AN: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! It means a lot to know people are actually interested in my writing :)
D'Artagnan was floored. What was going on? Porthos stood in front of him, half supporting Aramis and kissing him like his life depended on it, and Aramis certainly wasn't stopping him. D'Artagnan felt foolish standing there with his mouth open, so he shut it, wondering if everyone had suddenly gone insane. Maybe he'd been hit on the head?
Porthos and Aramis had broken apart, but Porthos hadn't released the other man, instead clutching him tightly to his chest. "I thought you were dead," he said hoarsely, while Aramis buried his face against Porthos's neck.
A splashing sound indicated Athos's arrival. He took in the scene before him, eyes glancing over at Aramis with stark relief before noting the dead bodies and D'Artagnan's shell shocked expression. He walked over and D'Artagnan looked up at him helplessly. "I- they- they just started doing that, and I don't know-"
"Not many do," Athos interrupted calmly, and D'Artagnan stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Not many people know about this," Athos repeated. "Though I suppose you'd have found out sooner or later if you're to be one of us." He clapped D'Artagnan on the shoulder. "Relax. It means they trust you."
He walked over to Aramis and Porthos, who had at last remembered that there were other people in the clearing. Athos too embraced Aramis, though not in the manner Porthos had, and looked him over for injuries while Porthos kept an arm around him protectively, supporting most of his weight. D'Artagnan followed, his thoughts jumbled together impossibly. He didn't know what was going on, but he hugged Aramis anyway, glad to find him alive regardless of who he chose to kiss.
Privately, D'Artagnan was a little apprehensive that Aramis might try to kiss him too, but the older man did nothing of the sort, and D'Artagnan stepped back, feeling slightly relieved as he took a good look at the injured Musketeer.
Aramis was coated in mud, mixed in many places with blood, which made it difficult to assess his injuries. He was visibly shivering with cold. "How in God's name did you survive the rapids?" Athos asked in amazement. Aramis grimaced slightly.
"Honestly, I'm not sure. They bashed me up pretty badly, and when I hit my head I thought I was done for, but then I woke up on the beach and spit out a lake's worth of water." He shrugged, wincing as the motion pulled at his shoulder. "After that I hid out in the trees to wait for someone to come looking. Wasn't sure how far I'd drifted. When I saw you about to get yourself shot too I thought I'd better step in," he said, rolling his eyes at Porthos's wounded expression. "And I lost my hat," he added, looking more put out by that than anything else.
Despite his recent shock, D'Artagnan grinned at his expression and laughed outright when Porthos presented the rescued hat with a flourish. Aramis hissed in pain as he tried to place it on his head, and Athos and Porthos seemed to remember they should probably be checking his injuries. Athos swung his cloak around Aramis's shoulders like a blanket, instructing Porthos to keep him warm and clean him up as best he could in the river. He then told D'Artagnan to fetch the medical supplies from where they'd left the horses.
As he jogged, he tried to sort through what he had just witnessed. He remembered Athos telling him earlier that Porthos had lost friends, but this was different: clearly he had been referring to whatever this was. He recalled Porthos's expression as he looked down at the river, and the change in it when he saw Aramis behind him. D'Artagnan had heard of men who lay with other men, but the Church claimed that they were wicked and damned. He'd been taught that he should feel revulsion, but he didn't. Porthos and Aramis were his friends. He couldn't imagine the larger than life Porthos as a wicked, deceitful creature, nor could he imagine Aramis's God condemning them to Hell for loving each other. And if God didn't judge them, why should D'Artagnan?
Feeling comforted, if not entirely reassured, D'Artagnan grabbed the supplies and hurried back to the others. He re-entered the clearing to find a more or less mud-free Aramis attempting to remove his wet shirt. It was sticking painfully to his wound and his movements were stiff. As D'Artagnan strode over, the shirt came off and he saw why.
A vicious black bruise stretched across Aramis's back from right shoulder to left hip. Athos glanced at him questioningly. "Hit a rock," Aramis informed him tiredly. He looked down at his torso, mottled black and blue. "Make that several rocks."
Athos pressed his fingers to the bullet wound in his shoulder and Aramis hissed in pain. Porthos placed a hand comfortingly on the back of his neck, rubbing gently. D'Artagnan was struck by the gesture. Despite everything he had been taught, it seemed so natural, so right. He was honestly surprised at that moment that he hadn't figured it out sooner. He smiled at the pair as he approached, trying to convey that everything was fine, and Porthos nodded once, understanding.
"Here are the supplies," he said breathlessly to Athos, tired from the run through the forest. He had all but sprinted on the journey back, not sure of the extent of Aramis's injuries. He was relieved to see the only serious wound seemed to be to his left shoulder. He was covered in bruises and cuts, but nothing that looked life threatening.
"Thank you, D'Artagnan," Athos said, rummaging for some bandages. He passed a bottle of something to Porthos, who held it up for Aramis to drink. Grimacing, the smaller man shook his head.
"I've already drank half the river," he joked weakly. "I'd rather not." Porthos shrugged and tipped the bottle back himself.
"That was for the patient," Athos remarked dryly. Porthos shrugged, unconcerned.
"It's been a long day." As he spoke, his hand unconsciously tightened on Aramis's neck as if to reassure himself the man was truly there. "Besides, Aramis hates drinking before he gets stitched up. You knew that when you offered." Athos did not deny it and Porthos grinned. "Therefore, you were really offering it to me." He punctuated the sentence with another swig of wine.
Athos raised his eyebrows in exasperation but didn't respond, threading a needle carefully. When he leaned down to inspect the front of the bullet wound, which had passed cleanly through Aramis's shoulder, Aramis held out a hand. "I'll do the front myself."
Athos glared at him, but it was Porthos who spoke. "You're exhausted, love." D'Artagnan wondered a little at the endearment, but otherwise thought nothing of it. It already seemed commonplace. "Let Athos do it."
Aramis shook his head stubbornly. "You lot stitch like you're missing a couple of fingers," he accused. "I'm not having a great unsightly scar just because I'm tired. I can stitch the front."
"I could do it," D'Artagnan spoke up suddenly. "I'm quite good with a needle. I do all my own mending." Aramis gazed at him for a moment, then met Porthos's worried eyes.
"Oh very well," he said with a sigh. "But if you mess up, I'll be sure to return the favor next time you need stitches."
D'Artagnan was indeed excellent with a needle, though not as good as Aramis himself. It took him only a few minutes to sew up the entrance and exit wounds, as well as a long shallow cut on Aramis's arm that Porthos insisted needed stitches despite Aramis's protests.
As he worked, he watched Porthos out of the corner of his eye. Porthos had moved so he was pressed close against Aramis, who was still shivering. The silence stretched, weighing on D'Artagnan. He felt the need to break it. "I'm amazed you made a shot that perfect in this condition," he said to Aramis.
"The best in the garrison," Porthos informed him proudly. Aramis rolled his eyes. "What? You are!" he said with a rumbling laugh, and Aramis smiled fondly at him.
After he was done, Athos constructed a makeshift sling from clothing requisitioned from the dead bandits and tied up Aramis's arm. "We need to return to the horses before it gets dark," Athos said seriously, eyeing the setting sun. "Can you walk?" Aramis nodded determinedly, so they set off, leaving the bandits where they lay.
Only one chapter left... thinking of doing an epilogue/sequel. Maybe from Aramis's POV? Let me know what you think.