9For my dearest friend, Pericula Ludus.
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UNIMPORTANT
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"When's your birthday?"
The question startles Athos. The too loud voice in his ear pulls him abruptly, violently from his solitary contemplation. Wine spills over the rim of his cup, runs over his hand and leaves thin red rivulets in its wake. Athos presses a finger into the wet stain, feels it seep into his skin. Dark like—
What a waste.
He carefully places the cup down on the table. He casts a furtive glance around the table, checking to see if the question might be for another. There is no one else here in this dark tavern corner.
Except, now, for Porthos.
"Well?" he asks.
"None of you business," Athos murmurs. He drags a finger along the base of his cup, up and down. Something to focus on, to ignore the way Porthos' face falls. Pretend he hasn't heard the soft "oh" spoken like a sigh.
The silence that follows is uncomfortable, grating and unbearable. Athos barely resists the urge to tap his fingers, scowling at his twitching hand. Quiet has always been his preferred company, but he cannot stand it now. He wraps his offending hand tightly around his cup and takes a deep drink. It tastes sour, worse than it had moments ago, and something unpleasant and familiar forms in the hollow of his chest.
Guilt, he supposes, for disappointing Porthos.
"My…" Athos says and looks, forces himself to look, Porthos in the eye. He hopes he looks calm, disinterested. Not wildly compelled, as he feels, to explain himself to Porthos. "The date of my birth is unimportant. I've no interest in marking the occasion."
And it is the truth. As honest as Athos is willing to be to assuage his guilt and ease Porthos' hurt, there is no need to say more. Too much of it is tied into secrets held close to his heart and all the things he does not—will not—speak of.
He does not say that his parents cared little for his birth, that their apathy towards their children, even… Thomas, the favoured son, had fostered apathy in them in return. It is a truth Porthos would not—does not appreciate and Athos is not interested in pity nor is he interested in misplaced enthusiasm.
He has given into that before.
Anne—she had insisted, the first year of their engagement that Athos do something grand to celebrate the day. Her eyes had lit up, her smile wide, as she planned the dinner and dancing and music and conversation and… he'd been a different man then. It was easier to accept, to feign—to feel excitement over a night spent hosting near strangers, because it was all an extravagant excuse to be together, to be seen together. He could not deny her anything, not when it promised the presence of her, each and every year after that.
But it had never been about him.
And all those promises had been empty.
"'Course it's important," Porthos says. Porthos sounds so serious, so earnest. Athos' heart throbs painfully in his chest, discomfort creeping in. If he knew—if Porthos knew—
"And I want to celebrate with you."
Athos lets out a breath, temper flaring. If he knew—if Porthos knew all that Athos had done, all he had failed to do then he'd agree. Kind Porthos. Honourable Porthos. He would agree that it is better to let each year of Athos' miserable life pass without remark.
"I do not care, Porthos," Athos says, voice low and laced with contempt. He wants these words to hurt. "And I have no desperate compulsion to make up for birthdays never had."
Porthos' face twists in anger and an ugly sense of satisfaction rises in Athos. Good. Maybe now Porthos will understand that they are not the same, that they are not, that Athos is not—
Porthos pushes back from the table, chair scraping forcefully across the floor. He pauses, looks as if he wants to hurt Athos in return. Athos welcomes it, but it never comes. Instead, Porthos leaves. Leaves Athos alone and, in his absence, the anger and the satisfaction fades into something altogether worse.
Familiar.
Calmly, Athos removes his gloves and places them on the table by his cup. He reaches for it, hesitates, then grabs the too-full bottle of wine and pours. Another hesitation and, since it's already in his hand, takes a long drink straight from the bottle. He grimaces, still sour.
He puts it down and rests his elbow there a moment, rests his head on his hand a moment. Rests a moment. Would it have been so terrible? To tell Porthos…
His—her locket shifts beneath his shirt and his free hand moves, almost unconsciously, to wrap around the warm metal. He closes his eyes, focuses on the pressure at the back of his neck and pulls her locket out. Athos holds it there in the palm of his hand and thinks, yes, it would be.
That is how Aramis finds him.
Athos knows it is Aramis from the soft glide of a hand across his head. The quiet clink of glass as Aramis moves the too-empty bottle away from Athos' elbow. The feel of his hand over Athos' clenched fist.
He opens his eyes then, weary. Too exhausted to stop Aramis, to form the words he might say to convince Aramis to leave him be. It shouldn't be so hard, Aramis should already be angry if he knows what was said to Porthos, but Athos sees none of that in Aramis tonight.
Athos tilts his head back, directs his gaze towards the ceiling. Lets his fingers be loosened and hand pried open, unwrapped from around her locket. Aramis tucks it away and drags Athos from his seat. Drags him out into the cold night air.
Her locket feels a burning weight around his neck.
(That night he dreams. Black, pierced with blooms of blue. A half-forgotten melody his fingers once knew.)
The next morning, Athos does not apologise.
And Porthos does not ask for to.
He offers no forgiveness either, pretends the previous night never happened at all. For that, Athos is grateful. Though he still feels guilty, he has no desire to admit hurting Porthos has gotten him exactly what he wanted. There is no more talk of birthdays.
For a week.
Porthos finds him alone at the table in the garrison courtyard, watching the night sky. It is not so unusual, practically expected that Porthos would seek him out, a deck of cards in his hand and a smile on his lips. There is no deck of cards, no smile tonight, and Athos feels apprehension twist inside him.
Porthos face mirrors it perfectly.
Still Porthos sits, seemingly unsure what to do with hands. In his lap, on the table, folded or clenched. Athos watches them warily, watches Porthos lean back, reach into his pocket and pull something out. The missing deck of cards? No, this is bigger, bulkier. Porthos places it on the table and carefully, so carefully, slides it across to Athos and—
"Your birthday is important."
Athos had hoped Porthos' silence on the matter had meant it was resolved, accepted, between them, but there is no denying the small package before him. It is a gift and Athos examines every inch of it, tries to uncover Porthos' intention, because—it is a gift. Misshapen, folded and refolded within a sheet of fine paper.
"And I don't care who told you it wasn't or what happened to make you think it isn't."
"Porthos…" Athos sighs and pushes the package back, less careful than Porthos had been. Porthos' stops him halfway, lets his hand rest on Athos' own and says,
"But I understand, yeah? And until you're ready—if you're ready—to accept that, then today is as good as any to give you this."
Oh.
Athos' throat tightens with the realisation that this is why Porthos had wanted to know. He hadn't thought to ask, though he doubts his response would have changed. Still… it is different now, in this moment, seeing the effort and the care put into wrapping a gift for him. The sacrifice of treasured paper, the creases in the paper where Porthos struggled to get it right.
Athos draws the gift back towards him, runs his fingers over the folds and creases.
"You didn't have to," he says, voice soft.
"I wanted to. You're my friend, Athos."
Athos doesn't move, the words stuck in his throat. They have been friends for a year now and it is still so strange to hear Porthos say it. To say it and mean it without want or desire for anything other than friendship in return. Athos isn't sure he has ever had that before.
He raises his hand to touch her locket, catches himself halfway and stops, fist clenched. He sees Porthos frown, knows what he must think and how weak a truth it truly is. Athos looks away, grimaces. He wishes there was wine, regrets that he wishes. Her locket itches, burns against his skin.
Porthos leans across the table and taps the hand still on the gift. "Open it?"
"I'm sorry," Athos blurts instead, not sure what for. Last week. Himself.
"Me too."
Athos nods and looks down at the gift. He grips it with shaking fingers and carefully unfolds the paper, fold by fold until all is revealed. He reaches down and lifts a soft, earthen coloured scarf up to his face. He turns it over in his hands, slides the fabric back and forth, examining the little blue patterns stitched into the fabric. He draws it close to his chest and feels something inside him soften and relax.
"Thank you," he says. For the gift. For his acceptance.
And Athos smiles, half wants to cry. He wraps the scarf around his neck. Once, twice, and finishes with a loose overhand knot. He tucks it in his shirt, over the locket. The scarf feels cool against his skin, soothing. He can still feel the press of metal against his chest, the weight of it around his neck, but it is now… the scarf is softer, looser. Kinder.
One day, Athos resolves, he will tell Porthos. For now, however, this day, this moment spent in honest friendship is enough.
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