#unedited we die like musketeers on this blog

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Musketeer March, Day 1: Patch

When Aramis enters the room in the barracks that he’s sharing with two other new recruits, he is met by suppressed swearing and Porthos looking like thunder.

The young black man, sitting on his bunk, seems to take up the whole room with his broad-shouldered air of untouchable menace, and when he looks up, his dark eyes glittering, Aramis stops in his tracks.

“Ah…”, Aramis stutters, waves of the other man’s anger washing against him. “Is there a problem?”

In the five days Porthos has been here, Aramis has tried and failed to learn more about his new brother-in-arms. The big Musketeer recruit, about as young as Aramis, has been polite but reserved, wary even of any kind of friendly approach. During practice, he’s turned out to be an incredibly strong fighter, and Aramis suspects that, behind that impenetrable bulwark, he hides a true and good heart, but, so far, Treville’s newest adopted stray has proven immune to even Aramis’ irresistible charme.

And now something is clearly wrong.

“Did you do that?”

Glowering, the big man lifts one of the straps that fastens his fleur-de-lys pauldron to his jacket. One end still buckled, the other one is loose, the thick leather showing a clean cut that must have been executed with a very sharp blade.

“No…” Aramis steps closer, in disbelief. A Musketeer’s shoulder pauldron is sacrosanct, their most cherished piece of uniform. Each of them subtly unique, each pauldron reflects their bearer’s personality as much as it is a badge of honor worn with utmost pride.

“No,” Aramis repeats, genuinely appalled. “Why would anyone do that?”

Porthos snorts darkly. It sounds like an angry bull.

“Take a guess.”

Blinking in confusion, Aramis looks at his new comrade and waits for him to elaborate, but no further explanation is forthcoming. Porthos simply sits there, head lifted defiantly, nostrils flaring, and lets Aramis take him in, all 6’3 of him, looming even when sitting, a mountain of muscle and and sheer brute force, a dark-skinned, curly-haired–

oh…

Seeing the realization in Aramis’ eyes, Porthos snorts again. “Yeah.” That single word sounds bitter.

Aramis opens his mouth to say something, in his defense, in the regiment’s defense. But he’s heard some of the others whisper about Porthos’ ancestry, joke about his dubious parentage, and not in a welcoming fashion. While he’s never entertained similar misgivings about Porthos himself - how could he, of all people - he cannot defend his brothers; so he doesn’t.

Instead, he extends one hand, palm up.

“Give me that,” he says, wiggling his fingers at the uniform in Porthos’ lap.

Porthos curls two suspicious, dark eyebrows. “Why?”

“I can patch it for you.”

One of the eyebrows lifts in surprise. “You can?”

Aramis offers a cautious smile. He can tell that Porthos’ anger is dissipating. He can also tell that there is more hurt than anger underneath the other man’s harsh front. And that a small gap is opening in his armor.

“Yes, I’m as good as any seamstress. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” He gestures at the jacket and pauldron again. “Give me that. It’ll be as good as new.”

For a few very long seconds, Aramis sees Porthos gauge him. Head tilted, eyes dark slits, the new Musketeer pierces Aramis with a gaze full of 19-year-old mistrust and suspicion, and Aramis almost withers under that gaze, but he doesn’t look away.

To his relief, he must have stood the test, for Porthos rises and, with a grunt that may or may not signify acknowledgement, pushes his jacket and pauldron into Aramis’ arms.

“How quickly can you mend it?”

Clutching the heavy heap of studded leather, anxious not to drop it, Aramis hastens to reply.

“You’ll have it back by tomorrow.”

Face still somber, Porthos nods.

“Thank you.”

And that’s all Aramis gets, for now, since the black man grabs his weapons belt from his bunk and simply walks out of the room, straight-backed and proud.

Aramis grins.

For now, that’s good enough.