#unless he went to calmer places in the countryside

[messy-crisantemo]

I just realized I never posted my Mexican Giyuu here. His VA is coming to Mexico so I gave him some traditional clothing~

[general-du-vallon]

for @rhesascoffee  who also prompted: freaking out cause I thought you were dead. Athos and Aramis, canon, and seeing as I made @myhamsterisademon share their lil fic, this is also for them, you guys gotta share everything lol. It is angsty so I figure you’ll like it a bit guys :) 

WARNINGS: porthos is hurt, ppl think he is dead

 Porthos pats Mercredi’s neck and rests his cheek against the muscle there, in her mane, resting again. He hopes she knows where she’s going because he doesn’t. He’s trusting her to bring him to safety. He opens his eyes again, struggling against the cut that’s been re-opened, so old now he barely remembers it. Or had barely remembered, he remembers now, the fresh pain reawakening the old. He shuts his eyes again and trusts his horse. She’s been plodding along for days now, head bent, resting now and then standing still and panting, heat rising off her keeping him warm. He has a feeling that they’re just wandering the countryside of France. They were too deep in the front for people to live around here anymore. It’s just burnt and destroyed land. Porthos lost his sense of where they might be or where they are going a long long time ago. Mercedi lets out a soft whinnie and Porthos hums to her, clicks his tongue at her the way he knows d’Artagnan does, hopes she knows whatever is coming she’s not on her own. She bumps into a trot and Porthos, jogged and rocked, clings to her and tries to keep breathing.

 There’s a terrified cry as Porthos’s grip spasms and he slides off the horse with a hard painful thump. He decides that Mercredi will have an easier time running from whatever it is that’s approaching without him and lies still, hoping whatever Spanish are here will think him dead and leave him be, leave him to rest. Mercredi is gone, off, safe. Porthos wishes he could have seen Athos once more, or lots more. Lots more would have been nice.

 “He’s alive!”

 Yeah, Porthos thinks. Just about. The cry was in French, he hopes that bodes well for him and Mercredi. There’s a thunder of hooves and then whinnying and then… He hears Athos’s warm voice, his dry sarcasm shaking with fear, feels his touch. His hands are familiar and Porthos breathes into them. Porthos supposes this is what dying feels like. At least he’s dying France. At least dying feels like Athos holding him. He presses his face to the rough cloth and lets out his breaths.

 “Hello,” Athos says, shaky, laughing. “Aramis.”

 “Yeah, yeah, I… yeah. There’s a lot of blood Ath, I can’t… I need a knife, supplies, water… the house. Get him to the house.”

 These French are good men, Porthos decides. He breathes again and decides that he can let Athos go for now, let go of death so he can see Athos for real again. He lets go and falls back to the earth, shuddering, and pries his hurting eyes open, looking up at the grey sky. At Athos’s wobbly, wavering face. Porthos reaches out, astounded, but his arms aren’t working. He tries to make Athos’s name, but it doesn’t come. He laughs, a cracked, broken thing: it really is his Athos there, it really really is! Mercredi brought him home, that was Jeudi whinnying. Mercredi found Jeudi and Athos and here is Athos. Porthos laughs, and faints.

 *

Later, Porthos thanks God that he was out for the stitching. Aramis puts tiny delicate stitching through his eyelid and Porthos shudders to think of it. By the time he’s awake he’s got a bandage folded over his eye and his good eye opens more easily. His face is bruised from the blow, his head aches, but he can just about see which is an improvement. He doesn’t even think about his body yet, his shoulder and back and thigh. His side hurts where the sword got between his armour but he is swimming in wine and able to ignore it. The bed is soft. He lets his fingers rest on the cool sheet and gazes at the blurry window, the soft light curtains there. He can hear rain. Sylvie moves into his line of sight, a baby held against her. Porthos smiles.

 “I should let Athos know you’re awake,” Sylvie murmurs, touching Porthos’s cheek in just the place it hurts least. “But I think we’ll let him sleep. He’s been keeping watch over you.”

 He does that. Porthos wonders where Athos is, he must be close he wouldn’t sleep unless he was close to Porthos. Porthos tries to move and his body shivers, pain singing across the expanse of his skin, twisting his muscles, aching him bones. He stills. He knows where Athos is now. He smiles. Athos is at his back, of course, warm and careful with Porthos’s hurts. Porthos concentrates on focussing on Sylvie so he can get a look at the child. He doesn’t know, he realises. Last time he was here this child was mere hours old and had no name. Now she’s big with a cloud of hair, head back on Sylvie’s arm as she sleeps, little mouth open. Porthos wants to ask but all that comes out is a soft rushing sound and a little flood of tears. Sylvie touches his cheek again, face open and questioning; she reaches for Athos, then around the room a little, small gestures, then glances at her child and rests a hand on that cheek too and catches a look at Porthos’s face.

 “Oh. You barely met her, did you?” Sylvie says, and sits, resting the little girl on her thigh in the crook of her knee so Porthos can see, can watch her wriggle to a comfortable place, lips smacking. “She’s hungry, she’ll wake soon. Just like you, sometimes, Porthos. We named her Perette, we call her Pipin.”

 Athos used to call Porthos ‘Pipin’ sometimes, in the early days when Athos didn’t really do much affection. When he was feeling fond he’d call Porthos ‘Pipin’ and touch his cheek and laugh.

 “Athos says he calls her Pipin for you,” Sylvie says.

 Porthos sleeps. He dreams of Marie-Cessette, his little pale child, the blond white of her like a bright moon, and Pipin, like the sun. He wonders where Marie-Cessette is, can’t find her when he wakes. He’s supposed to be home and she should be here or close by but he can’t hear her or see her, and when he tries to open his eyes only one comes. He sees Athos’s face right by his and starts a little.

 “Hello,” Athos says.

 Porthos remembers where he is. Marie is in Paris with Elodie and Constance, well cared for. He’s given her a good life and he’ll see her soon. Here is Athos now, which is safety. Porthos rests his eyes.

 “What happened?” Athos asks, sounding all scrunched up about it.

 “I fell,” Porthos remembers, the mud and grit and blood, the rain. “Mercredi came.”

 “We thought you were dead,” Athos whispers. “Aramis came, we were grieving. Elodie wanted to stay in Paris to make sure you were… d’Artagnan stayed with her.”

 “I’m not dead,” Porthos marvels.

 He is asleep again, though. Athos’s hands are gentle and his body is warm. The bed is soft and Porthos is safe. He is not dead. Mercredi brought him to Athos and Jeudi, he can sleep now. His dreams are full of music and when he wakes Sylvie’s by the window, singing to Pipin, to Perette. She turns and smiles at Porthos, continuing to sing, and brings the baby over resting her on the bed. She sits staring at Porthos, face wet with tears.

 “See? It’s not so bad as all that,” Sylvie says, to Perette. “She woke up and Athos was not here.”

 Athos isn’t here, either. Porthos stares back at Perette and the little girl laughs, tipping forward onto her face in the bed, lying next to Porthos and reaching out to the air like she can see him, tiny hands against Porthos’s beard and chin and shoulder. Sylvie laughs and reaches to lift her away. Porthos rests a hand on the child’s waist keeping her in place and Sylvie snorts.

 “Alright, she can stay with you. I will go find her wandering Papa, he went to see Aramis,” Sylvie says. “And then I am leaving you men to it, I’m going to the village, I’ve been putting it off but we need that kitten. The mice are out of control.”

 “Are you taking Pipin?” Porthos asks, voice a stringy whisper. Sylvie snorts again and shakes her head, not answering beyond that. Porthos is content.

 He lies with the baby against him and keeps her happy by letting her wriggle about and pull herself up on his shoulder to sit and rest against him and stare at him, hands in his hair and beard. Athos comes slipping in and sits, watching.

 “Aramis?” Porthos asks.

 “He’s… afraid,” Athos says. His voice is as hoarse and strung out as Porthos’s. Porthos looks up in surprise and Athos’s smile is ever so wobbly.

 Porthos sleeps again instead of working things out. He dreams about sunshine and meadows and beauty, the dark rich earth and the thickly warmed air, summer and pollen and Athos’s hand in his, Aramis’s arm on his shoulder, laughter. He wakes up and sees Athos holding onto Aramis by the window, keeping him in place. Aramis is talking, voice high and panicked, his arms are up and Athos is hanging onto his forearms to keep him from bolting.

 “You need to see him, Aramis,” Athos says. He’s crying. “Please, please, he’s here, I need you tell me he’s here, he’s really here.”

 “I can’t I can’t I can’t,” Aramis gasps for breath. “I can’t I can’t I-”

 Porthos tries to move and the pain tightens up screws all through him until he can’t help but make whatever sound is slipping between his teeth, unguarded, helpless, like a small child. Aramis rushes to him and his hands are in Porthos’s hair, cradling his face, his tears hot against Porthos’s skin, his gasped words incoherent. Athos comes calmer with wine and his hands against Porthos’s body ease the pain a little. Aramis is whispering prayed in a creaking painful voice. His face is swollen and incredibly pale. Porthos looks at Athos and he too is far far whiter than usual, his eyes a little sunk. Porthos stares at them.

 “We thought you dead,” Athos says, words succinct and clipped.

 “You are going to get well now,” Aramis says, through weeping, forehead resting against Porthos’s sore shoulder, his tears wetting the bandages, the skin of Porthos’s arm. Porthos sleeps and dreams of rain.

 He does get well. Slowly and achingly. He sleeps a lot and he doesn’t understand things around him, he falls into fever and then clambers out of it, to Athos and Aramis, and he sleeps. He hurts and aches and the pain is deep, deep in him, eating away at him and his endurance until he cannot sleep but cannot wake, somewhere sharp and too bright-light between the two, and then Marie-Cessette comes and Pipin comes and they sleep hot little bodies with him, his babies, his children. Elodie is there sometimes, floating, and Aramis comes and weeps and prays, and d’Artagnan sits in the window and watches Porthos while cleaning his guns, sharpening his knives. Constance sits on the bed and reads books to Porthos, reads him reports, laughs. And Athos, Athos sleeps curled with Porthos, his body is usually there, warm and quiet and comforting. Sylvie brings food and warm broth and teas that ease, she’s impatient but kind, she smells like the earth outside when she’s been working, warm sunshine. They circle him and sometimes he feels they are vultures.

 One morning he wakes alone. It is morning, the chill tells him so, the light through the curtains that d’Artagnan left open last night when he was looking out. Porthos stretches a little and he can do that now. He can also see with his one eye, can focus properly. He sits up, he’s done that before also. He swings his legs off the bed and thrums with pleasure at not having people rush at him twittering and pushing him back, urging him to rest. He gets up and stands, shaking and trembling and unsteady but up on his feet. He grips the chair and uses it to help him to the window and throws it open, breathing deeply, deeply, thrilling at the fresh air. He laughs and laughs, leaning into the wall. His noise brings Aramis, who exclaims in joy and comes over, Porthos turns and embraces him, face in Aramis’s long hair.

 “I need a shave,” Porthos says. “Please.”

 “Will you let me?” Aramis asks, pulling away to cradle Porthos’s face, thumb against his beard, fluttering over his bandaged eyes. “Yes, yes, you will let me. Will you sit down please? I think you are going to fall over.”

 “I think I might,” Porthos agrees, and sits heavily and painfully on the chair, nearly missing it, glad he didn’t: that hurt enough without tumbling to the floor. Aramis laughs. “Where is my horse?”

 “She’s out with Jeudi,” Aramis says.

 “You’ll need to get water. Cold water, please,” Porthos says. “No more tepid warm water I beg you.”

 Aramis goes, dashing from the room and dashing back with a bowl and a razor. He kneels and cradles Porthos’s face again, pushing up to kiss him affectionately.

 “I did think you gone,” Aramis says. “I couldn’t feel you.”

 “I know,” Porthos says. “Mercredi brought me home. She saved my life.”

 “Yes,” Aramis agrees.

 He shaves Porthos with such care and gentleness and weeps over him. Porthos sits, resting, and then asks for Athos to come. Aramis goes to get him and Athos comes and they are alone. Athos helps him to the bed and Porthos sits, Athos stands before him. Then Athos shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath and wraps himself around Porthos, tilts his head back and kisses him, tongue and lips warm after the cold water, hand holding Porthos steady, fingers in his hair, against his cheek, everywhere.

 “I’m alive,” Porthos whispers against Athos’s lips.

 “You are,” Athos agrees.