#like damn. have a kitkat or smth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

general-du-vallon · 6 years ago

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so... way back in November (I just went to find out when) @rhesascoffee asked for a prompt off a list that was passing out in the pharmacy or smth, and... I ... here. Have this. It is half a fic cus the rest of it was too dramatic.

um, WARNINGS: Athos is a recovering alcoholic and anxious and grouchy and I don’t know a whole lot about adiction so im super sorry about that, idk

Athos loves and hates his home. It’s a nice house and he’s by the river and the village is right on the edge of Oxford but still, somehow, weirdly, a village. It has a post office for Christ’s sake. NOWHERE has a post office. It’s twenty god damned seventeen. It also has a Facebook group to be fair. He tries to stay away from that but he’s pretty sure that doing so just makes him more gossiped about. They also have their own tiny little pharmacy and Athos has been going there to get his prescription filled for the last few weeks. Because who doesn’t want the entire village to know one is taking antidepressants? It’s not like he even is depressed. They help him sleep. Not that it’s anyone’s business. Anyway he checked the Facebook page the first few times he picked them up but nothing’s been said so maybe the pharmacist is actually as nice as he seems. Athos stops and blushes.

He’s stood in the middle of the road on a zebra crossing and that is perhaps not the most normal course of action to choose but it doesn’t really necessitate the beeping. Athos walks extra slow on the walk way and stops a few more times, just because it’s HIS right of way and if he IS a bit head in the clouds it’s NOT his fault it is the FAULT of the mother fucking flashback earlier. And, maybe, just maybe, the two glasses of wine. But only maybe. Anyway, he meanders over the zebra crossing (that’ll be on Facebook later) and then marches off purposefully, just to tripply piss people off. He stops in at the corner-shop for cigarettes (the nicotine is in no way good for him but that and the wine are old coping mechanisms and they’re comforting and he doesn’t really give a fuck). The woman behind the till tries to sell him a vape, so he very gently swears at her without thinking.

“Oh goodness,” he mutters, looking down at the countertop. “I am sorry. I have a young cousin who seems to be beginning a cult and I did not mean to take that out on you, ma’am.”

“It’s sir,” the man says, glowering.

“Oh. Right, sorry. Sir. Of course,” Athos says, looking up a moment. He doesn’t usually look much at people. “The eyebrows. Of course.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Athos says. “Only, you have very masculine eyebrows.” There’s silence so Athos hastens on. “They’re lovely. Um.”

“Thanks. I think. So, no vape, just the death sticks.”

“Yes, sir,” Athos says. “Please and thank you.”

“Packet of death sticks coming right up, Athos,” the man says. How does he know Athos’s name? “Everyone knows your name you’re a famous author.”

Did he say anything out loud? Athos looks around and feels paranoia close in. He puts that down to a.) the flashback, b) the excessive amounts of coffee he consumed post freakout in a great big freaking freak out, c.) the wine he drank to try and calm down. He probably just made a shocked face. He pays for the death sticks, waves goodbye to his new friend with the impressive eyebrows, and heads over to the pharmacy. The cheerful but muted bell goes as he steps inside and he’s greeted by the biggest pumpkin ever, sat round and shiny on the counter, a happy face carved in it.

“Good evening!” the pharmacist calls from the back. “Be right with you, help yourself to the cookies! Vegan on the left, nuts in neither but not swearing to that if you swell up like Veruca Salt!”

Athos peers around the pumpkin and finds two plates. He tries a biscuit from each and decides the vegan ones are, somehow, weirdly, better. He eats another two of those before the pharmacist comes out, drying his hands on a tea-towel in a not-very-reassuring way.

“Sorry. Oh, hi Athos,” he says.

Athos is reassured. He is ALWAYS reassured by the pharmacist. He’s big and wide-shouldered and fat and he’s beautiful and he has the warmest welcoming smile and just exudes competence. He looks a bit off today, but then again Athos is a bit off himself so he sets the cigarette box down so he can find his scrip.

“Hello Porthos,” Athos says, remembering the name he was told a few weeks ago, as he roots about.

“It’s on repeat,” the pharmacist says, going over to the computer.

“What?” Athos mutters, emptying his pockets of conkers, pretty leaves, a slim poetry chapbook, pens, ink cartridges for a pen he lost years ago, receipts, bus tickets, a KitKat and a tenner - Athos pauses to be happy about those two finds -

“Your prescription,” the pharmacist says. “Here we go. Yep, came through yesterday, I’ve already filled it. Good.”

“Why is it good?” Athos asks, restocking his pockets (he stows the KitKat and tenner safely).

“Never mind.”

A bag is passed over the counter and Athos sticks that in his pocket too.

“Nice pumpkin,” Athos says, then turns to go.

“Cigarettes,” the pharmacist whispers.

Which is vaguely creepy but Athos takes it in stride because after all it is halloween and smoking is bad and the pharmacist does run a quitters day every week so maybe he’s trying to spook Athos into joining. Athos picks up the smokes.

“Death sticks,” he corrects, idly.

“What?” the pharmacist says, faintly. Probably from confusion. “Oh, fuckitty fuck.”

“It’s not that bad, I don’t really smoke. Just a little,” Athos says, glancing up in time to see the pharmacist go crashing to the floor in an almighty collapse of: himself, the book off the counter, both plates of cookies, and the giant pumpkin. “Porthos!”

Athos puts the cigarette box back down and pushes himself up on the counter so he can peer over. Porthos is already stirring, blinking confusedly up at the ceiling. Athos hesitates, then gets down and walks around the counter, kneeling at Porthos’s side, helping him sit up, picking bits of cookie out of his hair. The pumpkin is intact and the plates are unbroken but the biscuits were less lucky - they’re shattered, bits of them everywhere.

“Sorry about that,” Porthos says.

“Hm,” Athos agrees. It was terribly rude. His lips twitch at the thought. He brushes cookie off Porthos’s funny little pharmacist smock. “Terribly rude of you.”

“Sorry,” Porthos says again, sitting against a wall and closing his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Migraine. Been bugging me all day, suddenly decided to explode.”

“Time to go home, then,” Athos whispers, hoisting Porthos up off the floor. Porthos stares at him when they’re up. “What?”

“You’re strong,” Porthos says, awed. Athos ducks his head and blushes.

Porthos is always doing that, making nice little comments. Last time it was about Athos’s shirt, because it was a nice one and apparently made his eyes incredibly blue. Then there was the one about his hair being luxurious and the one being envious of his ‘beard skills’ and the thing about his fancy shoes and his shoulders. It has maybe been flirting. Athos isn’t sure. Pharmacists don’t usually flirt with him .

“I need to lock things?” Athos suggests.

“Oh. Here, here, just… give me ten minutes then you can walk me home and fuss at me. It’s closing time anyway, in half an hour,” Porthos says.

“Fuss at you?” Athos asks, letting go.

Porthos staggers a little then waves a dismissive hand and vanishes into the back. Athos collects his death sticks and hovers in front of the counter, glaring at anyone walking by who looks like they might come in and disturb whatever is happening out the back. Porthos comes out, bag over his shoulder, in the middle of a glare and laughs which is hardly fair. Athos takes his elbow and steers him to the door. Porthos locks it behind him then offers Athos his elbow again, touching his forehead and rubbing a moment before setting off with a sigh.

“I know this is a small village but I don’t know where you live,” Athos says.

“‘s’fine,” Porthos says. “‘preciate this.”

Athos nods. Porthos doesn’t live far, just up the road and off to the left, toward the river, in a nice little house with a yellow-painted front door and a big brass knocker in the shape of a badger head. Athos winces at it, it’s so bright, but doesn’t comment.

“Thanks,” Porthos says, riffling in his pockets and coming up with keys. “I’d invite you in but I’m gonna just throw up and lie down in a dark room and not move for a year. Give me your number?”

“It’s 128,” Athos says, dumbly. “The house has a name though, I called it Chickens when I was drunk one night and apparently I registered it with the post office another drunk night. So it’s Chickens.”

Porthos stares at him for a long time before grimacing and rubbing his face, giving his head a tiny shake.

“I have no idea what… what? Never mind. Your phone number, Athos,” Porthos says, holding out his phone and wiggling it at Athos.

Athos takes it and punches his number in, adding himself to Porthos’s contacts. He appears in the list under an ‘Airbag’ and ‘Argonauts’, and above a ‘Bear’ and ‘bill’ and ‘breadsticks bill’. He passes the phone back and Porthos stares at for a minute, swallows, leans on the door. Athos takes the keys and unlocks the door for him and Porthos mutters a thank you and staggers in. Athos closes the door quietly behind him and walks away. He goes down to the river to sit and smoke his way through half the pack of death sticks and eat his KitKat. Then he calls Aramis.

“I had a drink,” he says, when Aramis gives his usual, stupid, languorous, seductive ‘hola mi amor’. “I had two. It was only wine. I’m smoking my way through twelve cigarettes. I’ve had six so far. I ate a KitKat too.”

“Hi Athos, nice to hear from you, glad you called,” Aramis says. “Call your sponsor. Then ring me and tell me nice things.”

Aramis hangs up on him, which is quite rude really. Athos calls Treville.

“I had two glasses of wine,” Athos says, when Treville grunts hello. Treville makes an affirming sound which, yeah, when Athos calls it’s always because of a drink because that’s the point of Treville. “I’m smoking twelve cigarettes. That will help. I drank a lot of coffee.”

“You know coffee will only help so much,” Treville says.

“I didn’t want to work out why,” Athos whispers.

“Ok. Where are you?”

“By the river. The wine is still at home. I went to get my meds, the pharmacist fainted dramatically.”

“What do you want to do, if not think about what triggered this relapse?” Treville asks.

“I dunno. Can you come take the wine away? Can you do that, is that a thing you do?”

“No. But I will,” Treville says. “Seeing as what I’m MEANT to do is suggest you ask a friend to do it and I know you don’t have any friends except me.”

“What about Aramis?”

“Is he going to come remove wine bottles for you?”

“No. He hung up on me.”

“Besides which he’s in Chile,” Treville says, dryly. Which is probably more pertinent than the hanging up thing.

“He’s rude.”

“Yes. What else?”

“Smoke the rest of these. Did you hear about the pharmacist?”

“Yes, I was ignoring that particular dramatic pot of worms for the moment.”

“It’s not my dramatic pot of worms, it’s Porthos’s.”

“Anything you want to do other than talk to me about irrelevant pharmacists?”

“Don’t think Porthos would think much of being called irrelevant. No, I don’t want to talk to you at all, I have no choice in the matter though do I?”

“You do as you please, Athos, I’m neither your mother nor your nursemaid. I’m here to help if you want it, if you’d prefer to go back…”

“No,” Athos admits, to himself as well as to Treville. “No. Ok. I had a flashback, I didn’t want to face it, and so I… Did Not Face It. The way I used to not face things. I hid from it.”

“Yes,” Treville says.

“It was nice,” Athos whispers.

“Smoke your cigarettes, take a nap, have something proper to eat in fact I’ll take you to dinner. I know you won’t eat otherwise and you can get out of the house. Come to mine for dinner, I will pick you and your wine up, the wine from the house, you from the river.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“Yeah, better than a bottle,” Treville says.

“Better than Aramis,” Athos says, but Treville’s already hung up. Athos rings Aramis, remembers again he’s in Chile and hangs up on ‘hola mi’. He waits. His phone rings. “You’re in Chile. It’s costly.”

“You have so much money you don’t know what to do with it,” Aramis says. Which is true. Athos hangs up and rings him back. “Athos!”

“Yes, yes,” Athos says because he is being a tiny bit ridiculous. “A pharmacist fainted dramatically when I went for meds.”

“Oh? Oh! Is this the sexy guy who winked at you and made you wet yourself?”

“I did not wet myself. Not that such a thing is shameful, incontinence is a fact of life.”

“I didn’t mean piss I meant-”

“Why are you talking?”

“Is he the winky one?”

“Yes, yes. He winked at me and I may have rang you in a… in a moment of confusion.”

“You were in a tizzy! Ha! Yes these are nice things to tell me. Matthew is a jerk,” Aramis says.

“Your brother is a lovely man who you love very much. If you want to come weep on my sofa when you get home for missing him, you don’t get to complain about him. One or the other remember?” Athos says, which is a deal he made when Aramis was asleep so it might be fair if Aramis doesn’t remember.

“Yes ok, weeping on the sofa is probably better,” Aramis says. “So, why did the hunk faint?”

“He didn’t, he had a migraine I think he just fell over. He said ‘fuckitty fuck’. I supposed he was talking about cookies or somesuch.”

“Cookies?”

“He had cookies. They were vegan and delicious,” Athos says, then he spots Treville coming through the meadow and sighs.”Treville’s here.”

“Alright, that’s good. Is he going to feed you and make sure you sleep?”

“I believe that is his nefarious plan.”

“I’m glad, Athos.”

“Are you really cross with Matthew?”

“Nope, just that I’ve been here three weeks and I am ready to come home and be alone. Without him. For five goddamn minutes YES! MATTY OK ALRIGHT I AM COMING it’s dinner time, Ath,” and then a stream of Spanish

Athos bends over his knees laughing at the way Aramis switches so seamlessly between conversations and remembering sharply how he and Thomas and familial and brothers and he finds he’s not laughing he’s crying.

“Oh shit. Bye Aramis,” he says and hangs up.

Treville comes and drags him to his feet and then into a hug so tight Athos hasn’t breath to cry and anyway he’s safe enough not to need it. Treville lets go and they walk to the car in silence, at least three feet of space between them. Treville gives him a snickers bar and a juice box and drives through the darkening evening back into the city and to his nice terraced house and his nice domestic husband who merely says a warm hello to Athos and indicates his room is ready. Alaman is always like that, he takes Treville’s dramas in stride. Treville takes in waifs and strays and Alaman feeds them. At least Alaman’s daughter isn’t there at the moment, instead living in London and running some rebellious and wonderful magazine while wearing the newest Doc Martins and being political with her girlfriend Ninon.

“Athos,” Treville says. “Food, meds, sleep.”

Athos eats, takes his meds, and goes to bed.

Athos like the Bodleian. It took him a while to find his footing there and not have horrible imposter syndrome that made him want to scream in the middle of the Radcliffe Camera just to make noise. He like the Oxford Professor Aesthetic, though, and sitting in the Bod for hours, especially Upper Reading Room, with the light streaming in the great windows, the quad out there being historic, is great. As is napping there in the weak winter sunshine. That is also aesthetically pleasing. Athos wraps himself in the scarf so big it might as well be called a shawl that Aramis brought back for him this time, and pulls his beanie down and leans back in his uncomfortable chair, arms crossed over his chest, and dozes, his books gathering dust on the desk before him.

Of course he gets signal up here, unlike when he hides underground in the Gladstone Link (it’s term time, down there is full of undergrads now, sweating and tapping at laptops). His phone buzzing on the table is distracting. It’s on silent and it doesn’t vibrate but it lights up and he can just tell it’s still ringing. And then it goes dead and silent and his heart does a horrible tight flip dive thing and he thinks it was probably Treville ringing to tell him Aramis died in an accident or Aramis ringing to say Treville was in the hospital Alaman holding his hand and weeping over him. He sits up and grabs his phone and jabs it with shaking fingers until it lights up for him. There’s an unknown number coming up as a missed call and a text comes in as he watches, from the same. He opens it and doesn’t breathe until he reads the first few words - hi it porthos - then he breathes really really fast and has to put the phone down on its face while he hyperventilates. Finally he gets a drink of water and tries again - hi it porthos wnt 2 gt a coffee? - Oh. That’s not so bad. Athos nods.

Ok. when? Also use whole words please

Nw? im n twn?

No. Words

Now? I am in the city like a gentleman of leisure?

Ok. Blackwells ten mins

Use whole words please

Athos packs up his things, puts his books aside with a note to say he’s still using them and everyone better get their grubby hands off on pain of death (there’s a form he can’t actually say that. Sadly) and hurries down to the Div School entryway. He calls Aramis from under a random statue, rushing until he’s under the old Clarendon building then stopping and waiting for Aramis to answer.

“Hola mi amor,” Aramis seduces.

“I’m being spontaneous. I’m getting coffee with winky. Now.”

“Goodness. Go you. It’s the anniversary Athos, piss off.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. I have flowers for you and I made dinner for later so we can just heat it up, and I got the good blankets out and Harry Potter to watch, and there’s ice cream for afters and I have my ‘cuddling human’ hat on.”

“Right. Good about the coffee. Be calm, you’re nice, he already likes you.”

“Just better not call him winky.”

“Or The Irrelevant Pharmacist.”

“Or that. Love you, be kind to yourself. Bye.”

Athos hesitates before hanging up, listening to Aramis’s breathing, checking he’s ok and not ragged or crying or on the edge of panicking. No, he’s fine, just Athos doing the panicking then. He laughs and clatters down the steps and across the road, dodging a bike and six stupid tourists, and running up the steps into the bookshop. Porthos is stood, peering at a display table, squinting. Athos hurries over and then isn’t sure how to announce himself.

“Need my glasses,” Porthos mutters. “Can’t tell if this is queer or just really colourful.”

“It’s not gay but it has a rainbow,” Athos says.

“Oh!” Porthos jumps upright and spins, nearly knocks over the table, and sits down heavily on the floor looking up at Athos.

“Hi,” Athos says, holding out a hand. He pulls Porthos up to his feet. “Sorry.

“Right, hi, um,” Porthos says. “Oh, you look nice, that’s a good scarf. It looks like you could hide in it. Don’t though, flushed with the cold is a good look on you, you look so alive.”

Athos blushes and glowers, frustrated at the blushing. Porthos smiles and he looks pleased, he probably does this on purpose, getting Athos flustered and blushing. Athos strides to the stairs and up them to the coffee shop, queuing. He takes his hat off and Porthos, at his back, laughs.

“What are you drinking?” Athos asks.

“Cappuccino,” Porthos says. “My treat.”

“No,” Athos says. “I’m rich and stubborn, I pay. Ask anyone.”

Porthos doesn’t say anything but somehow, when it comes time to pay, Porthos gets there first and Athos has no choice but to let it go. He carries the coffees, at least. He can assert his masculinity there. Not that he minds too much about paying but really Aramis is right he has too much money. He should do something with it. For now he sets their things on a table by the window (it’s November and not quite Christmas shopping so it’s not too busy right now) and goes back for cake. Porthos watches him there and watches him back, cheek on his fist, elbow on the table, and he scoots Athos’s chair out with a foot when Athos needs to sit and Athos notices that he, like Samara, wears Doc Martins.

“They’re good right?” Porthos says, proudly sticking his feet out for their surveyance. “Yellow for Hufflepuff.”

“And the door knocker. Damn it,” Athos says. “You’re a nerd.”

“Yep,” Porthos says, smiling proudly. “I’m a Hufflepuff nerd.”

“Ravenclaw,” Athos says, sighing. “I’m Ravenclaw. My friend is obsessed.”

“Right. Your friend.”

“He calls you winky but not like the house-elf just because you winked at me,” Athos blurts out. He grimaces.

“Alright. I am super good at winking,” Porthos says, unphased. “Learnt it from my stepdad. He taught me this, too.”

And then Porthos does the most amazing thing ever. He wiggles one ear, raises an eyebrow, then the other eyebrow, then the other ear, like a wave across his face. Then he winks.

“Wow,” Athos says.

“I’m keeping you,” Porthos says, laughing, looking stupidly fond for someone who barely knows Athos. “If that impresses you, I’m keeping you.”

“I’m not for sale,” Athos says, primly, taking a drink of his hot chocolate (he keeps coffee back, these days, because the caffeine makes him jumpy but also it’s more useful if he doesn’t drink it all the time).

“Can I have a marshmallow?” Porthos asks. Athos blinks at him, realises he got some on a side plate (he’d forgotten he did that, the whole ‘do you want marshmallows’ had confused him). He pushes the plate over and Porthos lights up. Athos feels his own face do a ridiculously fond thing for someone who barely knows Porthos. “I guess I am ok with being kept, if that’s your reaction to a few marshmallows.”

“They’re good! Like tiny fairy pillows,” Porthos says, dumping them in his coffee and waiting a moment before scooping them out gleefully, slightly melted, and making a right mess. “Lovely. Thank you. I have a lot of nicknames, the lads are gonna love winky though.”

“The lads. Your contacts have ridiculous names.”

“Yeah, that’s Charon’s lot, they’re a bit of a bunch of dicks but they get good weed.”

“Should a pharmacist smoke? How do you know I’m not a cop? Is this an in-public conversation?”

Porthos laughs again and shakes his head at Athos.

“You’re not a copper, I know the police. Oh don’t go getting that look, I’m not from a broken home or a bad neighbourhood and my Mum’s alive and well thank you very much,” Porthos says. “No sob story here. My step dad was a cop.”

“The one who taught you,” Athos says, and attempts the face-wave. It does not work judging from Porthos’s hysterical reaction. “So there’s ‘Charon’s lot’ who are ‘the lads’.”

“Yeah?” Porthos says.

“I dunno I was trying to make conversation and divert your attention from my facial gymnastics,” Athos mutters.

“Oh ok. I’ve got Flea, too. She used to be one of the lads, as it were, but then she grew up and decided that, like Hailee Steinfeld, she wanted to be like most girls. Ok I’m being facetious. She and Connie are the best feminists ever,” Porthos says.

“I’m lost.”

“Sorry. My friends,” Porthos says, then takes a gulp of coffee and comes up with froth on his moustache, hands tight around his mug. “I’m a bit nervous.”

“Don’t be. I like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Athos says, relaxing as Porthos goes all shy and uncertain. Athos softens his smile. “You’re nice to me, you haven’t put my meds on the Facebook group, you make vegan cookies that actually taste nice.”

“It’s not that hard you’ve just got to-” Porthos stops. “On Facebook? Jesus, of course not.”

“You’d think that was obvious.”

Porthos is silent for a while, then changes the subject to books, also softening. Athos reaches out and takes his hand and they stay like that for two hours, heads bent close to talk quieter, hands warm in each others. It’s enough for Athos but he worries, as they get up, that Porthos will want to do something like kiss. Porthos just takes Athos’s hand for a moment, then says goodbye. Athos trails back to the library for a few hours before heading home to do some Aramis caring. Aramis is just asleep on the sofa in the middle of the third Harry Potter and Athos is just tenderly covering him up and brushing hair off his forehead and searching his face for wellbeing when there’s a knock on the front door. Athos waits to check Aramis is properly asleep being going to answer it, glaring hard at whoever it is dares disturb Aramis. It’s Porthos.

“It’s late,” Porthos says, stepping back.

“Yes,” Athos says, smiling and leaning on the door frame, deciding the Porthos can knock. As long as he doesn’t wake Aramis.

“You left your wallet at Blackwells,” Porthos says. “I went back for my helmet and found it. Right pair, we are.”

He holds out what is indeed Athos’s wallet. Athos stares at it, wondering how he got in and out of the Bodleian without his card, trying to remember. He might have not had it, he knows most of the guys there, one of them might have let him through if he’d been persuasive enough. He’s done it before, not for at least ten years though. But no, afterall, he has his card slid in his phone case. That’s how he did it, he had his card. His mind manages to recreate the moment from scraps of recall, now. He takes his wallet.

“Surprised you didn’t notice,” Porthos says.

“Oh I’m like that,” Athos says. “I’d invite you in but Aramis is here Grieving.”

“Right, sure, of course,” Porthos says. “No, I wasn’t here to… I heard the capitalization in that. Really?”

“Do not mock me I am a kind and caring friend,” Athos says. Then, softly. “He was a soldier.”

“Ah,” Porthos says, pushing up his sleeve to show off a tattoo. “Me too.”

“That might mean something to him,” Athos says, staring at the inky mark. “Nothing to me.”

“It’s not complex or symbolic, it says Sergeant Du Vallon you plonker. I was a drunk squaddie,” Porthos says, rolling his eyes. Athos looks closer. It does indeed say that.

“Ah,” Athos says.

“I made Lieutenant before getting out,” Porthos says. “They were gonna make me captain but I decided to be a pharmacist instead.”

“Really?”

“No. But that’s how it worked out,” Porthos says. “Tell him I’ll say a prayer.”

“You’re religious?”

“Not particularly, I go Sundays with my Mum though. That’s tomorrow. So I’ll put in a good word for your friend with my friend up there,” Porthos says, then gives a lazy, sarcastic salute and heads off, hands stuck in his pockets, looking like he has a film score in his head for ‘picturesque walking away’.

Athos goes back inside and finds Aramis awake. He sits on the edge of the sofa, a bit shellshocked, and takes Aramis’s hand, strokes Aramis’s hair.

“Porthos is going to put a word in with God for you,” Athos mumbles.

“That’s nice,” Aramis says, around a yawn. “Can I go to bed here?”

“Mm. Mine’s got the hot water bottle in to warm it for you. I’ll be up in a bit with tea?”

“Thanks. You’re good at this, don’t let anyone tell you different ok? Do it your way, it’s a good way.”

Athos smiles and sits up, letting Aramis go. He makes them tea and takes his ipad up so they can listen to BBC funnies and then an audiobook. He sleeps with Aramis, like they used to do as boys at the international school. They’d both moved about and had long periods of nothing but letters but they quite often ended up at the same school again, bouncing around the circuit, Aramis’s Dad a wine merchant and Athos’s military. Athos holds Aramis all night and when Aramis is deeply asleep Athos cries for him, for his lost friends, for Marsac. Mostly for Aramis.

III

“Can you get that, love?” Porthos calls from the kitchen.

Athos is at Porthos’s house. On a week night. Athos is a little baffled by this, it’s not the first time it’s been two months, Porthos likes cooking, but it’s still baffling. And being called ‘love’! (though Porthos has been doing that since their second coffee meeting when he realised it made Athos flush a little). And being asked to open the door! He loves Porthos’s house, though. From its quirky geeky door all the way to its tiny back garden of tangled weeds and overgrown lawn and wild flowers. The carpet in the hallway is red so Porthos feels important, there are photos in frames all over the walls and surfaces, of Porthos’s Mum, his aunt and her wife, his dog when he was little, Charon and Flea in various states of aging. The livingroom is small and attached to the kitchen, only separated by a curtain, the furniture is mismatched and all so comfortable. There’s a little table, with a huge avocado plant on it, that has a horse head and tail and feet. There’s a coffee table with a glass top and fish in blue liquid underneath, just plastic fish floating around like forgotten toys. There’s a small dining table in the corner but it’s always covered in stuff, the two chairs also, clothing and papers and letters and books and every bloody thing. Athos gets up with his wine that is actually grape juice but Porthos could only find a wine glass clean, and goes to answer the door.

“Hello, I’m Flea, this is Constance, and we picked up Treville wandering around the village and brought him along he’s basically Porthos’s Papa and we’re his sisters so,” Flea says.

“I met you last week,” Athos points out, opening the door wider, staring at Treville. “Hello, basically Porthos’s Papa.”

“I thought it better not to say anything. I didn’t realise at first to be fair,” Treville says.

“Thought turning up on the doorstep and startling me a better idea,” Athos says, nodding.

“I didn’t mean to show up on the doorstep,” Treville says, rubbing the back of his neck, then his eyes widen. “Athos.”

“It’s grape juice. Porthos (whose Papa you practically are) does not do dishes,” Athos says, stepping aside.

Constance (who Athos hasn’t met - she looks awesome she has converse shoes) and Flea are watching like this is great TV. Athos blinks until they all file in. They all go to the kitchen and Athos takes a moment in the hall, absently downing his grape juice, before heading through. They’ve all made themselves at home; Flea’s sitting on the counter eating pasta sauce with a spoon out of the pot, Treville’s taken over cooking, Constance is half in the fridge calling out foods and Flea’s calling ‘no’ to each. Porthos is leaning on the counter between Flea and Treville. They’re all talking. Athos, completely overwhelmed, wants to flee, but Porthos catches sight of him and beams a welcome. It’s a tiny kitchen. How they all fit is beyond Athos. He goes to the living room. Porthos follows, calling something back.

“Treville is my sponsor,” Athos mutters, staring at the blue carpet. “And my friend.”

“Oh,” Porthos says. “He’s not great at information sharing.”

“No. Clearly,” Athos says. “You don’t seem shocked.”

Porthos sighs and goes over to the window, opening the curtains so he can look out dramatically. Athos goes to stand beside him, tucking himself under Porthos’s arm and against his side. He’s warm and comforting and it’s reassuring. Athos shuts his eyes.

“My mum dated him for all of four months. They were friends. He got into a parental role by accident, through proximity more than anything. He’s great, when he realised I’d grown attached he stuck around, even after him and Mum drifted apart. But he’s not me Dad, and he’s not good at communicating, and our relationship is… complicated,” Porthos says, resting his cheek against Athos’s head. “He did something a long time ago that hurt Mum. He acted like my Dad without actually being my Dad. He hurt me. He comes and goes and when he’s gone it was hard.”

“Ok,” Athos says.

“Love him to bits, mind,” Porthos says. “Is it gonna interfere with sponsor things?”

Athos snorts. Treville is the most unconventional sponsor Athos has ever had (he’s had a few over the years and across various attempts at sobriety). It might add a complication, but they’ll get by. Or Athos will find someone new.

“Doesn’t matter,” he decides. “We’ll sort it, either me and him or me and someone else. This comes first.”

“Um,” Porthos says.

“Not before my well-being you twat,” Athos says, elbowing him.

“Ow. Just making sure. I’ve seen you and Aramis off on a gloom-streak remember,” Porthos says.

Which is fair enough. That had been an Afternoon.

“Also, twats are wonderous beautiful things, so thank you for the compliment,” Porthos adds, distracting Athos from That Afternoon.

“Sorry,” Athos says, a little sheepish. Porthos has Opinions about Cunts. “Are we going to be social?”

“Wasn’t really planning on it,” Porthos says, lips twitching.

“Dinner!” Flea yells from the kitchen.

Constance throws the curtain dramatically aside and Treville brings the pasta through in a big pot, Flea brings garlic bread, Constance brings salad. They sit on the floor around the coffee table and eat in more-or-less companionable silence. At once point Flea reaches over to squeeze the back of Porthos’s neck in an affectionate move that settles something in Athos. Seeing Porthos connected to people is nice. It reminds Athos of Aramis. When they’re done eating they get stiffly to their feet, Treville cracking his back and grumbling about Porthos’s lack of proper dining options, and take various soft-furnishings. Athos is slow and ends up stood a little awkwardly. Constance clears a kitchen chair for him and offers it with a flourish.

“Or you could sit on me,” Porthos suggests, patting his thigh.

Athos blushes and sits on the kitchen chair, unable to keep from being prim and keeping his knees neatly together, hands neatly resting on them, sitting up too straight. Constance laughs but Porthos looks stupidly pleased about it as if it’s something wonderful, Athos being a weirdo. It goes ok, the surprise of Treville showing up slowing eking away. Athos ends up on the sofa with Treville, their feet up on the sofa, drinking strong coffee and talking politics (nights usually ended like this but with whiskey, thus the coffee, though it’s not bad tonight per se. Just habitual). Porthos and Flea paint their nails or something, Constance watching and taking pics and videos for instagram. Athos tunes out quickly of that chaos and leaves them to it. He feels a little light headed but he’s sure he’s far less caffeinated than he should be by twelve am if he’s been drinking coffee for these past hours. He takes his mug suspiciously and peers into it, then narrows his eyes across the room at Porthos, who is making silly faces into Constance’s phone camera. He notices Athos’s gaze and looks up, goes all wide eyed startled, then puts on the most innocent look. He holds a hand up to his mouth, a barrier between him and Athos, and whispers something into the camera then does lofty innocence. Athos gets his phone out and checks instagram. There’s Porthos, same innocent look from another angle. Athos presses play:

Uh oh my boo just noticed I’ve been switching his coffee out for decaf gotta be mr innocence himself, followers. Shhh.

Athos scrolls through the comments. They say things like ‘I ship it’ and ‘who is mr mystery, mr innocence?’ and ‘when will we meet this mystery boo!’. Athos firms his mouth and looks over at Porthos again. Porthos’s lips twitch. Athos watches it on the video story and likes the way Porthos’s eyes get crinkles.

Boo is reading your comments stop he is sending death glares

The comments start at ‘aww’ and go from there, ending on ‘I want to sit on your face PhantasticPharmacist’. Athos blinks at that one.

Guys, my boo is sat right there reading your dirtinesses. Come on internet, be good for me. Ok I’m peacing out, do nice nail art and tag me so I can see! Goodnight.

Porthos blows the camera a kiss and it blinks out. Athos scrolls idly through Porthos’s insta for a while. He hasn’t looked before but now it seems Porthos is internet famous. Or at least a little. He has followers, anyway. A couple of hundred of them. His insta is mostly pictures of his nails, Flea’s nails tonight, Constance’s hair, a make up tutorial video. Athos clicks a link in the bio to YouTube and clicks on the first video.

“No, don’t-” Porthos says, as the first strains of sound emit from Athos’s phone. It’s too late, though.

Athos watches in fascination as Porthos, in odd lighting, peers into a bulb-frame-lit mirror, starting to do his make-up. It goes on in silence for a few seconds then sound buzzes and cracks like the beginning of a record, and then a strung out feminine voice starts to sing, wordless, cracking, and underneath it a deeper voice, also feminine, weaving ‘If I were a Boy’ by Rhianna into the wordless notes. The video switches sharply to Constance, sat on a toilet with a small mirror touching up her lipstick and examining her hair.

“What?” Athos says.

“It’s a music video,” Porthos says. “Um, yeah. You can stop now.”

Athos turns it off, as requested, but not before Porthos sings along in the mirror, glittering his cheekbones.

“That’s so cool,” Athos breathes, looking at the video, frozen on Porthos with his eyes shut doing eyeshadow. “That… is so cool. You’re YouTube people!”

“No. Flea and Constance do music and rope me in now and then,” Porthos says. “I mostly rant about films on that.”

Athos pokes the back button and sees, as Porthos says, a list of film names with exclamations, ‘@’ signs, ‘~’, ‘#’, ‘$’ and more in various awful combinations of keysmash or Asterix and Obelix style swearing. He so badly wants to watch one, but Porthos doesn’t seem to want him to so he doesn’t. Even though there’s a rant about Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, which was awesome and terrible and conflicting and Athos badly wants to hear Porthos’s opinion.

“I should get going,” Treville says, stretching. He claps Athos on the back, gets up and kisses Porthos’s hair, then wanders out.

“Bye!” Constance calls, settling in.

“Yep, see you!” Flea calls, also pointedly getting comfy.

“Oh piss off,” Porthos says. “There is going to be no drama for you vultures to watch. Go make Athos more decaf coffee.”

“I think I’m good actually,” Athos says, lips twitching. “Though I am far more sleepy than I planned to be and it’s freezing outside, do you mind if I crash here?”

He’s slept on the sofa once before (after That Afternoon - Porthos had been baffled but accommodating). He likes it, it’s comfortable; he’s short, it fits him.

“Yeah if you want,” Porthos says, looking pleased. Athos’s lips twitch. “Alright. Athos is ready for bed, so I’m kicking you two out.”

Flea and Constance, terribly entertained for some reason, nudge and cajole as Porthos flaps at them and busies them toward the front door. They spill out onto the drive laughing, running to the car. Porthos gets busy making faces and giving the finger to Flea and Constance who have the interior lights on and are clearly still laughing hysterically. Athos, cold, reaches around him and shuts the door on the chaos.

“Oh, right,” Porthos says, turning, smiling. “Cold.”

“Yes,” Athos says. “I’m happy on the sofa.”

“Don’t be daft, I am gonna take you to bed and ravish you,” Porthos says.

“I’m ok with that,” Athos says. “But maybe slower.”

“Slow ravishings. Got it,” Porthos says, nodding solemnly before grinning again. He reaches out, though, and goes all tender and gentle, fingers touching Athos’s cheek, nudging his chin up till Athos looks right at him. “Slow as you like.”

Athos nods, embarrassed. Porthos pulls him into a hug and mutters some things Athos doesn’t catch, then bounces a little and pulls back to look at Athos. He grins conspiratorial and takes Athos’s hand, leading him up the stairs. There are more photo frames wonkily hung on the way up, a bendy distorting mirror at the top (Porthos pauses to pose and make faces), and then the hallway is lined with framed posters from concerts, plays, films. Athos wants to mooch and nose at all of them but Porthos is flinging open doors dramatically to announce ‘bathroom’, ‘airing cupboard’, and then he holds a door for a second and wiggles his eyebrows at Athos. ‘Bedroom’, he whispers, stupidly seductive. Athos’s lips twitch and Prothos gives a little laugh and opens the door. The room is… messy. Clothes on the floor, a pile of teetering books on a desk, an open wardrobe. The bed’s unmade but looks inviting and warm, and quite clean. The curtains are open and Athos can see quite well. He looks at the walls, looking for more photos or posters.

There is one. It’s A2, framed next to the wardrobe. It’s a picture of a flower. Or… not. Athos tilts his head and reaches to put on the light. Definitely not. There are labia. And a clitoris. There’s writing all around it in a pretty swirl: Proud Cunt Owning Men! And little black stick figures. Athos stares at it for a while, then moves on. There are a few costume designs pinned up, lovely inky lines and fluffy spreading watercolours, elongated necks, high heeled shoes, sequins, black scribbly writing and arrows. Athos moves closer to one, then another.

“Did you do these?” he asks.

“Yeah, for our drag show,” Porthos says, sitting on the bed and pulling off his jumper and t-shirt. “Heating should come in for a bit around now, will you be warm enough?”

“Sure,” Athos says, turning away from the wall adornment and back to Porthos.

“Are you gonna watch me undress?” Porthos asks, shifting.

“Do you want me to?”

“No,” Porthos says, grimacing and looking down at himself, arms around his body.

“You’re lovely,” Athos says. “Beautiful. Wonderful. You look incredible. Do you have anything I can wear as pyjamas?”

Porthos gets him a really big soft t-shirt with ‘Who’s the Huffliest? This guy’ written across it, a picture of a badger swaggering, and a pair of boxers. Athos goes to change in the bathroom, awkward and a bit humiliated about that. When he gets back Porthos is wearing grey cotton pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that says ‘I be Hufflin’’ and another badger. Athos smiles.

“‘puff pride,” Porthos says, eyes on the carpet, hand rubbing the back of his neck. He looks up and meets Athos’s eyes all of a sudden, chin tilting up in desperate pride. “I’m not ashamed of my body, I don’t mind being naked with you, I’m just not ready yet. I won’t… I’m not ashamed.”

“Oh. I thought,” Athos says, then laughs. “I’m not ready yet, either, I thought I was hiding from you.”

“I thought you were giving me privacy,” Porthos mutters. “Should’ve known you weren’t that observant.”

“Hey,” Athos says. Though, fair enough, he doesn’t notice everything. “Can I watch your YouTube videos some time?”

“Sure,” Porthos says, sighing and sitting on the bed. “Not ashamed of that, either. Just that I’m out everywhere, you know? I dunno what I’ve told you.”

“No idea,” Athos says, sitting beside him. “Told me about what?”

“I’m trans.”

“Oh. Me too, what a quinkydink,” Athos says, sarcastically. “I know that, Porthos. Duh.”

“Oi,” Porthos says, sounding hurt.

“You told me,” Athos says, poking him, exasperate. “I don’t know what to do with touchy Porthos.”

“Hey,” Porthos says. “I’m not ‘touchy’. Just uncertain, give over would you?”

“I’m uncertain too,” Athos snaps, then feels sheepish. “it makes me abrasive. Sorry.”

“What an evening,” Porthos mutters. “Ok. Shall we… lie down?”

“Are you ready to sleep?”

“Not really,” Porthos says, laughing. “Are you?”

“No.”

They end up lying on Porthos’s floor and smoking weed. It’s a vice that Athos is actually ok with and not addicted to. It just makes him limp and giddy, lying on the floor among Porthos’s things is lovely, listening to Porthos rambling on and on and on about Hufflepuff house and Newt Scamander who he was so sure was Arabic and probably Iranian but who he still loved and Cedric who is so good at quidditch and didn’t really die it was all a trick and Professor Sprout the absolute best lesbian in the world and probably dating Madam Hooch and on and on and on. Athos shifts so he can rest his head on Porthos’s stomach and feel the rise and fall of his breathing as he talks and smokes. Athos falls asleep somewhere between the Many Lesbians of Hogwarts and the Fat Friar who is probably only the best ghost in the whole entire universe. Porthos wakes him, later. It’s dark and the warm.

“Bed time,” Porthos sing songs, pressing kisses to Athos’s cheeks.

“Carry me,” Athos suggests, lifting his arms and crooking his knees.

Porthos snorts and refuses to do that even though Athos is ever so little and light as a feather. Athos ends up on his feet, Porthos still curled on the floor. Athos hauls Porthos up and Porthos suggests Athos carry him and goes boneless and giggly. Athos drags him over to the bed and they collapse onto it. They wriggle under the duvet, Porthos still vibrating with giggles, and then Porthos starts snoring loudly, lying in a great sprawl on his back. Athos pokes him until he lies on his side. He expects Porthos to be a snuggler, but he’s not; he leaves Athos half the bed and Athos falls asleep too. In the morning Athos discovers that Porthos is after all a snuggler, he just migrates and octopuses in his sleep: Athos wakes up encompassed, squashed, embraced, Porthos’s breath hot on the back of his neck.

“Are we going to do talking?” Porthos asks, over coffee.

He has coffee anyway, Athos has orange juice and toast doing the not caffeine thing again. Porthos is eating an orange, leaning against the sink. He’s dressed and showered, did that almost as soon as he woke up, disentangling himself a little embarrassed.

“I don’t,” Athos says, clipped, watching him.

“Only, that’s stupid,” Porthos says. He makes a rabbit face at Athos. “Sorry I cuddled you without checking. I was unconscious though so you can hardly be mad.”

“I’m not,” Athos assures.

“Ok. Do you like it? Is that what you want?” Porthos asks. “In the daytime, too?”

“I am having breakfast,” Athos says, and finishes his toast in silence, refusing to answer Porthos’s questions.

When he’s eaten he gets up and leaves quickly. It’s not until he’s home that he realises he’s still wearing Porthos’s t-shirt.

Athos is lying by the river, in the grass. It’s cold but he’s got a good coat on. He could lie on the ground at home where it’s warm but Porthos might find him there and Athos is still humiliated after running away in the morning, two weeks ago. Not that Porthos has contacted him or tried to get in touch in any way. Ok that might be a bit of the problem. He can’t call Treville to complain like he usually might. He could call Aramis but Aramis, on the run up to Christmas, is deeply unhappy and could probably do with a break from Athos Drama. Or maybe Athos Drama is just what he needs, as a distraction. Athos is considering this, looking through Aramis’s tumblr (many many reblogged gif-sets of Chris Evans and Chris Hemsworth and Hamilton stuff), when someone comes and lies down beside him. It’s Porthos, obviously, because who else would find him in a field in freezing November and lie down next to him?

“I’m sorry,” Athos says.

“Yeah,” Porthos says, sighing. “I wasn’t looking for you you know.”

“No?”

“I was walking,” Porthos says, shrugging. Athos feels him shrug.

“I can ignore you if you like,” Athos says.

“Doing a good job of that,” Porthos says. “You have my t-shirt, I like that one.”

“You shall have it back,” Athos says. “Are we breaking up?”

“How am I meant to know? You haven’t said a word to me since I asked if you like cuddling,” Porthos says.

“I did, I told you I was eating breakfast,” Athos defends. It’s pretty weak even to him. “I’m hopeless at this.”

“I don’t care,” Porthos says, indignant and frustrated, Athos can hear it. “And don’t you sigh at me like that. I get that you have had this reaction before and it’s nothing new to you. It’s new to me and I’m allowed to react to you ignoring me.”

“It’s not like you texted or anything.”

“It was my duty to text, was it? Me who owed you an apology? Who ran off with a demand that we Never Ever Talk,” Porthos grumbles. Then huffs. “You’re meant to care for me. That’s all it is; caring. You know how to do that.”

“I do?”

“If you don’t I’m not teaching you,” Porthos snaps.

“Fine,” Athos snaps right back.

“Fine,” Porthos returns.

“I do care for you,” Athos mutters, grumpily, into his coat collar. “I just don’t know how to… talk about it.”

“Then find a way to communicate it to me. A way that includes not running away when I ask your consent for something. I, by the way, do like cuddling. You never asked. I liked sleeping with you, you never asked that either. I was ok, that morning, feeling a bit scared but ok. You didn’t ask. You didn’t ask me anything, Athos.”

“You need a litany of questions?”

“I need you to check in,” Porthos says. “I need us to be clear about consent and intimacy. I need to be able to ask you things, when I’m uncertain.”

“Well maybe,” Athos snaps, then stops. Why is he even arguing this? He’s been waiting for an opportunity for the past fortnight and now he’s fucking it up by scrunching up defensively. “Maybe I should apologize.”

“I don’t want to make you do things.”

“No. I am sorry, actually, I’ve been waiting for you to get in touch so I could tell you. I thought perhaps you needed space, I can see now I should have let you know I was giving you space, not just made assumptions,” Athos says. “I do like cuddling but only pre-arranged. No stealth hugs. In the day time. Night time, if we’re sleeping together that is consent for hugs.”

“Promise,” Porthos says.

“Are you ok?” Athos asks. Porthos snorts. “Now. For real.”

“Yes,” Porthos says, softly. “I’m ok.”

“Good. Shall we walk?”

They do, to Iffley lock and then turning back on themselves, still wanting to be together, and heading toward Sandford the other direction. Porthos reaches tentatively for Athos’s hand and Athos gives it to him, then remembers what Porthos said about needing verbal assurance when he was uncertain (that’s what Athos thinks he meant, anyway).

“I am ok with stealth hand holding,” Athos says.

Porthos smiles at him, face a bit pinched with emotion. Athos shakes his head and stomps on a bit, then comes back and allows the intimacy, allows himself to be a little tender, allows Porthos to be whatever he is. They stand close, holding hands, until Porthos’s breathing steadies, then they walk on. Caring for Porthos isn’t, afterall, so difficult, Athos decides. He likes it, he really likes it, his heart feels big as he stops again to let Porthos, distracted by looking at something, catch up. He touches Porthos’s chest and then his cheek and Porthos smiles bemusedly at him. They walk onwards.

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