[disclaimer: Uh, Dumas wrote it in the first place, but I'm basing this on the movie, so BLAME DISNEY.]
Author's Note: I really, really don't like this piece. This is an edited version of what I posted on livejournal a while ago…I added to it, fleshed it out a smidge. Anyhow, I really dislike it so…tell me what you think.
I was going to say you could read it as a follow-on from Choices, but since Aramis says something that basically makes Choices impossible, forget it. (This was written way before I ever even thought about that story. It's an old, much disliked fanfic.)
Crisis of Faith
Summary: "Aramis takes death very seriously."
Gautier Rochefort could tempt angels. He could cause even the most saintly of men to fall to their knees at his feet.
I will not claim to be an angel, and I am no saint.
He's beautiful, you know -- was, I suppose. The most amazing brown eyes -- closed, now. I'd almost think him sleeping.
If it weren't for the unnatural cold, and the blood staining his always perfect black ensemble. I miss him already -- I've been missing him for a while now, really. But at least he was alive. At least he was breathing, at least somewhere he was going on, even if he wasn't in my arms. Even if he spat my name in contempt. Even if I broke his heart and drove him away…
He was never...never a friendly man, never the warm type. Had more in common with Athos than I, though they'd both be furious if I said it. He would never give anything of himself away, like Athos. Never let anyone in, even me.
Sometimes, though, he'd give me one of those private smiles of his. I was never expecting them, they were just...something he did sometimes. I think he liked startling me. But that look. I loved that look. A sort of bemused "how did I get here" expression, quickly followed up by a vaguely annoyed one. I always assumed he was irritated by the idea he had emotions like the rest of us.
He crushed them, of course. Eventually. Ruthlessly. There was no trace of my Gautier left in him when he died, in those beautiful dark eyes of his. Wicked eyes, I told him once. I told him his eyes were a sinful pleasure…my vice.
If what we did, what we were, is a sin in the eyes of God, is this my punishment? To love, to lose, twice. Twice the loss with only one taste of love?
Can I believe in a God who would punish love?
I hate what he did. What he became. I hate the vindictive way he lived his life, and the casually cruel smirk. I hate his malicious drawl. But I remember when he wasn't the miserable bastard D'Artagnan killed. I remember when he smiled and laughed with me, when his lips were too busy with mine to twist into that vindictive little smile. I remember when he was as loyal as I am.
And so for all that, I can't hate him. Because I know who he really was. Because I gave him up for my faith, and sacrificed his.
If I kiss his forehead before I give him the last rites, no one will know. None but I.
I'll miss you, Cyclops. My Gautier.
And I hate that I can't think that without guilt.