So, this is the second scene in my collection, set maybe a week or two after the first. Athos POV again. Hope you like.
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He can't just leave. It would look odd.
That's what Athos keeps telling himself as he leans back against the wooden post, arms crossed in front of his chest, and watches d'Artagnan as he spars with Porthos. The boy's got real talent, that much has always been obvious, but now, as he slowly learns to control that temper of his, he's truly becoming someone to reckon with.
And here Athos is, watching, supposed to observe and train, and wishes himself far, far away. Ever since that day, some weeks ago, he's not felt comfortable whenever d'Artagnan was near.
He's kept his distance, best as he could, and tried to ignore the hurt looks d'Artagnan was giving him. Because he's not been subtle about avoiding the boy.
But he can't skip training, and he can't shirk this responsibility, as much as he wants to.
Because that really would look… odd.
But standing here, forced to watch d'Artagnan in that delicate dance with Porthos, is a special kind of hell.
Because Athos can't simply turn away and mentally battle down those uncomfortable sensations, wrestle his emotions into submission, and if he fails at that, get a couple of bottles of cheap wine and drown what's left.
He has to stay and watch.
His eyes follow d'Artagnan as he twists and turns, parries and slashes, the boy's brows drawn together in concentration, trying to stand his ground against his older, more experienced and physically stronger opponent. His lithe body is in constant movement, quick and graceful.
So tempting.
Athos gaze is riveted to d'Artagnan's form, and all of his fabled iron will can't push those hated feelings down. His stomach is in knots, he feels like he's on fire, and he prays to a god that probably has given up on him long ago that the shameful, forbidden thoughts that cross his mind are not visible on his face.
He wants to scream in frustration, because this was all he had left, crossing swords with his friends the only moments worth still living for, and now it's been poisoned, poisoned by those feelings he can't seem to master. Feelings so wrong he simply refuses to put a name to them.
No one must ever know.
So he stays, because he has to, throttles the urge to scream into submission, and puts on his usual impassive front, hoping it's enough.
But of course, it isn't.
His view to his newest obsession is suddenly blocked by the slightly worried face of the last member of their merry crew. Aramis' eyes are sad as he lays a hand on Athos' shoulder.
"Mon ami, don't", he says quietly. "Looks like that can get a man into the Bastille. Or burnt on a pyre. Don't do this to yourself."
Athos leans his head back against the wooden post, and closes his eyes as shame, burning like acid, rises like bile in this throat.
Of course it wasn't enough. Always much too observant, Aramis.
Athos pushes away from the post, knocking into Aramis and hardly noticing. His stomach twists, and he's not sure if the urge to puke his guts out or to laugh crazily is stronger as he stumbles out of the courtyard into the street blindly, no longer caring how odd it looks.
Caught.
Just when he thought his life could not possibly get worse.
He was wrong. God has not forgotten about him. God hates him.
He's not sure there's enough cheap wine in all of Paris to help him rest tonight, but he's determined to find out.