90. I'M GOIN' TO STAY 'ERE AND CHAT
Porthos and Athos:
Muster was an hour away.
Men were filling the mess, scrambling for food to break their fast before filing into the yard to hear the day's duties.
Having searched the Garrison, Porthos finally found Athos tucked away in one of the Infirmary rooms.
Stretched out on the cot, a book in his hand, Athos is unaware of his approach, until his friend is standing over him. For a large man, he is stealthy when he wants to be.
Athos sighs inwardly.
"Shift up," Porthos says.
Athos draws his legs up as Porthos sits on the end of the bed and shuffles back until his back is against the wall, legs across the bed and feet hanging off the side.
After a moment of silence, Porthos risked a glance.
"You melancholy?" he asked, voice low, careful.
He was used to Athos maintaining a certain distance, they all were. But he had withdrawn a little more than normal over the past few days, and it was unusual for him to miss the first meal of the day. It was probably the only one he would eat, unless cajoled by them when they trooped into The Wren at the day's end. Even then, it was not a given.
Athos did not look up but a small smile graced his lips.
"I would have said, "thoughtful," Athos replied, "But well done, nonetheless."
Porthos beamed.
"I've got a good teacher," he said. He had started to like using words that he never would ever have dreamed of using, before he met Athos. Some of them still caught on his tongue, but some he liked.
He had a bowl in his hand, which he placed on the mattress between them.
"What's that you've got there?" Athos asked, patiently waiting while Porthos got his bulk comfortable, bouncing them both around a bit.
Porthos lifted the bowl up and showed it to Athos.
"Walnuts."
They chatted briefly about the walnut tree, which Porthos had scavenged.
"Did you get them all?" Athos asked, knowing he had, but had, no doubt, given the majority away to the locals.
"What's that you've got?" Porthos asked, repeating Athos's earlier question, his eyes on the small volume in Athos's hand.
In response, Athos passed it to him.
"You know, I'm not good with readin'" Porthos mumbled, warily.
"Yet," Athos replied, softly.
Porthos grunted, and opened it.
It was a sketch book.
He slowly turned the stiff pages.
Carefully drawn sketches met his gaze;
A casement window ... two women working in a field ... a horses's head. A tree …
"Nice tree," Porthos said. "Think I must have been about six when I saw my first tree. I thought the world was made up of stinkin' dark alleys and ..."
"The world can be a dark place," Athos whispered, interrupting him.
Porthos looked up to see Athos staring at the open sketchbook on Porthos's lap, something akin to torment in his eyes.
The tree at the left of the page; the meadow stretching across to the right …
Porthos carefully closed it and passed it back.
"I didn't know you were an artist," he said. "They're good."
When Athos looked up, Porthos was looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
"My brother's," Athos replied quietly, taking it and putting it on the bedside table.
He sighed.
The book was actually a comfort; only one of a few possessions he had brought with him to Paris. It was this new day that itself bore down on him. The trouble with marrying your bride on her birthday was the resultant memory of two anniversaries. It did not seem to get any easier as the years passed and he was taking a few quiet moments before muster to steel himself into endurance.
Porthos lifted a walnut out of the bowl and held it up, stirring him from his reverie.
Athos watched him, waiting.
Porthos twisted it in his palm and then closed his fist. The nut cracked under the pressure. Opening his hand in triumph, he showed the contents to Athos.
"I'm impressed," Athos said, tilting his head; though he knew his friend's strength and had been impressed many times.
"You try," Porthos said, discarding the shell and scooping up the walnut pieces and dropping them into his mouth, before picking up another and tossing it to Athos.
Athos caught it deftly, but he was under no illusion that that was the only thing he would do with it. However, to humour his friend, he tightened his fist around it.
Nothing happened.
Porthos let out a huge laugh, before taking it back.
"See, Athos, walnuts have 'ard shells, but you've just got to know 'ow to crack them."
He turned it in his hand and then illustrated by another successful exhibition of his strength.
"Don't need a hammer," he finished, grinning at Athos.
"So I see," Athos intoned, wondering if he was going to be treated to Porthos cracking open every walnut in the bowl. "You are a Master of the Idiom," he added.
Porthos raised an eyebrow but there was no sarcasm written on Athos's face.
"I'll explain later," Athos smiled.
"Same with eggs," Porthos continued, happily.
"Eggs?" Athos frowned.
"Yeah," Porthos replied.
He held up his hand and made a fist.
"This way," he said, by way of explanation, "you break the shell." He shook his hand, miming shaking egg from his palm.
Then, he held up his finger and thumb, a few inches apart.
"Squeeze it this way," he continued, "An' it won't break."
"Is that right?" Athos nodded, humouring him.
"Damn straight. I'll show you later," he said.
"I shall look forward to it," Athos murmured.
"So," Porthos replied, dropping his hand onto his lap. "What's makin' you melancholy?"
"Melancholic," Athos corrected, absently.
Porthos nodded, unperturbed by the correction.
That's what he liked about Athos. There was no judgement. Just acceptance. Always had been. Porthos wanted to understand him. To know what ailed him. What made him "melancholic." But no matter how many of these chats the two of them had, Porthos found nothing out.
But he always learned something.
Suddenly, Athos sat up and emitted a sharp cry, reaching for his foot.
Porthos beat him to it, dropping one hand on his knee and the other around his foot, pushing it up firmly and holding it. Gradually, the cramp eased and Athos relaxed.
"You should eat more," Porthos growled. "Aramis says muscle cramp 'appens when you don't eat the right things."
"Does he," Athos grunted. "I will bear that in mind. Perhaps it happens when you don't drink enough."
Porthos laughed, carefully letting go of Athos's foot.
Eyeing the sketchbook on the table, Porthos took a breath;
"Do you miss it?" he asked, gently.
Athos carefully flexed his toes before looking up.
"Do I miss what?" he asked, warily.
Porthos dipped his hand into the bowl of walnuts and pushed them around. They rattled against the pewter, the only sound in a room gone still.
"Your old life," Porthos replied, meeting his gaze.
Athos shifted uncomfortably and Porthos thought he had gone too far.
His brother was a very private man. Usually, if he was going to impart such a confidence, it would be under his own terms; not in answer to an unguarded question. But when Athos frowned, as though he was actually thinking about responding, Porthos relaxed a little. He never pried, because some answers were just too difficult to respond to. Athos came from a different world. One of privilege that he himself could only imagine. He'd probably never been hungry, or cold. Never without coin.
He'd almost certainly never been invisible.
Athos took a breath.
And promptly threw the question back at him.
"Do you?"
Porthos let out a short breath and pursed his lips in thought.
"Not the life," he said quietly, his dark eyes taking on a far-away look.
"Knew no different, as a little 'un," he continued. "But later, a couple of people … they made it bearable."
Athos pushed his hair back from his forehead and left his hand there while he considered his own response. After a moment, his hand drifted to the locket he wore around his throat; his hair flopping back into his now-clouded eyes.
Finally, he said, "Yes, I can understand that."
A silence fell between them then, broken only by the occasional rattle of walnuts against pewter. Porthos suddenly looked down at his hand in the bowl.
"I'm 'ungry," he grunted.
"That makes a change," Athos said quietly, glad of the turn in the conversation.
"All this talk of eggs 'n walnuts," Porthos said, his own voice lighter now.
Athos huffed.
"We could be talking about mucking out the stables, Porthos, and you would say that," he replied, though his voice was soft.
Porthos nodded in agreement.
It was true, he was always hungry. Definitely a legacy of his past.
He wondered if Athos's apparent lack of appetite, or more correctly, his disinterest in food, was a legacy of his old life. Though he would not voice it. It was an answer he would not be able to deal with. They were worlds apart in some things, and this most basic need was one of them.
But he laughed at the truth of Athos's observation. Mucking out a stable had never dampened his appetite.
"Not much puts me off my vituals, it's true," he chuckled.
"Come on," he added, dropping his hand onto Athos's shin. "If Aramis finds us in his Infirmary, he'll 'ave our guts for garters."
Athos grimaced at the image.
"Since when was it "his" Infirmary?" he grunted.
"Do you want it?" Porthos replied, eyebrows raised.
Athos huffed.
Point taken.
In more ways than one.
"Thank you," Athos said suddenly.
"For what?" Porthos asked. Athos hadn't told him anything about what ailed him, but his spirits seemed to have lifted.
Athos reached across and patted his shoulder. A rare occurrence.
"For the walnuts, of course."
Both men stood and Porthos gently pushed Athos forward. They left the Infirmary, emerging into bright sunshine.
As Porthos walked ahead, Athos watched his retreating back. Thomas's sketchbook was back in his pocket. Later, he would add his own sketch into the back of the book, to remind him of this day. Of the value of simple words. Of Porthos's gentleness.
And of idioms; an egg and a walnut.
Both, according to Porthos, hard shelled, but easy to crack. If you knew how.
He had walked into the Infirmary at first light with a heavy heart, lost in a bitter-sweet memory. That was now coloured with friendship, and the day looked brighter.
Ahead of him, Porthos smiled to himself.
oOo
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