos' eyes were straight ahead, even as his gloved fingers pressed firmly into the dip between Aramis' shoulderblades.

And Aramis found himself smiling. Treville hadn't sent him alone, after all; he'd be with Athos.

He'd be fine.


Riding out with Athos was not the same as riding out with Porthos; Porthos was a giddy, if slightly clumsy rider, who loudly delighted in the chance to get out of the city. With Porthos, conversation flowed. They laughed, yelped; raced their horses before spoiling them with apples and other treats.

Athos was not giddy, or clumsy, or loud. In him Aramis recognized another soul trained to ride a horse from the time he could walk; Athos was as graceful in the saddle as he was in a swordfight. Still there was a quality to him that seemed highlighted by the countryside. It wasn't joy, or even happiness, but a thoughtfulness that seemed sated by the sun and the fields around them. It was nearly summer, and the air was pleasantly warm. Athos was satisfied to fall into pace beside one another, wordlessly, and simply ride.

It was unexpected- truly, though perhaps unfairly- that his presence should comfort Aramis as it did. Perhaps Athos' own stability had always been overshadowed by Porthos' own, or had blended with it. But Aramis felt it now. With Athos at his side, the day passed easily; his hangover and his stomachache slipped away, and his body loosened trustingly.

Athos didn't notice, or perhaps chose not to comment, but Aramis himself felt aglow with camaraderie and a fair bit of pride. He and Athos had been friends for a month. But today was the first day he'd really felt that friendship consciously- and the first time in recent months that he'd put his trust in someone besides Porthos. It was a good start to twenty-five, Aramis decided.

It was early afternoon when they arrived at the residence of the comte who was to receive the letters. Athos conducted the hand-off, and they set off once again. The sun reddened and sank as they made their way back, and Aramis grinned at the simple truth of Athos' company.

He was still smiling, in fact, when the first shot rang out.