Snow was gently falling, dancing delicately through the air and twirling to the ground slowly, the flakes glistening in the light of the candles from the windows. The sounds of children playing out in it floated up, their giggles making the whole day impossibly merrier. Athos and Aramis were currently in the sitting room, playing a game of cards, and their laughter warmed his heart.
Porthos had come to appreciate many things, but this particular holiday was rather high on his list.
Despite not being wholly religious on the holiday that people celebrated the birth of Christ, he still loved to see everyone gathering together to worship something they believed in. In the Court, no one had really cared about praying or religion; it was more about staying alive, and on Christmas, it seemed like everyone would rather exchange gifts than go to the church services.
That was what Porthos had grown up with, and that was what he'd introduced to Aramis and Athos over the years, both of whom also didn't attend the church much on the holiday because of location matters and missions. They liked to go to Christmas Eve mass though, (well, Aramis did) so Porthos agreed to tag along, mostly for the company instead of the actual praying.
If it made them happy, he was happy.
The tradition they partook in far more, however, was the gift giving. They had often since Porthos joined their ranks 'surprised' each other with gifts; for Aramis a new hat, Athos another bottle of wine or perhaps an inscribed goblet, for Porthos a better pistol, or at least a pistol cleaning kit. It seemed to be the same every year, yet the musketeers took such delight in making each other if not happy, then laugh at the repetition.
He smiled as he watched d'Artagnan charge through the snow, throwing snowballs at the younger children who were teaming up against him, tackling him to the cold ground and attempting to shove the freezing snow and ice down his tunic. D'Artagnan had made good use of the gloves, scarves and hats that the musketeers and the king and Treville had gifted him with so long ago, and his cheeks were rosy with joy.
Porthos knew their lad would never admit it, but he suspected that d'Artagnan missed childhood. He'd barely been out of it when they'd found him to be honest, and yes he'd been mature for a boy (he'd been eighteen, not a man but not a boy, a lad) but that was all he'd been; a lad. He was still a lad, Porthos reminded himself time and time again, and even if he'd shown extraordinary strength in the face of all they fought, he still liked to have fun in the snow, just like any of the other lads on the street.
It was good to see d'Artagnan laugh, really laugh, the side-splitting chortles and bright grin that appeared so seldom now.
As he was thinking d'Artagnan must have made a retreat back to their front door, because it creaked open and the stomping of excited boots echoed through the house, d'Artagnan's voice piping in its exuberance. "I can't believe it's snowing! It'll be a white Christmas!"
"What?" Aramis said in an amused voice over his cards, "never had a white Christmas before, d'Artagnan?"
"Don't be so sour, Aramis," d'Artagnan said with a playful scowl, "you know that having it snow on Christmas Eve doesn't happen often."
Aramis snorted. "Maybe because you haven't lived through as many Christmases as I have."
"Hmm, no wonder you're going grey," d'Artagnan said flippantly, the sarcasm lost because of his grin. "If you've been around so infinitely longer than I have."
Aramis only shook his head with an indulgent smile, and he caught Athos's eyes over the edge of his cards and smiled wider into his hand so d'Artagnan wouldn't see.
Porthos had been watching this all from the stairway, and started a little when d'Artagnan turned bright and excited eyes on him. "What about you, Porthos? How many white Christmases have you seen?"
Porthos had seen a great many, if he was honest, and white Christmases weren't necessarily a positive thing when one was living out on the streets in the Court, but d'Artagnan seemed so bright and curious that it would be cruel to respond so negatively. "Not so many that I'm not excited about them," he assured, winking at Athos and smiling privately at the look of fond exasperation on Aramis's face.
D'Artagnan's smile took on a rascally air, and there was an impish glint in his eye as he asked far too innocently, "well, why don't we go play out in the snow for a bit then?"
It was meant to sound mischievous, probably, but it came out too hopeful, too innocent and young. Porthos sent him a genuine smile, something small- barely a pull of lips- but it was there. "Sure, d'Artagnan. Race you out there!"
Aramis shook his head with a sigh, calling out in a maternal tone as the two ruffians burst into a sprint: "Don't forget your hat or gloves!"
They didn't answer, but Athos did smile wider, staring down at his card hand again.
It took about three seconds of rambunctious laughter from d'Artagnan and Porthos outside to have Aramis standing up and pulling on his hat and gloves. "Better go make sure they don't accidentally kill each other," he murmured in explanation, and he, too, joined the world of white outside with the children.
Athos sat in collective silence, listening to himself breathe for a few moments as the sounds of joyful playing trickled in through the house walls, and then he slammed his cards, shrugged his shoulders, and pulled on his coat.
"Why not?" He asked himself, and pulled open the door- only to promptly get smacked in the face with snow.
D'Artagnan laughed at him, brown eyes bright. "So sorry, Athos," he said, but didn't sound sorry at all. "My aim's a little worse than Aramis'."
"Your aim is a lot worse than mine," Aramis defended himself, and Athos once again found his face full of snow, Aramis's cackling laughter lilting passed his ears. "That's a shame, too, because yours was a good throw, d'Artagnan!"
Athos growled, wiping some of the freezing snow off his face and bending down to collect a large amount in his hands, packing it into a ball. "Oh yeah?" Athos shouted right back, "take this then!" And he lobbed it at Aramis's head.
It hit Aramis smack in the neck and he clutched at it, his eyes wide as he choked, "oh have mercy- P'thos, avenge- me…." Before falling to the ground covered in snow, twitching a little, then lying still in faux death.
Porthos stared at Aramis's still body for a few moments before looking at Athos, his face contorted, and shouted: "CHARGE!"
He tackled Athos into the snow bank behind him, laughing as Athos struggled and threw the big man off him, growling and spitting curses at him all the while. The only thing that happened to stop the vulgar words from spilling further from his mouth was the mad laughter that was going on behind him, and he spun to find d'Artagnan actually rolling around on the ground, clutching his stomach with tears of mirth streaming down his face.
"You think this is funny, hmm?" Athos said, gritting his teeth. D'Artagnan laughed all the harder. "You think this is amusing, huh? Well then," he scooped up some snow and began to take menacing steps closer to his wayward companion, whose laughter was dying down now that he became aware of the danger that was approaching, "well then, I think I should just-" and he attempted to slam the snow down on d'Artagnan's face, who rolled with a shocked and wide eyed expression away, gaining his feet.
"Get back here you little swine!" Athos barked, and d'Artagnan turned heel and ran, Athos streaking along behind him, both slipping and sliding on the wet and icy pavement. Then ran up and down the street, d'Artagnan letting his feet fly as Athos gained on him, and he was almost away except for-
The next thing he knew was that he was looking up and a snowflake filled sky, and Athos was standing over him with a smug but slightly concerned expression on his face. "What happened?" D'Artagnan cried, almost appalled that Athos had caught him, and Athos smirked.
"Well, you managed to run straight into a street lamp, dear friend," he said. "And now that I know your brain is still functioning-"
D'Artagnan found himself with a face full of snow.
It was Aramis's turn to burst into hysterical laughter, though it was short lived because Porthos and he began to scuffle, feet scrambling for purchase as they both tried to push the other down into the foot of snow, growling playfully and sending insults at each other.
"Ridiculous fluffy hat loving-"
"Huge, fat head-"
"-unfaithful, ungrateful, Queen sleeping-"
"Court loving, stealer of virginity-"
"That's enough!" Athos commanded, and both fell silent, leaning on each other with dual grins on their faces, panting like mad men. D'Artagnan was still confusedly staring at the sky.
"Let's go inside before all you idiots catch your deaths in this cold," Athos scolded, helping d'Artagnan to his feet, who was grinning unstoppably. "Oh, why are all you so happy all of a sudden?"
"Just because you're here and looking after us, dear Athos," Aramis responded sweetly, and earned a cuff around the head for his trouble.
"Come on, idiots. Let's go. Warm up by the fire," he said firmly, stripping them of their hats and gloves and ushering them closing to the flames crackling in the fireplace.
They sat themselves, soaking wet, down by the fire, grinning to each other in companionable silence.
After a while sitting like this Aramis, Porthos and Athos glanced at each other and smirked with their eyes, Aramis getting up and, at d'Artagnan's questioning look, said dismissively, "just going to get something from my room" and retreating before d'Artagnan could query further.
Porthos ruffled his hair. "There's this tradition that we partake in, lad," Porthos said, grinning gently at the quiet, taken aback look in d'Artagnan's eyes.
"Well don't look so worried," Athos said with a smile. "We're not going to torture you!"
Porthos glared at him over the top of d'Artagnan's head when that only seemed to make the younger man further confused and surprised, and Athos scowled back at him, though it seemed...impish.
Aramis returned with his arms loaded with presents, and he tossed them around to the correct people, grinning as he watched d'Artagnan's reaction when he caught the three from them. "Y-you got me things, too?" He asked in astonishment, and their smiles grew slightly confused.
"Too?" Aramis echoed, and d'Artagnan, suddenly shy, refused to continue, only getting up from where he was sat crosslegged on the floor and going up the stairs to fetch three more presents, which he timidly passed out.
Porthos stared at him in incredulity. "You get gifts for people too?" He asked, astounded.
"Yes, my mother always insisted," d'Artagnan said fondly, and Aramis shook his head with a genuine laugh as Athos passed out glasses of wine.
"To friends, companions, and getting gifts on the Eve of Christmas Day," Aramis said, taking a long swig before he set it down, smacking his lips together. "Well then! I'll open mine first, shall I?"
(Let it be known that he always opened his first and made the same speech every single year, receiving a new feather for his hat from Athos and always his favorite brand of drink form Porthos.)
When he managed to wrangle the first present out of its wrappings and open it, it was Athos's feather, to which Aramis made a show of sobbing over it, babbling a thank you and throwing himself all over Athos, going on about how "you shouldn't have, Athos, you really shouldn't have, it's beautiful and so unexpected!"
When he opened Porthos's he did it much along the same lines, except Porthos earned himself a teasing kill on the cheek, which he forcefully wiped off as he muttered to d'Artagnan something about "cooties being particular to Aramis".
When Aramis opened the last gift however, that seemed so expertly and carefully wrapped and dressed, he did so with a gentleness that none had expected but all had known him for, swallowing as the gift was revealed.
"Oh, d'Artagnan," was all he uttered, but it was enough, and d'Artagnan beamed hopefully.
"D'you like it?"
Aramis suddenly burst into a fit of giggles, wielding the delicately crafted, obviously expensive and beautifully designed comb with tricky fingers. "This is...this is wonderful! No more tangles for me! Oh, and my other comb had just broken! Thank you!"
"That's why he got you the comb, idiot," Athos said, shaking his head as he added in a poorly disguised murmur, "because you wouldn't stop complaining about it for at least a week, imbecile."
The other gifts went much in the same, Porthos receiving his usual pistol care kit and a new holster, and from d'Artagnan a beautifully dexterous glove with releasable fingers, something that confused and delighted the big man. "D'Artagnan! What is this devilry?"
D'Artagnan ducked his head, and something wry twisted his lips. "Well, I couldn't help but think that the tips of your gloves get into the way of your pickpocketing," he said, and Porthos's laughter was booming and could have probably been heard three streets away.
"This is brilliant, lad! Thank you!"
And then Athos opened his gifts- two bottles of wine this year (which had Aramis cackling and Porthos chuckling merrily, particularly because he had significantly cut down on his drinking since d'Artagnan's arrival) coming out of boxes labelled "my dearest, kindest, wisest, and prettiest friend" and "you bastard". Porthos could guess who had written which.
And then there was simply a parcel labelled in untidy scrawl, "Athos" which the oldest musketeer found himself picking up with soft fingers, a lump in his throat. It was an unassuming parcel, one that didn't seem to mean much but to which Athos was nervous contained the world, and Athos wasn't sure if he truly wanted to open it,
"Well, get on with it already, then!" Aramis urged, and Athos easily undid the knot holding it together, the paper holding the package together easily falling away.
It was a beautiful cape and had probably cost d'Artagnan his whole earning as a musketeer so far, and Athos found his breath stolen. It shimmered in the light of the candles from the windows- currently the only light aside from the fire in the room- and positively cascaded through his hands when Athos went to feel the material. It was soft but warm, and surprisingly durable, Athos found, and he turned stricken eyes to a very nervous looking d'Artagnan.
"D'Artagnan," he said in a hushed voice. "This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you so much."
A brilliant smile bloomed across d'Artagnan's face, making him look twelve, not twenty. He almost looked like he wanted to dance for joy, as his eyes certainly were, but all he said was a very elated sounding but impressively restrained, "you're very welcome."
The air was warm with contentment, the sort of contentment one can only find amongst friends, before Porthos cleared his throat and shattered it, that which fell like snowflakes around them and said quietly, "your turn, d'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan took a deep breath and smiled a little, something small and genuine and so, so fond, it made Athos's heart ache for some reason as he reached for the first present. It was from Porthos, and when he opened it, he exclaimed in happiness. "Porthos! This is perfect!"
"It's got inner pockets," Porthos said. "They're hidden- go on, try it on now!"
D'Artagnan slipped on the fur lined leather coat, light and thin enough to move around it, and felt around the inside material before his face brightened. "They are perfect! Porthos, this is amazing!"
Instead of laughing, Porthos just grinned at him. "I'm glad you like it, lad."
D'Artagnan, heartened by this gift from Porthos, reached for Aramis's gift, and shook his head when he pulled out the oil. "Aramis, are you-"
"No, and banish the thought!" Aramis said with a lewd sort of humor. "It's for your hat. You were complaining that you were getting wet, remember? This is the oil I use to keep it dry."
D'Artagnan's smile was the broadest any of them had ever seen. "Thank you."
And Athos's gift he reached for with quaking fingers, unsteadily undoing the fastenings and revealing his gift, taking a deep breath as he simply said in a quiet but expressive voice, "oh."
"Try it," Athos coaxed, and d'Artagnan stood, holding before him an elegant new blade, the guard inscribed with his initials (as Athos was wont to do with gifts, d'Artagnan noticed) and an eloquent looking design around the hilt.
"It's beautiful but I...uh…"
"And look," Athos interrupted calmly before d'Artagnan could go on, "watch." He wrapped two fingers around the base of the blade, where it met the guard, and tugged a little, and out popped the blade with barely a sound. "You can change the blade. I measured the one on your father's sword. I noticed his guard broke but I had it made in the same style."
D'Artagnan was wholeheartedly speechless, the gift so generous and enormous and completely past what the young farm boy could express, and he only launched himself at Athos and hugged him fiercely, releasing him awkwardly after a few moments and taking a deep breath.
Aramis handed them both another glass of wine, something he had done Eve and Eve again, but didn't allow them to drink it at first, instead holding his up in a toast and saying almost inaudibly, "to friends."
"To friends," they echoed before they drank, and the unspoken "to brothers" was heard all the same.