This is a direct follow-up to the latest Snack, 'Of Stillness'. It is a bit different.
XI. Reverberations
I.
"You must wake, Porthos. Porthos. Come on, open your eyes."
The tapping on his cheek is insistent. Annoyed, he raises a hand to stop it, but has the vague sensation that the limb hasn't moved at all. There's the rough texture of wool under his fingertips; the darkness is soft like a cushion and his eyelids feel as if they're glued shut.
"Porthos, listen to me, you need to wake up now–"
Stop it...
"Aramis."
"Come on, Porthos-"
Leave.. leave me be..
"Aramis, perhaps we should-"
"What? We should what, Athos – it's been three days and he's not so much as twitched! Do you have any other ideas?"
"Calm yourself. You are exhausted –"
"I am. I am exhausted and I am worried - I am worried about his colour, about how cold he is. Unless he wakes up and tells me himself, I won't know if he's hurting, if he is - "
"You have heard what Lemay's said. It can take days to recover from the blood loss, you know this. He lives, Aramis –"
"I'm not content with him being alive. I need him awake. I need him alert; I need him –"
"Aramis." Athos's hand closes on Aramis's wrist. "I know."
There is quiet for a few moments.
"You are not doing anyone any favours. Not least to yourself. Get some air. Talk to D'Artagnan; he must be anxious for news."
"... Sometimes, Athos, your calm is infuriating." Footsteps.
Hesitation.
"I apologise. That was unfair."
"Go."
The door closes.
And quiet again.
The way the dark pulls him back is almost gleeful.
/
It is the third day since Porthos has been attacked, and the rain is still washing the windowpane. The garrison is a world of murky grey behind the dirty glass. The infirmary is quiet, save for the muffled howl of the wind and the crack and pop of the wood in the brazier; the smoke is rising to the ceiling and bending there like a magical rope before streaming out the ajar door. In this room of bizarre architectural mistakes, it is a happy coincidence that ventilation, at least, does not conspire to choke.
Porthos is as prone and pale in the middle cot as he has been on the first day. With two stab wounds to his abdomen, he has lost a substantial amount of blood. His skin is still cold to the touch, his heartbeat steady, but rather slow. There is a pair of huge woollen socks covering his feet that are stuck out of the cot, and just as before, he is not alone.
On the cot beside Porthos, near the window that's stuck between the oddly-angled walls, is Athos, sat with a leather-bound volume in his hands, and a distant look in his eyes. He's not reading; his gaze is tracking something in slow motion just in front of the windowpane. There is pooled wax on the windowsill. Athos watches a waterdrop slide down a stiffly moulded curve, a translucent bead upon waxen yellow, and drip, mute, seeping into the weathered wooden frame.
It is sickly.
An abrupt frustration seizing him, he leaves the books aside and rolls over to stand by the bed, in the dead gap between the cot and the window. This cursed room needs an overhaul – or the infirmary must be moved; Captain Tréville has heard Aramis's frustrated complaints at least twice in the last two days, but as Athos finds a large rag and stuffs it harshly into the corner of the window to stop an annoying draft, he agrees full-heartedly with his friend - this room is accursed.
And it's wearing their patience thin.
On the other side of the room, sat on the stool with his head bowed over the beads in his hands, Aramis does not react. The calm he's declared infuriating this morning has just snapped, but now, the marksman himself is too drained, too preoccupied with Porthos to care. The fact of the matter is, he and Athos have been on a figurative seesaw these past three days. There's a strain: Aramis has almost never left Porthos's side, whereas Athos's frustration kept growing each time he walked in to find the marksman in the infirmary, immovable from the bedside. It is as if they can no longer negotiate space - neither this room, nor the metaphoric one around each other. Something is off.
And there is no wondering what it is, who it is.
Porthos.
Porthos, who's something to Aramis that Athos can never be.
Something to Athos that Aramis can never be.
The centre of their gravity.
If he dies...
That is the forbidden thought.
II.
There's a weight on his arm.
There's a weight on his leg.
He feels awful.
"... Porthos?"
It is an effort, but Porthos manages to lift his eyelids at last, and his sight is immediately filled with Aramis's pale visage: the goatee and the messy hair, a dishevelled shirt and brown suspenders, a furrow on his brow and rings under his eyes. As his eyes focus, relief steals Aramis's breath, and he all but collapses on the mattress.
"'ey," Porthos greets weakly.
"Welcome back. Welcome back." Leaning forward, Aramis takes Porthos's face into his hands and kisses him soundly on the cheek.
"That bad, eh?"
Aramis swallows, closes his eyes briefly, and rallies himself. "Bad enough. How do you feel? Are you in pain?"
"...nah. Cold." Before the word is out, a second blanket is being draped over him. Porthos glances aside - Athos.
"To be expected. Thankfully, nothing a good fire and a hearty meal can't fix. But let me see to that wound first."
Porthos grunts as Aramis peers under the bandages. "You couldn't.. do that when.. I was out?"
"I could.. But then you wouldn't be grunting.. and complaining.. when I find a sore spot, and I wouldn't know if you were hurting."
"So considerate," Porthos grumbles.
"That I am." Satisfied, Aramis pulls down the shirt and smooths the blanket. "The wounds look clean. Let's try to keep them that way. I'll bring you something to eat, but you'll need rest, Porthos. Plenty of it."
"Feels like.. been doin' that.. for days..."
"That may be so, my friend.." A deep sigh empties out the last of Aramis's pent-up stress, leaving him exhausted, and feeling utterly wrecked, "...but at least, now, we all can rest."
Weakly, Porthos plops his hand on Aramis's bent leg. The marksman seizes it quickly into his own hand; then, the pull of sleep is so swift, Porthos doesn't even notice that he fell.
/
When he comes around again, it is with a moan spilling from his lips. There's a deep, stifling ache filling his insides like a palpable thing. Porthos is no stranger to stab wounds but... this is definitely an experience exacerbated. He is given water and he swallows with gratitude, then a wet rag is run over his eyes.
"...'thos?"
"Here, my friend." (How did he know it was Athos, not Aramis, without even full cognition of his surroundings?) "How are you?"
"I 'urt."
"Aramis has gone to confer with Lemay. He'll come bearing pain draughts, I'm sure."
"The vile s'uff?"
"The vile stuff," Athos confirms, lips twitching. "But before that, I am ordered to ensure you eat. Otherwise," he mutters in an undertone as he reaches for the tray by the bedside, "I fear Aramis is going to have my hide."
Porthos finally cracks open his eyes.
"Are you really goin' to feed me, 'thos?" he asks exhaustedly.
"Would you rather I fetch the captain?" Athos drawls, one eyebrow arching. Porthos huffs out a breath.
"Here."
The spoon touches his lips, and damn, it tastes good. A deep, appreciative sound rumbles from him as he devours the soup. It is rich and warm, and there's something sad in the fact that this is not an alien experience to Porthos, the first mouthful after prolonged hunger. Closed as his eyes are, he doesn't see the wiry curl that has settled on Athos's lips.
They don't speak until the soup is finished.
When it is, Athos puts the bowl aside, reaches for a cloth and without thinking, runs it lightly through Porthos's beard. That has Porthos open his eyes and stare. Athos's smile falls, his hand faltering on Porthos's chin. A sudden cold rushes to grab him - an icy draft as if a window's been cracked open.
He is caught.
There is something in Porthos's eyes. A question, outermost. A sliver of wonder, wrapped around a tight roll of concern, ready to unfurl. Athos can't look away, or hide - how, in the span of one breath, their situations have reversed, as if Athos is the one lying in that bed and Porthos is the one sat by his side, is a distant point on amazement's horizon - You alrigh'? is the question being asked. Wonder has already slipped away.
(Athos, after all, is not usually a demonstrative man.)
The concern is unfurling, revealing nothing but assurance and calm as Porthos's hand worms up to lay itself on Athos's wrist, settling there in a feeble perch. There's gentleness in the dark eyes that hold the suddenly timid green.
I'm 'ere, eh?
I'm alrigh', brother.
Everythin's good.
Athos sharply looks away.
It is meant to be steadying, and reassuring, but the direct appeal to his hidden disquiet, wordless, covert and kind as it is, only produces the opposite effect: it stings like an insult instead, salt to his injury, and anger mixes with betrayal to form a thick paste, only to mask deeply ingrained embarrassment, a feeling that thrives in the depths of this man with the cloistered heart.
Because after all these years, that these men – Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan – can see, reach and touch the coldest, lightless corners of his soul, frightens Athos in the very basest way – the sheer vulnerability of keeping an open heart.
He pulls his hand from Porthos's grasp, takes the bowl and the cloth and rises to his feet. "Get some rest," he murmurs, "d'Artagnan should be here soon. I'll come by again in the evening."
And without looking back, leaves the room quickly in long strides.
III.
The corridor is chilly. There is an open archway in the outer wall, opening directly into the courtyard; the infirmary door is just under the stairway. The flame of the lantern on the wall flickers wildly in the wind rushing through the opening. The bricks are painted black with soot, and everything is wet: the flagstones, the uneven threshold, the broom left by the wall, the very air Athos breathes. It is cold.
Slumping against the door he's just closed, he closes his eyes, bowl in one hand, sleeves rolled, and breathes.
Six years of acquaintance, brotherhood, bleeding and sickness, Porthos has never come this close to death. Never lingered quite so long, and Athos has never been this afraid. Calm – the calm that infuriates Aramis – the exterior is for no one's sake but his own. It is protection. His wall - a lesson hard-learned. And yet, this, there is no denying.
These men...
Athos loves these men.
It scares him to realize, in times like this, just how deeply and how fiercely he does.
He doesn't deny it. He embraces it.
He takes deep breaths to gather his calm.
Porthos is awake.
I'm alrigh', brother. Everythin's good.
Straightening his back, he opens his eyes - the lieutenant of the Musketeers, Athos of The Inseperables – and steps out into the rain.
/
"Feeling better?"
"Much. You?"
"Exponentially. Although, for the sake of our remaining sanity, I propose we forbid Porthos from skirting this close to death in the future."
"I agree, my friend... I full-heartedly agree."
A/N: Please don't ask me where d'Artagnan is. I really do not know.