Once he was alone again, d'Artagnan finished braiding his horse's mane. He knew it would be all crooked and not very pretty. Even his Gascon eyes couldn't see that well in the dark. But it gave him something to do, something to focus on. He still didn't feel like going back outside and joining the others again. He could hear singing now, loud and off-key. They were having fun and he… wasn't.
He did think Tréville and Aramis were right. His parents would understand and they would be proud. Of course they would. They'd always understood and they'd always wanted what was best for him. He didn't have to worry about that. They'd forgive him and love him still.
Knowing that didn't really make him any happier, though.
He missed them.
Yes, he had all these brothers now and he'd wanted brothers all his life. He'd never dared to imagine them to be quite as magnificent though. More like Aramis' brother who was, by all accounts, very quiet and boring, but overall still a nice enough guy. Now he had the best brothers ever, a whole regiment full of them. And the captain as well. They were his family now and that was good.
Very good.
Very, very good.
He couldn't wish for a better family. Only… his family.
He'd give an arm and a leg to have one more day with his other family, his first family. Well, maybe not an arm and a leg because that would mean he couldn't be a musketeer anymore. Would he, actually? Would he give up being a musketeer if it meant he could bring his father back to life?
The door flew open and the noise got louder. Singing and toasting… everyone in his new family was so happy. Happy to have him, while he…
"You still in there?" Porthos asked. "You and your cat eyes. I can't see a thing."
He stepped into the stables and let the door fall shut, making the darkness absolute once more.
"Still here," d'Artagnan said before Porthos could worry. He did that. He'd worry if one of them didn't show up at muster or stayed out late.
Porthos carefully shuffled along the wall and sat down on the feed bin. "You wanna come up here?" he asked. "Cause I didn't bring any nibbles for her majesty and I could do without having a piece taken out of me."
D'Artagnan smiled. Porthos' terrible relationship with Angelina was legendary. Neither of them was willing to share Aramis and she mercilessly abused that Porthos wasn't entirely comfortable around horses.
With a last scratch of the ears, he left his mare and ambled over to Porthos. Least he could do, really. Since they were all taking turns looking out for him. Athos had last watch, apparently. Or maybe he wouldn't… maybe he couldn't anymore. Festivities with plenty of wine weren't the best for him. He'd never let himself go completely if he had real watches to take, but it wasn't like this was…
D'Artagnan sniffed and stood up straight. Belly in, chest out, shoulders wide. Look like a man if he couldn't act like one.
"Ah, come here, you." Porthos got up and reached out for him. "Give us a cuddle."
Not like d'Artagnan had a choice. He tried. Manly. Musketeer. All of that. But there was no escaping Porthos. And maybe he didn't try all that hard.
Porthos was warm and solid and somehow managed to be everywhere at once until d'Artagnan was sinking into him entirely. It didn't really matter, did it? It was so dark in the stables even if somebody had come in, they wouldn't have been able to tell.
Porthos didn't say anything. He stood there and held him and after a minute or two, d'Artagnan stopped worrying about what others might see or think. He hadn't been held like that since… probably since he was a child. Hadn't really needed it, either. They'd always been there for him. He'd always know that, back in Lupiac. But Paris was so much bigger than that and everyone seemed a lot further away, like all those people just didn't have enough hands to reach out to each other and most of the time everyone drifted through their days without touching anyone else.
He'd had Constance, of course. Constance who'd have a pot of soup over the fire for him when he came in late at night. Constance who'd wash his clothes and darn his socks, who'd be there with a smile and a word and a kiss and… well...
The tears started slowly. One, then another, but then at some point the dam broke and they just kept coming, big, fat, ugly tears.
"There, there," Porthos said. His voice was so deep that it was more a rumble against d'Artagnan's chest than an actual sound. "I've got you."
He did. And somehow that just doubled the tears. There wasn't anything to cry about. He was fine. More than fine, a musketeer and being celebrated and being held by his brother and helped by everyone. But somehow that still wasn't enough. Somehow, he was still crying like a toddler with a skinned knee.
Only then it would have been his maman and papa holding him. And he could have cried for hours and days and they'd have held him still and nobody would have dared to laugh and nobody would have seen or judged and…
He sniffed.
That memory wasn't helping. He couldn't keep thinking of his parents and missing them and all. Especially not with Porthos there. How crass was that? They all knew Porthos hadn't had anyone since he was a little boy. And d'Artagnan was crying because he'd have to write his mother a letter rather than telling her face-to-face.
Get a grip.
His tears wouldn't listen, though.
It was Porthos who had a grip on him and a very tight one at that. It was almost like he was holding the pieces together, keeping him from falling apart completely. But there were still cracks and through every crack came more tears.
He couldn't say how long they stood like that, but it must have been a while before Porthos let go of him and handed him a soft, shining white handkerchief.
"Aramis'," he said with a shrug. "Finest whatever the lady was using. I liked it."
That made d'Artagnan chuckle through his tears.
Porthos still kept an arm around his shoulders. It was all a bit different now with two pauldrons to get in the way. Or maybe d'Artagnan was just way too conscious of his.
"Sorry." He blew his nose and tried to take a deep breath without choking on another sob.
"Don't be." Porthos squeezed him tight and beckoned for him to sit on the feed bin with him. "I was the same when I got mine."
D'Artagnan hiccupped. "Aramis said you cried for a week."
Porthos' chuckle made them both shake. "And of course you can always trust Aramis with that sort of thing. But… it's not easy, is it?"
D'Artagnan snorted. "It should be. You've done the hard part, you know?"
"You think it's getting easier now?"
"No, but… I've got the commission. Achieved something. And everyone's celebrating." D'Artagnan kicked his heels against the wooden box. "I should be happy."
"But you're not."
"No, cause I'm stupid."
"Nah." Porthos paused. "It makes sense, if you think about it. You've achieved something. Makes you think back to what got you here and who. And then you think back and well… yeah… but it makes sense."
"Of course it does to you…" But to d'Artagnan… What did he have to cry about?
Porthos cocked his head. "What makes it different for me?"
D'Artagnan scoffed. "You had real reasons to be sad."
Porthos hummed and thought for a bit before he replied. "Let me get this straight… You think you shouldn't be crying because… what? You've been through all sorts since you got here. I'd just been through dragging Athos out of a bottle and Aramis out of his bed—and I wasn't very successful at either."
"But before that…"
"Before that you had your father dying in your arms. I've never had that."
"But I was an adult and…"
Porthos half turned towards him. "Is this about my mother?"
D'Artagnan beat out a march with his heels but made no reply.
"Cause if it is, you need to snap out of it." Porthos shook his head. "It's not a game of cards. It's not one parent against another or one loss against another. Life doesn't work like that."
D'Artagnan pressed his lips firmly together to stop himself from saying something truly nonsensical or, even worse, from crying.
"You've every right to be sad," Porthos said. "It's a big thing. You're far away from home and there's people you're gonna miss. Paris has always been home for me. I've run these streets for as long as I can remember."
"You'd like Gascony," d'Artagnan said. "The fields and the mountains…"
"Too horsey for me, to be honest." Porthos shuddered at the thought.
"You're a musketeer," d'Artagnan reminded him.
"Blame Tréville and the king for that. Better than the infantry though, I give you that. And at least we've got the garrison here in Paris where you get to meet new people for playing cards and not the same small-town folks every day. I'd be hounded out of your town in a week."
D'Artagnan smiled. It was nice of Porthos to try and cheer him up, but it didn't really work. The thoughts were still swirling around in his head. Thoughts of home, of his father dying in his arms, of his mother all alone…
"Do you miss her?" he asked. "Your mum?"
Again, Porthos took his time to think before he answered.
"It's been so long, it's a bit different for me," he said. "But yes, I miss her. I'd like her to see all this, see how my life has changed. Sometimes I think… she'd be feeding all of us. You know, living somewhere down the road and cooking for us whenever we dropped in…"
"My mum makes the best stew. Gascony pig stew."
"I know, you had me try every stew in Paris and you hated them all."
"She'd like you." D'Artagnan chuckled. "She'd feed you so much you'd have to tell her to stop."
"Never!" Porthos held his hands out in mock outrage. "She'd have to feed me three pigs."
"She'd like Athos as well." D'Artagnan tried to imagine it, Athos in the kitchen, being all formal and stiff, calling her Madame d'Artagnan and bowing to her.
"She'd like Aramis best," Porthos said. "There's no woman in the whole of France who can resist him."
"Constance can."
D'Artagnan bit down fiercely on his tongue as soon as the words slipped out of his mouth. Porthos pulled him into a tight sideways hug.
"She'd always like you best though," he said. For a moment d'Artagnan wasn't sure who he was talking about. "You're her son after all. She'd just tell us off for how thin you are and to make sure you got to bed on time."
"I'm not a child."
Porthos ruffled his hair. "Could have fooled me."
"Pah." D'Artagnan stuck out his chin. "I'm a musketeer."
"Good boy," Porthos said. "You're maman raised you right."
"So did yours."
"She didn't get much of a chance," Porthos said. "But think she'd be happy with how I've turned out. Just like yours."
D'Artagnan nodded. She would be. He was certain of that now. Wasn't anything not to be proud of. They weren't farmers or abbés, but they were good musketeers and good men. That had to count for something.
"Let's grab a bottle," he said, heaving himself to his feet. "I'm all dried out now."
"Can't have that." Porthos stood and held the door open for him like he was the king. "After you, Monsieur. You're the guest of honour tonight."
Nobody had missed him too much, it seemed. There was still plenty of drinking and singing and playful fighting. All the usual things they got up to. Tréville had disappeared, but everyone else was still there.
Porthos found them some wine only to be asked to join a group who were arm wrestling around the long table. He looked at d'Artagnan, the question clear on his face. D'Artagnan smiled at him and nodded. With an apologetic shrug, Porthos disappeared into the crowd. Shouted bets were flying back and forth, men trading favours instead of the money most of them lacked should their contestant win. Fools, all of them who were behind anyone but Porthos.
Porthos knew how to play this game. D'Artagnan had watched him often enough now. He even spotted one or two opportunities when Porthos could have easily snatched someone's purse while they were distracted. But this was the garrison and Porthos was only focussed on making everyone laugh. He beat a few others with ease, but actually had to struggle against Bernard. Once he'd beaten him, two of the new recruits offered to go up against him together. Porthos refused at first, but it was only for show.
"We'll give you five francs if you win," one of them offered. He clearly had that sort of money and also realised that Porthos didn't.
Porthos paused, pretending to consider. "Nah," he shrugged. "That's not even worth the one drop of sweat you two namby-pambies would cost me."
"Ten francs?"
"I don't want your money, lads." Porthos waved them off. "Offer me something I actually need."
They seemed flummoxed.
"Stable duty," d'Artagnan shouted.
Porthos nodded. "I could consider that. Take care of my horse and tack until the end of the year. I want both gleaming every day. Should build some arm muscles as well."
D'Artagnan laughed as the two recruits protested.
"That settles it," Athos said, standing next to him. "An easy win."
He toasted Porthos with his cup.
"No way he's going to lose now," d'Artagnan agreed.
He tried to focus on the match, to laugh at Porthos' jokes and the show he put on, but it was difficult with Athos looming next to him. Not that Athos said anything, but he was… present. And somehow d'Artagnan thought he owed him an explanation, even though Athos hadn't asked for one.
"Better now," he said, still looking straight ahead at Porthos. "Had a little wobble thinking about my parents and all."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos nod. "I cannot presume to relate, but it seems a perfectly reasonable concern on a day like this."
D'Artagnan didn't know much about Athos' parents and the others didn't have much to tell him either. If Athos talked about his family at all, it was always about Thomas. Everybody's favourite, Thomas. And Athos wasn't really the sort of man you asked for details when he didn't want to talk about something. But d'Artagnan's money was on them never having a great relationship. Not the sort of people you'd want to share your successes with. If they'd even think of becoming a musketeer as a success. Thinking of that mansion they'd had, they probably wouldn't. Probably beneath them. Anyways…
He took a deep breath. "All sorted now."
"Good."
D'Artagnan was just contemplating how good it was that Athos never asked unnecessary questions, never pressed him for more, when Athos spoke again.
"There is no shame in crying. Porthos cried for—"
"Yes, yes, Aramis said."
That shut Athos up.
Porthos won and there was cheering and shouting and loud debates about whether or not he'd made a fair deal with the two recruits. They only had themselves to blame, really, and it wouldn't do them any harm to scrape muck from Joseph's broad behind, so d'Artagnan thought it was only fair. Athos didn't comment and neither did d'Artagnan.
"I want you to know that I am very, very proud of you," Athos said eventually. "We all are. "
D'Artagnan turned to face him, but Athos was still looking straight ahead, across the heads of the men and into to distance like he was remembering everything.
"Thank you." D'Artagnan had to gulp down the lump in his throat. I'm very, very proud of you. Athos was proud of him. Athos. That was…
"Not solely based on how you earned your commission though that was very honourable," Athos said. "We're proud because of how far you have come as a whole." He finally turned to look at d'Artagnan, a slight smirk around his lips. "You're a far cry from the boy who burst in here shouting my name."
The lump in d'Artagnan's throat grew so much he could hardly breathe. He nodded and tried to smile back.
"While this can and should never replace your parents' pride…" Athos' eyes bored straight into his now. "… you should know that we are always there for you."
D'Artagnan swallowed, then swallowed again. He was so happy he thought he might burst with it.
"That… I…" He broke off and shook his head.
He surged forward instead and embraced Athos so hard that wine splattered everywhere.
Athos was stiff as a board at first, but then he brought his arms around and patted d'Artagnan's shoulder. When d'Artagnan wouldn't let go, Athos huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh against his ear.
"You're making a scene," Athos said, but left his hands on d'Artagnan's back.
D'Artagnan shook his head. If Athos thought he cared about that, he thought wrong. He'd never not be thankful for Athos. He'd gone from wanting to kill him to saving his life and then… There'd been the fire at Pinon and Milady… all those big things, but also the small things every day, Athos' endless patience at sword practice and his constant reminders and… being there for him and being… him. Athos. The greatest swordsman in France, but more importantly the best friend anyone could ever have.
"One for all," he whispered against Athos' collarbone.
"And all for one," Athos replied. "And we mean it, you understand? Any time. We're all equal here. You're one of us now, officially sanctioned by the king. You will never not be a musketeer or our brother."
