#dartamis

happy to oblige, anon.

-

(contains aramis/d’artagnan.)

-

(i think you would be interested in this, too, anon, even if itisn’t specifically about hair.)

-

Itwas a hot, muggy afternoon. The air seemed to settle on the skin like a wetblanket and insinuate itself into the lungs with every gasping breath, viscousand overcooked. Flora and fauna alike wilted beneath this onslaught, and therewas nary a peep from even the hardiest critter. In short, it was not the kindof weather that was preferred by chroniclers, who looked for dark, stormynights and pleasant, crisp spring mornings to inflame and soothe the heart inturn—

“Shutup, Aramis,” d’Artagnan groaned. “Don’t make me come over and hit you; it’s toohot for that.”

Aramisblinked. “Sorry—was I musing out loud?”

“Ifthat’s what you call it.”

Aramisgathered as much of his dignity as he could muster. “I’ll have you know, youngd’Artagnan, that this silver tongue has accomplished much: it has conquered thehearts and bodies of many women—well, partsof their bodies, at any rate—”

“Iwill hit you, Aramis.”

Aramissighed and draped one arm over his eyes. He and d’Artagnan had taken refugeunder the shade of a large tree as they waited for Athos and Porthos to returnfrom a reconnaissance mission. They had stripped down to their undershirts andbreeches in deference to the sweltering heat, lying back on the grass andgrumbling about the weather and tardy Musketeers when they could find theenergy for it.

At leasthe wasn’t wearing all that damnable leather anymore. He only wished he couldtake off his breeches as well—sweat was dripping down some rather uncomfortableplaces, and he’d much rather nip whatever was brewing down there in the budbefore he had to get some horrific caustic medicine from the physician to doso. Casting a surreptitious glance at d’Artagnan, he quickly reached under hispants and scratched his groin.

“That’sdisgusting, Aramis.”

Well, hell. “I thought you were a farmer.From Gascony. I’d expected you’d befamiliar enough with this kind of weather to at least tie your hair back.”

d’Artagnanraised his hand and the attached index finger in what was rapidly becoming afamiliar gesture. “One does not just get usedto…” He trailed off, and his hand dropped limply to his chest.

Aramisrolled over and got a good look at him. d’Artagnan’s face was flushed, and hishair lay in sweaty clumps across his face and below his head. His eyes werescrunched closed, breathing in soft pants, and all in all, he looked fairlyuncomfortable.

“Comeon, sit up,” Aramis said finally. He grabbed their last waterskin and uncorkedit with a touch of regret. Just a touch. “I don’t want to have to explain toAthos and Treville why I let our newest Musketeer die of heatstroke.”

“Youcould just say I was being stupid.”

“Yes,but unfortunately that’s a bit of a pre-requisite when it comes to theprofession, so I hardly think they’d believe me. Now up,” Aramis said briskly,reaching for him.

d’Artagnanpulled away from him with a bit of unexpected effort. He eyed Aramis’ handswarily. “Not until you wash those.”

Aramisrolled his eyes.

“I’mserious.”

Reluctantly,he used a bit of their precious water over his hands, then moved to sit behindd’Artagnan, who was already starting to sway. He let d’Artagnan take a swig,then poured the rest of the contents of the waterskin over the young man’s headbefore he could so much as sputter a protest. He combed his fingers through d’Artagnan’shair before gathering the strands in one hand. “What you need,” Aramis said, “isa distraction. I’m afraid my company tends to bring out the histrionic in you.”

“Iwonder why,” d’Artagnan said in a low voice before saying, “It is hot.”

“No, it’snot quite that hot. And another thing you need to know,” Aramis barrelled on, “iswhat to do with your hair, especially as you refuse to wear a hat.”

d’Artagnanshrugged. “Tie it back?”

“Right, or—” Aramis dug his fingertips into d’Artagnan’sscalp and combed through the strands slowly but surely, teasing out anytangles. “I could braid your hair.”

d’Artagnanwas already starting to lean back into Aramis, though this time it was more outof relaxation than discomfort. “A French braid?”

“Well,”Aramis said, moving through the smooth strands to start rubbing at d’Artagnan’stemples, “We’re in France, so it would just be a braid.”

“Huh.”

Aramisgot to work then, pulling at the strands and twining them together, evoking alittle hiss from d’Artagnan every now and then. He kept a strip of blue ribbonbetween his teeth to tie it off at the end.

About anhour later, Athos and Porthos arrived at their campsite to see d’Artagnansafely ensconced in Aramis’ arms as Aramis himself rested against a tree, bothof them fast asleep. d’Artagnan’s rat-tail braid tickled Aramis’ nose, thebright ribbon bobbing with every peaceful breath.

Athosand Porthos did not speak for a while.

“Italmost makes one wish, Porthos,” Athos mused finally, “that there existed adevice that could capture this image instantaneously yet preserve every detailfor posterity.”

Porthossnorted in laughter. “I could sketch a quick portrait, but I could hardly dothis justice. ‘Specially the ribbon.”

“Then itis our duty to ensure the image remains fresh in our minds.”

“Talkabout it at every available opportunity.”

“Perhapseven recreate it a few times alongthe way.”

so we know that s3 picks up four years after s2, right? and that aramis has been in the monastery all this while the other three have been fighting in the war. so that means they’ve been apart for at least twice as long as they have been the Four Musketeers. enough for the group dynamics to change, or, at least, for d’artagnan to get used to being athos, porthos, and d’artagnan. (or even just porthos and d’artagnan, given athos’ new responsibilities as captain.) so when aramis returns (or they get him to come back, as the case may be), i wonder how they will settle back into being the Four again, and if it would be more difficult than the first time around when d’artagnan was the newcomer. it’s my headcanon that aramis was the musketeer that d’artagnan took the longest to bond with in the beginning, so would he feel vaguely resentful now that aramis is back and breaking up the arrangement that he’d gotten so used to? not that he means to feel that way, of course--in fact, he was probably one of the most vocal and enthusiastic participants in the ‘let’s break aramis out of the monastery’ plan--but sometimes when he sees the Three settling back into old habits like shrugging on an old but well-worn jacket he does feel a little adrift. just a little. it echoes shamefully of the time when he really was adrift when he first arrived in paris, and he simply cannot think of that at a time when he is so settled in his life as a soldier, a husband, a brother, a teacher.

and aramis, well--when he does notice he notices pretty well, and when they parted all those years back, he remembers the mutual respect and affection they had for each other and the way d’artagnan practically rushed into his arms to embrace him and say goodbye. he’s a little unsure of this soldier whose ruthlessness he had mostly allowed himself to forget while at the monastery, replaced by memories of warmth and eagerness, an incongruous insecurity, and, well, eyebrows. his efforts to reconnect with d’artagnan using the old apprentice shtick don’t go over very well (it’s the only thing aramis can think of after all these years, walking in on d’artagnan instructing another recruit and telling him afterwards bit early to be so hard on the young ‘uns, isn’t it? and being met by a glare that is as incredulous as it is utterly strange on d’artagnan’s face), and d’artagnan, with six years as a musketeer, war and strife behind him, is unsure all over again, and as we know, insecurity makes d’artagnan bull-headed and oblivious and a little nasty.

i can imagine aramis and d’artagnan being passive-aggressive and increasingly resentful of each other until an exasperated porthos tries to mend things between them (and inadvertently makes things worse). then, i’d imagine, there’d be a battle-type scenario in which they’re split off from the others and forced to work with each other for survival, and while aramis does live with one foot in the past and d’artagnan with a keen eye on the future, they come to see the opposite in each other and figure out exactly what they’re both afraid of. and (hopefully) a lot of strife and h/c later, they’re back to building that bond of mutual trust and affection.

how he rocks him and i’m just--

*snert*

Yeah, sure. “Business” he says.

Yes yes yes

(actually i’m pretty intrigued by the individual reasons the three could’ve had for supporting Constagnan as openly and as freely as they did)

but i think Aramis at first was amused by the obvious attraction that Mr. “I-was-raised-to-fight-like-a-gentleman” from Gascony had for a married woman and probably teased him about it a bit initially. and yes, he was definitely invested in this idea of d’Artagnan being this naive kid he had to educate, but d’Artagnan has a way of giving back as good as he gets and for every teasing “well, young d’Artagnan, remember this: never get involved” he would get back a “don’t get involved, you said? how did that work out for you?” 

(and that’s kind of what would make a potential relationship between them great? because Aramis can be sometimes so full of shit that he justifies in so many different ways and sometimes Athos and Porthos know him too well and kind of let him get away with a lot, so d’Artagnan i think can cut through that. and when d’Artagnan is descending into another self-absorbed pity-party, Aramis can gently yet firmly jerk him out of it because when Aramis is paying attention ((he usually isn’t)) he’s a very sharp observer and i think he does pride himself on his ability to judge character. mutual head-from-ass-removal, basically.)

So here’s the thing--

These things don’t really have a beginning. Sure, there’s the bit where you meet each other for the first time, introduce yourselves, try to kill each other and get one of you arrested. Sure, there’s the bit where you’re not sure you belong and he’s not sure you belong, either, and both of you both talk about it and pretend it doesn’t exist at all. (How do you do that? You don’t know.)

Somehow you’ve shared traumatic secrets before you know the name of his favourite food or you can tell him there are moments you love the way the sun catches his hair and it glints bronze. You never tell him these things. At some point, you don’t have to. His breath smells sweet and he pulls wet fingers through his hair and refuses your offer of a hat. You’re not sure what this means. You don’t care.

There are moments of sudden, disorienting weightlessness, like you’ve just stepped into a ragged hole on the floor you thought you were waltzing on. His fingers curl in your collar and there’s history in his eyes mere words and swordfights can’t cover. Later, much later, his fingers curl in your collar again and he’s leaning against you, a warm weight. He smells of sweat and gunpowder and empty, dead things. You smile. Somewhere in your mind, you’ve just written the first line in the first page of a different history.

Prepare for a war, you tell him. He smiles and tells you, wars are won battle-by-battle. There’s dirt under his fingernails and splinters in his palms, like he’s interred everything he was before he became a soldier in his hands--hands that have broken bones and spilled blood. Yet somehow when those hands touch you, you want to laugh at the open sky, like you’re remembering to live, over and over again.

Maybe these things do have an ending. Maybe it’s in the moment in between clinging to him and turning away to more important things. Maybe that’s the beginning. You don’t know; maybe he knows. You both smile at each other blindly.