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D'Artagnan had never been drunk in his young life before he journeyed to Paris to join the Musketeers. And any previous meetings with alcohol paled before the onslaught of their celebrations at the end of that fateful day. The day he became a Musketeer, at last, and gave his father's spirit peace.
But there was a lot of celebrating going on all over Paris. It couldn't be avoided if you were alive, and had the money to buy something. And even when the money ran out there were enough people around to buy a glass for the young man who'd saved the life of the King.
Finally, after many streets and many glasses, he found himself with Porthos in a noisy corner of some greasy tavern. Delirious delight had been swamped under the exhausting toll of the beer and wine he'd taken so that he could barely stand. The faces around him wobbled and a small part of his mind that hadn't succumbed told him he'd probably be very sick in the morning. If he made it that far.
He reached out to grab Porthos' arm, but a tankard half full of beer got in the way. Porthos looked down at the mess spreading across his lap and then up at D'Artagnan. His teeth showed below his moustache in an unhappy snarl.
"Boy...these are my best trousers, given to me by the Emperor of China...."
D'Artagnan frowned, a bit lopsidedly. "The Emperor of ...?"
"China. Something wrong with that?"
The youngest and newest Musketeer knew it had something to do with ... something, but he couldn't remember what it was. "Where are Athos and Aramis?"
Porthos shrugged and drank some more beer. "Said they might join us later, at the Swinging Door. Probably not, though. Athos looked ready for a very heavy night. I think our friend had the need to do some soul searching, and Aramis is the one to do it with."
D'Artagnan had seen the pain that lay in Athos' eyes, the ever present legacy of Milady, his late wife. He had gone to the bottom of the cliff that she had thrown herself from, to give her a Christian burial. And Aramis had stayed with him, to say the appropriate words. D'Artagnan wished he'd known what to say but "sorry" seemed completely inadequate. It was hard to think of the right words for a man who'd lost the one woman he had ever loved.....
* * *
It puzzled Athos, the way he could drink mug after mug of dreadful wine without losing consciousness. Other ordinary, more blessed men could take a jug and spend the night happily snoring under a tavern table. But no matter how he sought it, the darkness eluded him. The Lord, it seemed, had given him a propensity for resistance to the effect of alcohol. It was a gift he could happily have done without.
Not that the stuff had left him totally untouched. He was very tired: if a couple of the Cardinal's men had chosen that moment to try and arrest him he wouldn't have even been able to drag his sword from its scabbard. His vision was blurred, his mouth furry and his tongue swollen so that he could barely speak.
But his memory was working at its usual insane pace. It kept flicking images before his eyes...her face as he'd first seen it, innocent and golden amongst the branches....the face of his wife the day he had married her, framed in white lace, as beautiful as a church angel....resting on the pillow beside him, her eyes aglow with love...turned towards him on the last day, still as beautiful as an angel, a white, bitter fallen angel on the way to the executioner's block.
He looked down at the dregs of wine in the cup. "I suppose," he mused aloud, "I will see her in my dreams all my life. And afterwards too, unless I go somewhere else. Perhaps there'll be peace from memories in Paradise." He didn't realise he was crying until the drops fell from his cheeks into the cup, mixing with the wine. Frustrated and furious, he glared across the table at Aramis, silently daring him to speak.
But the dark, bright eyes that watched him were steady, unblinkingly sober. Aramis hardly ever seemed to get drunk. Merry, cheerful, even tipsy - but never drunk. A good Christian soul. Athos pushed a tankard across, spilling some. "Damn it, Aramis, can't you even get drunk with me!"
Aramis took the tankard and emptied it onto the rushes on the floor. "Not on this swill."
Athos snorted. "Choosey, aren't we? Wine is wine. I don't drink it for the taste."
Aramis stood, pulling his cloak over his shoulder, and looked down at his friend. "I know. Can you stand?"
"Of course I can stand." Athos pushed himself upright, taking the question as a challenge. He wobbled against the table, grabbed one of the half-full tankards and backed into his chair, knocking it over. "See! Standing. Where to now?"
Aramis took his arm and pulled him away from the table. "Upstairs, to clean you up and then to bed. You're a disgusting mess."
Giving his friend a leer, Athos let himself be pushed towards the stairs. "Best offer I've had since...since I don't know when. Are you any good in bed? Of course you are...look at all the women you've known - in the biblical sense, of course..."
He had some vague memory of challenging someone to either a drinking contest or a duel on the stairs, and finally Aramis had to half-carry him upstairs to an empty room. He was still unhappily sober, sober enough to complain at the tankard being taken from his hand, at the filthy stained clothing being pulled from his body. And he was obnoxious enough to swear at his closest friend, calling him names that it took a good Christian soul to ignore. With anyone else he'd have been called to account for himself with swords or pistols. All Aramis did was laugh.
"An angry babe could knock you down with a rattle. You're a disgusting mess, my friend, and I aim to clean you up and put you to bed."
Athos struggled wearily against the strong pair of hands that held him down, batting them away as they wiped the wine and less attractive stuff from his face and beard. Aramis held him up long enough to use the piss pot in the corner then dragged him back to the bed, pulling his boots and leggings off and laying him, naked, under the coverlet. When he'd finished tucking him in, Aramis sat on the edge of the mattress, his dark eyes shining in the candle light.
"We can't let our young D'Artagnan see you like this. We're role models, you know. I wouldn't like to see him end up..."
"Like me. Who on God's sweet Earth would want to be like me! Excellent role model I provide: fall in love with a woman, marry her, then wait a while and stand by as she throws herself off a cliff." He tried to hide the shaking, to pretend it was laughter. But the tears running down into his beard gave him away. "If being a role model means I can't drink, you can forget it. I need it to take the taste of her out my mouth."
"Then I won't tell you." Aramis' voice was soft and patient, the voice of a beloved friend. "I would be the last man to preach abstinence - my life is hardly perfect. I have known many women, but I have never been in love as you have. Perhaps, with time...."
Athos gave a dry, coughing laugh. "Please don't say that with time I'll forget, or it will get better. God didn't make that much time."
"No, but perhaps it will allow you to heal your worst wounds, the ones you insist on giving yourself."
Athos rolled over on the mattress, dragging the cover around him, balling it around his fists. "Wounds? I should have let Rochefort kill me, then I wouldn't have had to concern myself with wounds, or time, or getting better. I have no idea why I keep trying to stay alive, when it hurts so much....." He knew he was being a maudlin fool, that weeping like a child would not help, but the grief and the wine caught up with him unexpectedly. All the days since her death he'd born the pain without revealing it, but it finally became too much. The guilt was like a knife in his heart, twisting, hurting. Not just the guilt of her death, but that he'd felt nothing, deep inside, beyond some sort of vast relief. Relief that the pain of her existence and his betrayal were buried at last.
The only comfort came from Aramis, who held him and rocked him like a child, soothing him with his comforting closeness. He pressed his damp face against the warm skin of Aramis' throat, his head resting under his friend's chin. A pair of strong arms wrapped around him and hands stroked his back until he had finally cried himself out. And then all he wanted to do was lie against Aramis, too weary and worn to move. It was the only place where he had, for a long time, felt totally secure. Without realising it, he slid into sleep.
* * *
His arms were beginning to tingle from the weight, but Aramis didn't want to let go. Athos' lay against him, his slow, damp breathing stirring the hairs on his chest through the open shirt. And all the while the old terrible longing that Aramis had for so long fought to keep hidden stirred his innards. He felt sinful, and faintly dirty. Athos trusted him and would doubtless be disgusted to find that his religious friend had altogether unreligious designs on him. Having Athos in his arms was the culmination of a hundred forbidden dreams.
"Athos would die for you. And if you were truly a holy man," he whispered to himself, "you would lay your friend down on his bed and leave him to his sleep. And spend the next ten years doing penance for what you're thinking." But even then, with the words said, he couldn't stop the feelings. Carefully, he moved Athos' head to his shoulder and bent his head to kiss the damp eyes. Laying his cheeks against Athos' face he slowly slid down until they both lay on the bed, with the coverlet twisted between Athos' naked body and his own. Athos turned and muttered in his sleep, rolling against the warm body beside him, unconsciously seeking comfort.
Afraid to move, afraid not to, Aramis lay frozen in a mixture of torment and pleasure. He permitted himself the luxury of staying with the knowledge that he might never again know that closeness from one he loved so well.....
* * *
Athos swam up out of a heavy, wine-drugged sleep slowly, like a drowning man coming to the surface of a deep lake. The room was dark except for a single candle on the table beside the bed. He tried to turn his head but found it locked against the pillow by another, darker head - Aramis.
For a while he simply lay, trying to make sense of the night. He remembered drinking, vaguely recalled Aramis half-carrying him up the stairs; nothing unusual there. He suspected he'd made a fool of himself, the drink breaking down the carefully built barriers he kept between that inner misery and his outer face. And perhaps Aramis had had a little too much to drink too, thought he rarely collapsed into a stupor as other men did.
Athos twisted slowly around, rearranging himself. His head ached and his stomach was rolling around like a round hulled coastal yacht in a gale. Logically, his next step was to get up, get dressed and get drunk again. Actually all he wanted to do was lie where he was, with Aramis protectively wrapped around him. It felt far better than anything he'd ever had from a bottle. He turned to his friend, looking at the placid, sleeping features, and felt a flash of warm affection.
"One of the best looking blankets I've ever had," he muttered, pushing a wayward lock of dark hair off Aramis' forehead. "Though what the Church would think of a future Abbot sleeping with another Musketeer...."
"Probably excommunicate me," Aramis muttered, opening one eye. "For deviant practices. Let's not tell them." Aramis squirmed around, but only to make himself more comfortable. "How do you feel?"
Athos licked his lips, closed his eyes and sighed. "Hideous. But I imagine I'll improve. Did I say or do anything to anyone I should be concerned about?"
Aramis shook his head. "Nothing that anyone in this tavern would think out of the ordinary. Do you want to stay here, or try and find Porthos and D'Artagnan?"
"I'm not feeling very energetic at the moment. And Porthos would probably insist on being jolly. I'm not up to jolly right now." Athos opened his eyes and studied Aramis. "Is this tavern short of beds, or did I ask you to sleep with me? Not that I mind, but it's an interesting exercise to try and understand my thinking processes while pickled."
Aramis smiled briefly and rolled over on his back, tucking his arms behind his head. "You were very miserable and I was tired and couldn't be bothered moving. It's been a very busy day." He turned to look at Athos. "I'll leave if you want to be alone."
"No, no, you don't have to leave. It's...nice...having you here." Athos looked at his fingertips intently. "If I said or did anything...offensive, or stupid, I hope you'll forgive me."
"Forgiveness is something I'm supposed to practise, so of course I forgive you. But you were only mildly offensive to me, and I'm accustomed to it. I rendered some small service in getting you up here. No more than you would have done for me." Aramis' features relaxed into a smile. "You're good practise for my humility and forbearance."
Athos' teeth flashed in a quick smile. "Glad to be of some use" He turned over on his back, resting his head on Aramis' upper arm. "Now, if you've no objection, I'm going back to sleep. Wake me only when the world is a nicer place." He curled himself around Aramis and awareness slipped pleasantly away into dreamlessness....
Aramis lay awake for a long time as the tavern quietened at last and the final drinkers passed out or went home. The city slept finally and in the quiet, dark hours of the morning so, too, did he. He left the morning's concerns to the morning. For that night there could only be dreams and fantasies, sadly unfulfilled. Friendship would have to be enough.