Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7834657.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      The_Musketeers_(2014)
  Relationship:
      Aramis/Athos/Porthos_(Trois_Mousquetaires), Anne_of_Austria/Aramis,
      Aramis/Other(s), Aramis/Marsac
  Character:
      Athos, Aramis, Porthos_du_Vallon, Anne_of_Austria, Milady_Clarick_de
      Winter, Alice_Clerbeaux, Ninon_de_Larroque, Flea_(The_Musketeers), Jeanne
      Treville, d'Artagnan, Marsac, Fleur_Baudin, Charon_(The_Musketeers)
  Additional Tags:
      Forced_Prostitution, Alternate_Universe_-_Hunger_Games_Setting, Found
      Family, Asexual_Character, asexual_athos, Minor_Character_Death
  Series:
      Part 1 of Epithets_(Musketeers_Hunger_Games_AU)
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-22 Completed: 2016-12-05 Chapters: 10/10 Words: 28288
****** Epithets of Victory ******
by Rainah_(RainahFiclets)
Summary
     "We can't do this forever." He says instead. It's true.
     Porthos turns slightly, turns to search Athos' eyes. "No, we can't."
     He says simply. One of these days it's going to break them. The
     death, the worry, the addiction, and the hurt. The dreams and
     nightmares and nights they spend awake.
     When he's seventeen, Athos wins the Hunger Games.
     When he's sixteen, Aramis wins the Hunger Games.
     When he's eighteen, Porthos wins the Hunger Games.
     They're all broken. They're all survivors. Together, they have the
     chance to be something more than just victors of the games. Updates
     sunday evenings.
Notes
     This is actually the first chaptered fic I ever wrote? I abandoned it
     for quite a while and I finally found myself in a place where I could
     pick it back up again. So this is not season three compliant, though
     some season three stuff may work its way in as I finish it/edit.
     This is mostly complete, and I'm shooting for an update once a week.\
     Long form warnings: Forced prostitution (So, rape) and the
     implication of related violence. A minor having sex with an adult
     offpage. Descriptions of violence and murder (from the games)
     occurring in flashback. Drunk but consensual sex. The aftermath of a
     consensual but unsafe S&M scene (offpage)
     In short - most stuff happens offpage but is discussed, reflected
     upon, and dealt with. Aside from the forced prostitution, which takes
     a more center stage in Aramis' narrative (And Athos' in the first
     chapter only)
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Athos I *****
When he's seventeen, Athos wins the Hunger Games.
Good for him.
They place a crown on his head and he tries to remember why he did this. Tries
to remember how he felt standing on the reaping platform, the crowd cheering
his name. He can't quite remember, but maybe that comes later. For now everyone
keeps clapping him on the back and congratulating him.
Athos tries to play the gallant hero they expect him to be, but he doesn't
quite know how to stay I'm tired, you can tell me this tomorrow, I don't want
to be here right now or how to tell them that when he closes his eyes he still
sees blood.
Finally his mentor yells "Enough! The boy needs his sleep, you'll have a chance
at the party tomorrow," and Athos has never been so grateful to have Treville
on his side. The only congratulations he gets from Treville is a nod, and only
once they're alone in the training center. "Good job. You made it out."
In all the pandemonium of his victory, Athos never sees Treville smile once.
I won, he should be happy. But maybe victors are more somber than that. Maybe
it reminds him of his own games. He's beginning to see why that might make
someone somber.
"What happens now?" Athos asks instead.
Treville isn't looking at him. "They'll let you know."
Indeed, it doesn't take long for the president to inform him of the duties of a
victor. Surely he wants to thank all of the lovely people who sent him sponsor
gifts, who believed in him? He does. They send him to the house of Milady de
Winter, down in one of the capitol’s most expensive areas.
Dinner is a stilted affair, but it's still some of the best food he's ever
tasted. They sample roasted fowl and creamy broth with sea creatures floating
in it. Athos may be a district boy but he does know his manners. He tells her
the decor is lovely and the food is delicious.
Milady de Winter just smiles. "Not half as delightful as the company."
He doesn't know what to say to that, so he keeps quiet instead and watches her
smile grow wider. "Nothing to say, Athos?" Silence. He looks down at the stew,
away from her, waiting until she leans back with a sigh. "I don't often favour
the Games."
That gets his attention. "I thought everyone favoured the Games."
"No everyone."
She stands, stepping towards him like some kind of wild cat. Athos takes a
hurried gulp of wine. It's a little too fast - a drop runs down his chin and
hits the tablecloth, spreading out like a bloodstain, and for a split second
he's back in the arena. The blood had stained his shirt just like that. He had
stabbed a girl right though the neck. It’s funny - they took the shirt away
from him when he won, but they couldn't take the memory of the blood. He’ll
always have the memory.
He's shocked out of his musing by a hand on his chin, tilting his head up to
look at her. "I don't favour the Games. Silly children stabbing at each other.
But seeing you with that crown on your head... it was worth it. Did you like
the sword I sent you?" She asks him.
The hand on his chin is insistent, and Athos is pulled to his feet. He
remembers their words about thanking Miss de Winter but he can't quite get the
words out. She's standing far too close, and he can smell the forget-me-nots in
her hair.
"It was very... useful," Athos manages, and he knows it's not what she wants to
hear. I used it to stab tributes through the heart. "It was lovely," he tries
again.
She sighs. "Not very eloquent at all. They did warn me, district boys never
are. That's fine, you're not here for talk." And then her mouth is on his, her
hands reaching for his clothes, and he's jumping backwards so fast he hits the
wall.
"What-" Athos starts, but she cuts him off.
"Surely they told you."
"Told me what?"
She steps closer, into his space again, her hand ghosting up to touch his neck
and brush over his lips. He wants to pull away but he can't seem to, he's
frozen as she whispers, "You're a victor, darling. Just lay back and think of
Panem."
The hand reaches lower, and Athos
can't.
Can't do this.
He runs.
Ignoring Milady de Winter's curse, Athos bolts out the door and into the night.
He runs until he can't think anymore, until his bare feet are torn by the
brightly coloured sidewalks. It takes him another hour to wander back to the
tribute centre.
No one says a thing.
He makes it back to his room and closes the door. There's no way to lock in, at
least not from the inside, but he manages to pull an ergonomically designed
chair in front of it. It's still not enough to push down the panic.
That night he doesn't sleep. The mic set into the wall produces anything he
wants on command, and he orders bread and water and stew and cocoa and finally
wine when nothing else works. The wine works - it dulls his rough edges enough
for Athos to crawl into bed just as dawn is breaking.
The prep team wakes him up with chatter, banging on the door and telling him to
not be so dramatic. They think he's trying to dodge out of their makeover
attempts. Athos isn't sure if their frivolity is comforting or simply painful,
but he forces himself out of bed with a groan. They're on him as soon as he
shoved the chair out of the doorway, every sound reverberating in his skull
like a gong.
Ninon, the stylist for District One, whisks him off to remake with narrowed
eyes and a glass of water. "There's pills that will make you feel better, but
they come with a cost. You don't look that bad." Oh, thanks he thinks. He feels
that bad. "President called, your social calendar has been cleared."
Athos blinks. "Cleared? Just like that?"
"Just like that." She confirms. "There are the official events, of course, and
the victory tour halfway through the year. But otherwise, you're to stay here."
It can't be that easy, he thinks, but somehow it is. They clear him up,
patching the cuts on his feet and making him eat and drink until his head stops
hurting. And they deposit him right back to his rooms, free to wander and nap
until the train ride home. He sees no more of Milady de Winter.
Except that winter, his brother dies in a very well-publicized accident. It's
very tragic, they tell him. So unfortunate. But these things happen, and it's
such a pity you two didn't get to spend more time together.

He's not stupid, even before Treville tells him he knows: this is his
punishment. If paranoia isn't enough to convince him, the dried forget-me-not
on his step would do the trick.
Athos is not invited to the Games that year. They're done with him. He retreats
to his empty house in The Victor's Village, finding solace in a bottle of wine.
When he drinks, he doesn't think about Thomas. Doesn't think about Milady de
Winter, doesn't think about how it felt to take his sword and send it whisper
quiet against someone's throat and slick crunch into their hearts.
But no one can be left alone forever.
"Athos!" Treville calls, but the door is locked, has been locked for the past
two weeks. Victors aren't easily deterred though, not even aging mentors like
Treville.
"Athos!" It's no use. After a few minutes of pounding Treville sighs and breaks
it open, holding up a hand when he sees the knife in Athos' hand. "Athos. Calm.
It's me."
Athos drops it with a glare. "I know."
Stupid to have grabbed a knife. His head feels like it's going to split in two.
Every part of his body is aching, though he's not sure if it's from abuse or
disuse at this point. Either way it's incredibly distracting.
Treville gets him water and makes him drink it, standing over him and handing
him a hairbrush when he's finished. "The Games are over."
"The Games, right." He'd hardly noticed they were going on. It wasn’t like it
mattered.
Twenty-three more children dead, and one who will soon wish they were.
"They want you at the train station to welcome our new victor," Treville
continues, with slightly narrowed eyes. He takes away the brush and hands Athos
a razor.
It takes a second, and then Athos does a double take. "We won?"
That doesn't make sense. What district wins two years in a row? It was
possible, District One was a career district, but it's still not likely.
Treville just sighs at his confusion. "His name is Aramis. You can watch the
highlights later, we have to go." A change of clothes later and they're
hustling off to the train station.
He understands as soon as he sees the boy get off the train. Aramis is young,
only sixteen, and absolutely stunning. Ruffled dark hair and darker eyes that
gleam with mischief under a blanket of politeness. Showmanship is in his very
bones - the way he moves and the way he talks, regardless of what he's actually
saying. He's elegant and sensuous and wicked despite his youth and he's a
better product than Athos ever was. No wonder they wanted Aramis to win.
"Treville, it's nice to see you again," Aramis' smile is hesitant and even
sweeter for it. He's so young, Athos thinks. Only two years younger than him,
but it doesn't feel like it right now.
He wants to throw up.
"Good job, boy," Treville nods then shoves a barely-thinking Athos forward.
"This is-"
"Athos, I know." Aramis looks at him through his eyelashes. "It was your games
that inspired me to volunteer." And Athos is too busy drowning to say the words
scorching his throat.
I am so sorry.
He doesn't want to be here. He wants to be back in his room, hiding from the
world. Athos runs back to The Victor's Village as soon as he is able to, and
proceeds to throw up everything he's eaten that day. Aramis has brought
everything back to the surface, everything he’d done and everything he’s lost.
Now he gets to watch Aramis go through it all in his place.
When he'd left, Aramis had been asking after some girl named Isabel.
Unfortunately, no one has seen her.
The Victor's Village is small. There are twelve houses, and four of them are
occupied. It is utterly impossible to avoid Aramis completely, especially when
he seems to spend most of his day kicking a heavy ball around the main square.
Athos sees him there, at the marketplace in town, and even when he stops at
Treville's house. Every time, he makes an excuse to leave as soon as possible.
But the victory tour is on them before Athos can believe it, and all of
District One's victors are bundled onto a train to visit each of the districts
in turn. There's nowhere for Athos to run, not here.
"I feel like you're avoiding me," Aramis says, as the train pulls into the
station for district Twelve. He shuffles in place, slightly, looking both awed
and a little worried as he surveys the new landscape.
Athos can't come up with a response in time. He only jerks his head in
acknowledgement, looking away.
"You don't have to, I just-" The train jerks to a halt and he breaks off. "I
just wish I knew what I was doing."
"You'll figure it out." Athos says, because that was what was said to him.
Aramis will learn soon enough. The girl he had been asking after has not moved
into his house in The Victor's Village, Athos can't help but notice. Neither
have any members of his family.
Most of the victory tour passes in a haze of alcohol for Athos. He remembers
bits and pieces, which is more than he can say for his own victory tour - huge
orchards in Eleven, Treville's quiet conversations with victors Athos doesn't
know, the way Aramis seems more and more withdrawn every time he makes a speech
about the glory of his victory, factories in Eight.
When they step out of the train in seven, Aramis stops dead. Seven is certainly
a sight - the trees are easily twice as tall as any he's ever seen back home,
and they form a thick canopy overhead that leaves half the district in shadow -
but Aramis isn't smiling. He's not doing anything, just standing deathly still.
Before he can remember that he doesn't care about anything, Athos steps
forward. "Everything alright?"
Aramis startles. "Fine. It's fine." Athos gives him a look. "I don't like
trees. After the-, well."
There must have been trees in his games. Athos still hasn't seen the footage.
The tape is at home waiting for him, but he always finds something better to
do. Like drink.
They need to keep going. Treville is already looking back, expectant. "Close
your eyes if you want, I'll lead you." Athos offers brusquely.
"I said it's fine." Aramis squares his shoulders and steps determinedly
forward. They make it to the platform constructed in front of the justice
building, and the mayor starts his speech. Even here the trees are tall and
broad enough that they dwarf the capitol's buildings, casting everything in
shadow.
Aramis is looking at the redwood like it might come alive and eat him. His dark
eyes are shiny, unfocused, and with his tan skin losing colour, Athos starts
wondering if he's just going to faint.
The mayor finishes his speech and turns the mic over to Aramis. Who is silent.
Silent and staring. He might as well have be carved from stone. The people
begin to murmur, shifting around, waiting for someone to say something.
"And now, Aramis has a few words for the tribute's families," The mayor tries
again, and this time Treville gives the boy a hard nudge.
Aramis blinks, quickly, and from where Athos is standing it looks like he bites
down on a curse before taking the microphone. Someone hands him a card and he
reads the words out in a monotone. He says nothing else as the ceremony is
concluded and the victors hustled back to the train. Athos tries to catch his
eye, but every time he tries Aramis is looking at the ground.
After that, Athos isn’t the only one avoiding everyone on the train. Aramis
spends most of it shut up in his room, emerging only at mealtimes. He’s pale
and withdrawn, and shies away when anyone gets too near.
By the time they arrive in District 2, Athos is eagerly awaiting home. He's
sick of this tour. Being penned up with the rest of the district's victors,
suffer through ceremonies and dinners and the quiet resentment of the crowd.
Somewhere around Four he gives up on sobriety entirely, so at least there's a
pleasant numbness to get him through the torture.
He should really get Aramis something to drink.
The boy doesn't look well at all. In fact, he's been about as present as Athos
in the last few districts. Despite the conversation he's having with Marsac,
one of the victors in Two, Aramis' eyes can't seem to focus. Neither do his
hands, dancing up and down the white tablecloth. He doesn't still until Marsac
lays a hand on his shoulder, drawing him in deeper to whatever conversation
they're having.
Athos pours himself another glass of wine, and then second. Walking over he
breaks in with "Have you tried the red yet? Very different from what we have in
One."
"Oh- no-" Aramis pulls away from Marsac like he's been burned. His eyes refocus
on the glasses in Athos' hand. "Thank you."
Marsac, for his part, levels Athos with a thin smile that doesn't meet his
eyes. "Back to back victors, what are the odds of that?" Not all that bad,
unfortunately, Athos thinks, but says nothing. "You must have been inspiring."
Marsac won six years ago, by deserting his alliance right before they walked
into a trap. Half of Panem loves him for the trick, the only element of
interest in an otherwise boring games, but he's not well liked among the
victors. Athos doesn't remember much more than that. He's not sure they've even
had a conversation.
"Home after this." He says to Aramis, mostly to avoid talking to Marsac.
It doesn't work. Aramis just looks confused, and Marsac sighs heavily. "Capitol
first. They throw you to the dogs before they let you go home," At Aramis'
deepening frown he relents. "It's just a lot of dinner parties. You'll be fine,
just show up and stay that pretty."
You'll be fine
You're a victor darling
He can almost smell the forget-me-nots in her hair, tickling his skin when she
pressed too close.
"I hear Adele is single again," Marsac says in an undertone to Athos. "You have
someone back home, Aramis?"
"I did. I don't know now,"
Athos is going to be sick. "I'll see you in the morning." He all but runs back
to his room on the train, leaving the lights off and splashing his face with
water before climbing into the bed.
His dreams are a mix of the surreal and the far too realistic. Milady de Winter
chases him through cobbled streets, blood leaking from her mouth and running in
rivulets from the knife in her hand. She stabs him repeatedly, the sound
echoing strangely in the street until he looks up to see he's not in a street
at all but laying on the stage where he was crowned victor.
He's woken by Treville pounding on the door. "What?"
"Have you seen Aramis?" Treville asks, making quick assessment of Athos' room.
It looks like every other room on the train, aside from the rumpled sheets and
the small collection of bottles in the corner.
"Not since last night. Why?"
Treville rubs a hand through his hair. "As far as I can tell, he didn't come
back after the banquet."
The banquet, where he was with- Athos frowns. "I know where he is. Tell the
driver we can leave in under an hour."
It takes far less than that to walk to district two's victor's village and ask
where Marsac could be found. His front door's unlocked. Athos finds Aramis in
the first room he tries, sleeping soundly in the bed while Marsac reads beside
him.
Marsac puts down the book when he sees Athos. "Figured there'd be someone along
to collect him. Didn't want to wake him if I didn't have to."
Athos shifts, vaguely uncomfortable. This feels wrong. Aramis is free to sleep
with whoever he wants, of course, but… he looks even younger when he sleeps,
all the ware from the past days faded away. Too young to be drawn into
something like this, with an older and far more jaded victor.
Athos lays a careful hand on the boy's shoulder, saying "Aramis,"
Aramis stretches blinking one eye open. "Athos?" He smiles, faintly, and then
it fades away into a frown. "What?" He asks.
"The train's leaving, put your things on, we've got to go." Athos drops Aramis'
shirt on the bed, struck by his sudden change in demeanor.
Marsec, wisely, excuses himself. Aramis slips the shirt over his head silent,
his dark eyes judging.
“We need to go.” Athos says, just for something to break the silence.
“Fine.” There’s a pause, and then Aramis blurts out “Marsac told me things last
night.”
No. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. “Good things, I hope,” Athos
says, fighting to keep his voice even. He’s too sober for this.
Aramis looks up at him from under a fringe of black hair. “He told me what
happened to you. What’s going to happen to me, when we reach the capitol.” He
looks down, pulls on pants and shoes. “It’s true, isn’t it? All the things he
said.”
Athos opens his mouth. His voice catches in his throat. “You’ll survive,” he
says. They won’t kill the pretty new victor, no matter how badly Aramis screws
up.
It’s the best he can do.
***** Aramis I *****
Chapter Summary
     The names they call him now - lover, libertine, spitfire, slave -
     shouldn't bother him as much as they do. But as the games drag on
     they send him out again and again, he stops caring about what people
     will think. Nothing quite seems real. Not home, not the images of
     people battling on the screens of the control room. The girl from
     their district dies and Aramis barely notices.
      
     Until they inform him of his next engagement: Anne Bourbon, one of
     the wealthiest and most influential people in the Capitol.
The Capitol gets their claws into Aramis before he even knows what's happening.
All it takes is a few careful threats and the pointed example of Athos beside
him. They make Athos come to the games that year, a harsh example of what
happens to disobedience.
Athos drinks.
Aramis obeys.
There are so very many bored people in the Capitol. So many who will pay for
the time of a pretty young victor. Most of them aren't so bad. He would rather
be in the training center with Athos, but the president has made his choice
quite clear. He knows the price of failure.
Despite the sword hanging over his head, Aramis is nothing but entertaining as
he sweeps through the decadent parties of the Capitol. He can do this. At
seventeen he's no blushing virgin, and what he doesn't know they seem all too
willing to teach him. He can tell a funny story, bow deeply, and look up under
his lashes at someone to say, yes, please show me what you mean by that.
He sleeps with a wealthy fashion designer named Marchand, with a government
official named Buckingham. But Adele is his favourite. Adele is sweet, funny,
and lets him believe in the lie they tell everyone.
"What can I say? Gentlemen, I love her," Aramis says, and they all laugh as
Adele slaps his shoulder indulgently. And he can almost believe it. If he
wasn't under the threat of death, could he love her?
It doesn't matter.
Aramis had almost twice as many kills than Athos. He had to - the odds were
against him from the moment he stepped into the arena. A shade too young, and
coming up on the heels of another victor from 1? It hadn't mattered how pretty
he was. Aramis had been a dead man walking the moment he volunteered and the
only thing to do was to come out swinging.
He killed them with swords, with knives, with spiked maces and arrows. There
never seemed to be a shortage of weapons, in that forested arena that looked so
much like home, and he threw everything he had at the other tributes. By the
time he'd won, the entire Capitol was screaming his name. Aramis. The spitfire.
The boy who wouldn't give in.
And it turns out pretty is more important than he ever thought.
The names they call him now - lover, libertine, spitfire, slave - shouldn't
bother him as much as they do. But as the games drag on they send him out again
and again, he stops caring about what people will think. Nothing quite seems
real. Not home, not the images of people battling on the screens of the control
room. The girl from their district dies and Aramis barely notices.
Until they inform him of his next engagement: Anne Bourbon, one of the
wealthiest and most influential people in the Capitol. Her husband is heavily
involved with most of the events that show up on television, and they're on the
screen at every single party.
Now, it seems, she's willing to risk everything to have a victor in her bed.
Adele was one thing, wealthy and connected, but she's nothing like Anne
Bourbon. Aramis has no idea what she wants, what she'll demand of him and
whether or not he'll be able to comply. And he knows the price of failure.
Athos can't help him with this. He goes straight to Marsac.
"Libertine," Marsac calls out as Aramis steps into the rooms on the second
floor of the training centre with some trepidation. "Miss me already?"
Aramis flushes. "Marsac." Marsac knows he hates that name, but Aramis is in no
position to protest and he knows it. "They want me to see Anne Bourbon."
Marsac's eyes widen. He almost starts to laugh, he's so disbelieving. "Her? You
are popular. Come here, Libertine." He holds out a hand and Aramis goes to him,
letting Marsac run a hand through his hair and leaning into the touch. Some of
the victors hate being touched, for any reason, but Aramis is not among them.
He relishes the closeness however he can get it.
"Anne has a gentle temperament, so I've heard," Marsac says as he plays with
Aramis' curls. "She's whip-smart though. You'll have to be convincing. She's
not Adele."
"I like Adele," Aramis protests. It earns him a sharp tug on the hair Marcac is
petting.
"Of course you do. Adele is sweet, but a fool to mess around with victors
without her lover's approval."
Aramis doesn’t have a reply to that. It’s true. But Adele was the first person
he'd slept with in the Capitol and he finds that he's grateful for that much.
"Anything else about Anne?" he asks.
Marsac shrugs. "You're the first victor she's shown an interest in, though I've
heard rumours of lovers. She doesn't have much of a temper, from what I've
seen. She seems to mean well, in the Capitol sort of way."
Smart, gentle, well-meaning. And beautiful that was for sure, with soft brown
hair and large doe eyes. He can work with that, Aramis muses, as he wanders
back to his own floor.
Athos is there. Aramis would have thought he'd be watching their tribute.
Unless-
"Is he dead?" He asks abruptly. "The boy? Gleam or Glimmer or whatever his name
is."
"He's sleeping." Athos looks him over with a question in his eyes. "I needed
some time off." With Aramis spiraling he's had to mentor more to make up for
it. Really, it's surprising they still have a tribute in the final eight at
all. "Where were you?"
"I was with Marsac. He was giving me information for tonight," he says it as
casually as possible. Athos knows about Anne (Athos was the first one he told,
shaking and barely getting out the words) but Athos doesn't understand. Not
like Marsac does.
"Why do you bother with Marsac? He's an opportunist and a thug," Athos says. He
looks at Aramis hard. "Are you-" the words still having sex with him hang
unfinished in the air between them. Aramis doesn't need to answer. "Aramis."
Instead of protesting, Aramis goes to sit in one of the chairs scattered around
their rooms. There's a screen beside it showing a forest scene that looks all
too much like the landscape of his games. He says quietly, "It lets me sleep
through the night."
He remembers his first time with Marsac, in the months after winning the games.
How much of a mess he was - sweating, cursing, jumping at every little noise
and unable to sleep without dreams that made him scream. But the worst, the
worst was dislocating until he no longer felt like anything at all. And they'd
sent him on the victory tour with Athos and the other victors ignoring him,
only Ninon for company. Shuttled around from district to district until the
nightmares and distraction got too much to bear. He'd spaced out completely
during one ceremony, partially from sheer exhaustion.
Then they arrived in two and he met Marsac and the other victors there. Marsac,
with his calloused hands and bright blue eyes, had been undoubtedly real. Even
if he was a little too rough, even if he merely tolerated the way Aramis had
clung to him after they'd had sex. It had been Marsac who'd explained to him
the realities of victor life. What would be expected of him now, and what the
consequences would be if he failed. It was Marsac who rubbed circles on his
back while he cried, and then told him he needed to wash his face and get back
out to the party before they were missed. But Aramis had fallen into a
dreamless sleep that night, there with him, and it had been enough to get him
home in one piece.
You weren't there. He almost says to Athos. No one was there. But that wasn't
fair. Athos has his own demons to face, and Aramis knows that his first year
had been unbearable. According to Treville, that was when he'd started
drinking.
From the way Athos is quiet Aramis can tell that he knows exactly what went
unsaid. But he only pushes himself to his feet and says, "Be careful with Anne.
I don't care what Marsac says about her temperament, she's got enough power to
get an entire district burned if she wants to." He hesitates, just a moment,
and then presses a soft kiss to Aramis' cheek. "I'll wait up." And he's gone
before Aramis can say a word.
The whole way to the Lady Anne's house his cheek feels like it's tingling, as
if Athos' lips left some kind of mark there. He touches it carefully until the
driver says "this is it" and he has to put on his show face. There will be time
to think about Athos later.
With a breath his whole body relaxes, an easy smile appearing. His gaze is
sharp, his movements much more purposeful as he rings the doorbell and is
admitted to see one of the most powerful people in the Capitol.
The house is grand, done up in bold colours instead of the pastel glass that
seems to dominate in the Capitol. He glances quickly over it, noting escape
routes - not that he can escape - and potential weapons - not that he can
fight, or stop her from grabbing one. It doesn't matter at all, because in the
centre of all that bold glamour is Anne.
He's met her, once or twice at parties, so he's not surprised by how young she
looks. Doe eyes, wide and trusting and wholly a lie. He takes off his hat,
bowing to her as if she were real royalty. Is he supposed to call her Anne?
Miss Bourbon? Your Highness? "It is an honour."
"The honour is all mine." She takes his hand in both of hers. "Aramis."
He takes a chance. "Anne." Thankfully, she smiles.
"I would be pleased if you would join me for dinner." And what else can he say
but yes?
Aramis takes one look at the food set before them and decides he's no longer
hungry. Is it supposed to look and smell like charcoal? Surely Anne doesn't
intend to poison him.
"I cooked it myself. I thought it might taste a little bit more like your home
that way." She catches his eye and he has to force a smile. She looks so proud,
staring at the food he can't imagine eating. Carefully, Aramis takes a forkful
of food and tries it.
It's charcoal.
He doesn't say that though. Can't say that. "Delicious."
He watches as she takes a bite herself, brimming with confidence. As she chews
her face slowly contorts into a grimace, and then a mask of horror. "That's
horrible."
"Charcoal," he agrees without thinking.
There is a moment of silence. Then she says, "Fish. It was supposed to be
fish," and she's caught his eye with just a hint of embarrassment showing
underneath all that regal baring. Aramis can't help it. He laughs. And then
she's laughing too, so hard she has to hold the table to stay upright, and he
feels better about this somehow.
"Would you like me to show you how to cook, Miss Bourbon?" he asks.
"Just Anne, please. Thank you." Thankfully she's a quick learner. He sits her
down in the kitchen, avoiding most of the gadgetry and using just the stovetop.
It seems to run on some kind of electricity that doesn't heat the air, only the
pan, but it's still similar enough to what they have at home. Slowly he
explains things, letting her sauté the fish without burning it and coating it
with a promising-looking sauce he found in her cupboard. In less than an hour
they have something edible.
Anne spears the first piece with her fork and holds it out for him to eat.
"You're a good teacher, Aramis."
"Have to be, had to learn how to cook when I moved to the victor's village."
There had been several nights when he'd eaten with Treville just to spare
himself the results of inept cooking. Now, of course, he eats with Athos most
nights and the food is wholly satisfactory.
"Your family didn't teach you?" Anne asks.
"There wasn't ever the need to, before the games." He tries to smile. "I'm
afraid it left me high and dry when I had to live on my own."
"They didn't come to live with you?" She blushes, realising how forward a
question it is. "It's just- I've seen the houses in victor's villages. They're
built for families."
"No, they didn't." Aramis sighs, looking at the ground. "They didn't want me to
volunteer for the games, and they certainly don't agree with the way I'm living
now." Even though it was to protect them.
"I'm sorry."
If it were Athos, sitting here with him eating fish, Aramis would say how much
he misses them. How much it hurt to lose them when he lost everything else.
"It's fine. They are entitled to their choices. They wanted a victor, but I
don’t think they realised exactly how much that involved."
He's not looking at Anne, so it's a surprise to feel her fingers brushing over
his cheek. "They're fools if they think that is enough to condemn you." She
says, and he almost believes her. "I saw you in that arena, with everything
against you. You are brave. And kind." Her eyes are dark with intention. Her
fingers trail down his face, just brushing his lips. "And beautiful." He knows
what's expected of him. All of their cooking, the conversation, it was all a
precursor to this. So when she leans forward he meets her halfway with a kiss.
She lets him lead, deepening the kiss slowly. Then she takes his hand and pulls
Aramis determinedly into the bedroom. He ends up on top of her, kissing slowly
down her neck while she sighs in happiness. He takes a moment to enjoy the
quiet noises she makes as he kisses all the way down her front. It's easier to
touch than to be touched, he's learned already this year, so Aramis pushes any
stray thought of Athos away and devotes himself to the task.
The other people he's slept with in the Capitol, he hasn't remembered most of
it. Maybe it's a coping mechanism. But everything blurs together slightly and
goes fuzzy around the edges.
He remembers every second of his first night with Anne. Every touch, every
taste, every sound. The softness of her skin, the soft sounds he was able to
pull from her, the look of unexpected rapture on her face. Aramis stays the
night, holding her in the darkness and trying not to think.
He gets in the next morning, dodging Athos' pity and heading straight for the
coffee. As he inhales it, Athos tells him that the girl from four has died in
the night. "They should have some time to recover from that, if you want to go
back to bed."
"I'm fine." There are things to do even during the small breaks the games allow
tributes. There are sponsors to court, strategies to analyze, alliances to be
made. And while Athos has demonstrated himself to be a fine strategist, Aramis
will need to do the rest.
"Have you seen the boy from Twelve?" Athos asks him.
Aramis flushes. He knows their remaining tribute is doing fine, and has watched
snippets of the games here and there, but overall he's been spending more time
with sponsors than in the victor control room. "I've been a little busy. Why?
Is he good?"
In answer Athos turns the screen towards him and lets Aramis get a good look at
the boy. The man, really, as he must be eighteen. Tall and thickly built with
muscles rippling attractively under his dark skin. But more than that there's a
cunning in his eye.
"You think he'll win?" Aramis asks.
"I wouldn't bet on it, but-"
Aramis looks him over again. "What's his name?" he asks thoughtfully.
"Porthos." Athos turns the screen away, leaving Aramis with his coffee.
"Porthos of District Twelve."
***** Porthos I *****
Chapter Summary
     "We should have stayed," Porthos says suddenly. It comes out before
     he has time to think or question the we. But it feels right.
      
     Aramis turns to look at him finally, his dark eyes flickering over
     Porthos. He nods once. "Then stay."
Chapter Notes
     Because it gets a little confusing sometimes - this is year three of
     the fic. Making Athos 19, Aramis 17, and Porthos 18.
Porthos does win the games that year, narrowly beating out the boy from 1. It's
a bloody games, with torrents of rain turning the arena to mud and washing away
supplies. The final fight comes down to improvised weapons. Sticks. Fists.
Porthos beat the boy to death with a sharp stone and even when the canons sound
the rain doesn't stop.
They rebuild him and remake him and dump him in the training centre, where Flea
pulls him into a hug. "I knew you could do it," she tells him. And that’s it.
There is no I'm sorry from Flea. A Seam kid like him, she was never bothered
doing whatever she needed to survive.
"Yeah," he huffs out. "I guess I did. What happens now?"
"Home," she says simply. "Your new home." A new home in victor's village, all
to himself. They're going to send him home with more money than he's ever seen,
send him to a big empty house while the districts open their gifts on parcel
day. He remembers the year Flea won, remembers the difference parcel day can
make when you're starving. He tries to tell himself that winning is a good
thing.
He’s alive. That’s got to be worth something.
That night he dreams of drowning in a rain of blood. He’s swimming (he can’t
swim, he never learned, but in the dream somehow he manages to tread water) and
the blood rises higher and higher until it engulfs him, pouring down his throat
and choking him. It tastes, strangely, like tesserae grain. Porthos awakes with
a shout. Flea is there in moments, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. "It'll
pass. It's just dreams. We all get them."
"Some victory," Porthos manages to get out. He's trembling.
"Tell me about it." She tosses the cloth at him, her sentimentality as short-
lived as always. That's what he likes best about her, Porthos decides. She
doesn't sugar coat things. As the only victor from Twelve, Flea has been
dealing with this for longer than he wants to think about.
She sighs and tosses him a bone before she leaves. "Some people find it easier
if they have someone to sleep beside. But don't," she points a finger at him,
"come looking for my bed. First rule of victors: Your coping mechanisms are
your business and you keep them to yourself."
And then she's gone. Porthos doesn't sleep that night. He stays up, turning the
image of the boy he killed over and over in his mind. Thinking about his own
coping methods.
The next day, as soon as he gets the chance he asks where he can find the
mentors for district one. They point him towards the elevators.
"Good luck," someone snorts. It's Marsac from Two, spread out in a chair. "Do
you want the drunk or the libertine?" Flea just shakes her head. Porthos goes
down to the district one floor, not quite knowing what he'll find there.
They're so young, is the first thing he thinks. No older than he is. One has
plenty of victors to choose from, he'd never guess they'd send their two
youngest. Porthos knows next to nothing about Athos, who dropped out of the
public eye very quickly after his victory. But Aramis is splashed all over the
television back home. The young spitfire, the lover, the free spirit careening
from one well-publicized relationship to the next. Everyone in the Capitol
wants a piece of the handsome media darling. He doesn't look so darling now
though, his face scrubbed clean of makeup and relaxed in one of the awkwardly
shaped chairs. His eyes are distant.
They snap into focus when Porthos enters.
"Can I help you?" There's only the slightest purr in his voice. The televisions
don't lie about that. Deliberately charming or not, he's gorgeous. They both
are.
Athos stands quickly, moves in front of Aramis with a challenge in his eyes.
There's a bottle in his hand that could easily be used as a weapon and Porthos
has to remind himself that this isn't the arena. Athos doesn't want him dead.
He just wants to know what Porthos is doing in their rooms. "What do you want?"
I don't entirely know. "I killed your tribute," Porthos answers, swallowing
hard.
"And what? Are you here to apologize?" Athos's eyes flick over him harshly, but
lets Aramis pull him back down into the chair. There's a silence as Porthos
tries to figure out what he wants from them. Absolution? Blame?
Acknowledgement?
It's Aramis who speaks, watching Porthos intently. His eyes are black, and so
very present they hurt. "His name was Sable. He was a merchant's son. A good
boy. Good with numbers, horrible with words. He had three sisters."
"And then he died," Athos interrupts. The boy with three sisters and a talent
for numbers is dead, because Porthos bashed his skull in with a rock. "Is this
what you want to hear? He was a person, and you killed him."
"Athos."
"Aramis," he shoots right back.
Porthos clears his throat. "I needed to know. It doesn't seem right, to kill
someone and not even- not even known their name."
"Sit," Athos says, as if that settles it. He passes the bottle, and the alcohol
burns as Porthos takes a sip. "You did well. Neither of us blame you for the
games."
"It's just what happens," Aramis agrees, but his smile is brittle. Porthos
remembers suddenly that this would have been Aramis' first year as a victor,
and as a mentor. That can't be an easy thing to watch.
It's another jolt to realise that he will be mentoring next year. And the year
after that, and every year until they can pull another victor. District Twelve
doesn't have a lot to chose from.
They sit together in companionable silence as the suns starts to sink below the
candy-coated buildings. Athos drinks, and Aramis draws invisible patterns on
the edge of the chair. After the stress of the arena the silence is welcome.
Porthos thinks vaguely that he should go, should excuse himself and go find
Flea, but instead he just lets himself rest. She wouldn't begrudge him this.
For the first time since his name was called at the reaping Porthos feels at
peace, and he wants to hold on a moment longer.
It's a short-lived peace, because there are duties to attend to. Eventually
night falls and Porthos has to leave.
He doesn’t see them very often, after that night. Things expected of victors.
Aramis seems to attend party after party, and Athos has a tendency to lock
himself in his room with a bottle of wine. And Porthos should be spending the
majority of his time with Flea anyway. But Flea is independent to the bone, so
most of the time he's on his own.
Which doesn't help the nightmares.
Coping mechanisms. He thinks how peaceful he felt with the district One
victors. And a few days later, before the they can pack everyone off to the
districts, he finds himself at a Capitol party.
It's... loud, compared to district Twelve. People dance in pairs, all crowded
together, completely unlike they way they dance at home. There's food and all
manner of substances lining the walls, so Porthos spends a while there nibbling
as he figures out what he thinks he's doing.
"You're Porthos, aren't you? The victor for Twelve." There's a soft hand on his
shoulder, and he turns to see a young woman. She looks more normal than most of
the people around, but he's never seen a more outrageously bright dress.
"Alice. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"I'm Porthos," he says, before he remembers that she already knows that.
Instead he smiles at her, and she takes it in stride.
"Is this your first time out in the Capitol?"
"Little different than Twelve." He ducks his head and she laughs, bright and
clear. "Is it that obvious?"
"A little. Don't worry, we'll get you acquainted. Have you tried the food?"
She links her arm with his and leads him back towards the tables while asking
him all about life in district twelve. It's... nice. Her hand in his and her
head resting against his shoulder as he explains the kind of dancing they do in
twelve.
"-we'd need more space, of course, to do the circle properly. And there's a lot
more footwork."
"Let me show you how it's done here." Alice is all gentle smiles, the blush
riding high on her cheekbones, and he grins back as she arranges one of his
hands on her waist and pulls the other into her grip. Her free hand lies flat
against his chest. "Now we step carefully, here-"
"Porthos?"
He turns and it's Aramis, with something that looks like horror written all
over his face. Porthos can't help but notice how stunning he looks, dressed up
in soft black velvet with hair falling in his eyes. The shirt underneath his
jacket is slashed all the way to the waist, leaving his tawny skin exposed to
the garish Capitol lights.
"What are you doing here? With- Madame Laurent?"
"Aramis." Alice inclines her head with a smile, one that slowly faded as he did
not return it. "Is anything amiss?"
Aramis swears. As Porthos stares, uncomprehending, he sees a man come up and
lay a hand on Aramis' shoulder. The effect is immediate - Aramis stills as if
he’s been shocked. His eyes flash fire.
"Aramis?"
"Why is he here," Aramis demands, as he turns to the man. "Why is he here,
Buckingham? It's too soon."
"I didn't have anything to do with this," Buckingham protests. He’s got a grim
smile to match the calculating look in his eyes.
Porthos looks at the two of them - Aramis livid and stiff, Buckingham's cold
eyes and his hand heavy on Aramis' shoulder - and back to Alice, who looks
equally confused.
"Alice was showing me how to dance," he says. Does Aramis think they're
together? That would be hypocritical, considering everything he's seen on the
television. Considering that between the way Aramis is dressed and how close
they're pressed together, Porthos is sure Aramis intends to take this man to
bed tonight.
"That's all," he adds, in case this was the problem. Too soon, Aramis had said.
Maybe Aramis thinks he shouldn't be out so soon after the games. "I just wanted
to see the party."
Just wanted- Aramis begins to mouth to himself, then shakes his head. "Go home
Porthos. Please. You're not supposed to be here."
"I think Porthos can stay if he likes." The hand on Aramis' shoulder tightens.
"Come on, Aramis, I think I'm tired of this party." It has the unmistakable
ring of command.
"Porthos." Aramis isn't even looking at the man, is ignoring him completely in
favour of fixing Porthos with a desperate stare. Buckingham uses the hand
clamped on Aramis to give him a short, sharp tug towards him.
"We're leaving."
"Make Porthos go home then." Aramis twists in the man's grasp but seems
unwilling to break the hold. "I don't care anymore, I won't-"
"You won't?" Buckingham repeats, and the words hit Aramis like a slap to the
face.
"I didn't say that."
"You did."
"I didn't. He just needs to go home, he's five days out of the games no one is
stable five days out. He can't be expected to-"
"Aramis! I'm going." The words stung, he was perfectly stable, but he's clearly
only making things worse. Aramis clearly doesn't want him here.
Aramis takes a deep, careful breath. "Good." Buckingham gives another jerk of
his hand and this time Aramis allows himself to be led away.
"Apologies, Alice," Porthos nods his head at her. "I'm sorry to cut the evening
short."
"No worries." She smiles. "Call me the next time you're here, we can have that
dance."
So Porthos takes the long walk back to the training centre, only to find Athos
in the lobby. He's got a bottle of wine that he's rolling between his fingers,
and he looks up in relief before seeing that it's only Porthos.
Somehow, that second of dashed hope is enough to push Porthos over the edge.
"He's still out there," he snaps. "Didn't want me ruining his fun." Didn't want
Athos ruining it either, apparently. And Athos looks terrible, his hair
sticking up and wearing clothes Porthos is pretty sure he had on yesterday and
it just makes Porthos madder because he doesn't belong here with Athos any more
than he belonged at that party with Aramis. They're the mentors from One, he's
from Twelve. He has to leave Athos, just like he had to leave Aramis, and go up
to face the nightmares in his big empty room while they stay with one another.
"Did you see," Athos asks slowly, like he doesn't want to know the answer,
"who-"
"He was with?" Porthos snaps. "Yeah. Guy who looked like he'd have no problems
in the arena. Aramis was calling him Buckingham."
"Buckingham." The name sounds like a curse, coming from Athos' lips.
Porthos thinks back to Buckingham, the possessive way his hands rested on
Aramis' body. The look in his eyes. In the arena the boy from Eight had had
that look about him. The very first night he'd slaughtered every member
alliance while they slept, cutting their throats before they could scream.
Porthos had seen the way he looked at people over the course of training, and
it was the same look Buckingham had when Aramis had tried to leave.
You won't?
I didn't say that
"I don't understand," he says to Athos.
He's not sure what's on his face. Something terrible, apparently, because Athos
actually talks. And gets right to the point.
"They're selling him. The Capitol. His... company."
Porthos thinks of the hand on Aramis' shoulder, the way Buckingham was jerking
him around, and shivers. "Why would he do that?" He knows why they want him -
the whole world wants him - but to be willing go along with it?
Athos is too busy taking a long drink of wine to reply. "There was a girl,
before his games. Isabel. She disappeared after. He hasn't seen her since.
Just... like my brother."
Oh. "You?"
"Not since then."
The conversation at the Capitol party makes a sudden, horrific sense now.
Aramis pleading with him to go home, saying it was too soon. Aramis, barely
seventeen, letting that man put hands on his body. "Will they do that to me?"
He does a quick tally - he has no family, and precious few friends. They might
be able to track down Charon, but even then Porthos is mostly a loner in
Twelve.
"I don't know," Athos says. He hasn't looked at Porthos since he started
speaking.
"I'll go then," he starts to say, but Athos finally forces his head up. His
eyes are haunted. Everything about him screams, stay.
And Porthos is reminded suddenly that Athos is no older than he is, really.
That no matter what his district, he'd watched people die and been powerless to
save them. He sits down on the floor beside Athos, leaning back against the
wall. There's silence for a while, until Porthos says, "They don't dance like
we do, here. I mean, I had no idea how to do that twirling thing. That's not
how we dance in twelve."
Athos doesn't miss a beat. "And how do you dance?"
And Porthos find himself for the second time tonight explaining the intricacies
of District Twelve's dancing. Athos doesn't smile, or laugh the way Alice did.
But it feels peaceful, like a comforting hand in the dark. This is what he was
searching for.
He ends up helping Athos into the district one rooms and falling asleep on the
floor beside his bed for lack of something better to do. When he blinks awake
it's morning, and he feels better rested than he has since they first called
his name at the reaping.
Athos is out like the dead, so he wanders out into the kitchen with a vague
plan to sneak up to his own floor before anyone comes looking for him.
He stops at the kitchen, however, because Aramis is sitting there nursing a
large cup of coffee. There's a mark on his cheek, a dark bruise just starting
to form.
"Ninon's taking me to remake before anyone sees." His voice is flat, wrong.
Porthos frowns. "Don't worry about it. Where's Athos?"
"He was waiting, but he drank too much. I took him to bed." He hadn't thought
about that, how it would look to Aramis when he found Athos not waiting for
him. "He asked me to stay," Porthos adds, aware of how pathetic it sounds.
"Athos usually likes to keep his distance," Aramis muses. "He must care for
you. Did you enjoy your distractions?"
It takes Porthos a moment to connect the dots. "Not like that! Nothing
happened. He just wanted someone to stay."
"I'm sure." Aramis turns back to his coffee, apparently done with Porthos. As
he reaches for it Porthos sees more marks on his wrists, angry red lines just
starting to show. He thinks again of Buckingham's cold eyes, and of Aramis
stumbling back to the training centre alone.
"We should have stayed," he says suddenly. It comes out before he has time to
think or question the we. But it feels right.
Aramis turns to look at him finally, his dark eyes flickering over Porthos. He
nods once. "Then stay."
They do. Aramis disappears into remake for a few hours and comes back looking
perfectly healthy again, though none of their Capitol medicines can quite touch
the look in his eyes. They retreat into Athos' room again, a large plate of
food with them, and just rest for the day.
Sometime during the scattered conversation Aramis rests his head on Porthos'
shoulder. At some point Aramis tells a particularly bad joke, one that makes
Porthos laugh and Athos give them both dirty looks. But as he turns away
Porthos catches his smile, soft and secretive and tentative. At some point
Athos' fingers brush over Aramis' hand, mindlessly moving back and forth.
They all go their separate ways for bed, and that night Porthos dreams of
severed hands crawling all over him. One pair, that he knows belongs to Athos
somehow, locks around his throat as he jolts awake. Distractions. With a pillow
in one hand and a blanket in the other he heads down twelve flights of stairs
to Athos and Aramis' rooms. Surely Athos will let him sleep on the floor again.
The discomfort in his spine was nothing compared to a full night's rest.
Athos is awake when he knocks, looking just as rumpled and casually good
looking as he does during the daytime. He really doesn't realize, Porthos
thinks, unable to prevent himself from glancing over the tousled brown hair and
fine features even as he's explaining his request. "-I didn't dream at all when
I slept here."
Athos stares at him for a long moment. Then he runs a hand through his hair,
making it even more messy. "I have a better idea," he says. Porthos follows him
into Aramis' room, illuminated only by the light of a screen set to show a
moonless sky.
"Aramis doesn't like sleeping alone either," Athos explains. Indeed, even as
they watch Aramis shifts and twists in the sheets, obviously having some sort
of nightmare. His lips move, but no sound comes out. Athos' face twists at the
sight. "He's quiet, and then he starts screaming. Aramis!" He kicks the side of
the bed, and Aramis startles awake.
"Athos? What-?"
"Porthos has nightmares too you can deal with them together." He looks from
Porthos' uncomprehending face to Aramis' matching one. "It's better than the
floor."
"The floor?" Aramis blinks several times. "You can't sleep on the floor. Come
on."
"You sure?" Porthos asks him, just once. Because Aramis' life involves too much
unwanted contact as it is, and Porthos will not add to it.
"I'm sure. Now come on." And he pulls Porthos down into the bed before looking
expectantly at Athos.
He's still standing. "I'm not sleeping tonight. I wish you no dreams."
"Then drink here," Aramis says, "and stay with us." Athos grabs a chair and his
wine, sitting in the corner. Trying and failing to keep his eyes away from his
friends stretching sleepily in the bed.
Under the blanket, Aramis' hand entwines with Porthos'. "Goodnight," he says.
"Goodnight," Porthos answers.
In the corner, Athos sighs. "Will you just go to sleep?"
They do.
***** Athos II *****
Chapter Summary
     "Look," Porthos swallows hard. "You care about him, yeah? You want
     him to be happy." He meets Athos' eyes. "You love him."
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Aramis returns in the middle of the night, as he often does. Athos is waiting
up, as he always is, but he's well into his second bottle and things are
starting to get pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. Still, Athos is a victor. He
can pick up the smell of blood, mingled in with sweat and sex and alcohol.
Aramis doesn't usually drink when he's on assignment. It makes him slower, more
ponderous, less likely to anticipate danger. "Aramis."
"You waited." The words aren’t slurred; instead Aramis focuses on Athos
completely, like he expects Athos to have the answers to questions he doesn't
want to ask.
"Like always. Aramis," Athos says again, his voice dropping low and dangerous,
"Aramis, why is there blood?" If she has hurt him, if any one of them has hurt
Aramis- but they've hurt him already, haven't they? They hurt him every time
they force him into this.
Sometimes, Athos looks at Aramis and thinks, I could have done that. I should
have done that. It wasn't like he was a functional person already, it would
only break him a little more. He could have let Milady de Winter do whatever
she pleased and be able to go home to his brother. No one would even have to
know.
But sometimes, like tonight, he looks at Aramis and a voice in his head says
that no price would be worth that. He knows that voice - it's the same one that
wakes him up screaming. It's the one that whispers murderer when he closes his
eyes.
"It's nothing." Aramis pulls off his shirt, or what's left of it, and there's a
set of deep gashes across his back. His words are slow and heavy. "I- I asked
him to. I wanted to feel something."
Athos tries not to stare. The moment just seems surreal, drunk and exhausted as
he is, he almost thinks it’s a dream. It sure feels like a dream. Like he and
Aramis are the only two people in the world, and at any moment Athos will wake
up to find out none of it was real.
Aramis isn’t moving at all, so Athos reaches up to gently touch the cuts.
They’re deep but not dangerous, the bleeding already slowed to a sullen red.
Aramis shudders at the touch but doesn't move away.
"You wanted this?" he asks, and Aramis closes his eyes.
"Yes."
Athos wonders if he's thinking of the arena, of the hundreds of cuts and
bruises all tributes pick up over the course of the games. "Did it help?" he
asks quietly. If pain was what Aramis needed to cope, well, it wasn't like
Athos could judge.
"No."
"Aramis-" Athos says, but Aramis is turning around and then suddenly they're
kissing. And Athos-
He waits.
He waits for the panic, the terror, the disgust. But all he can think is how
warm Aramis' lips are, how he clutches at Athos' clothes, how the salt of his
spent tears mingles in with the kiss. It's sloppy and messy, with a clashing of
teeth and tongues leaden with alcohol as Aramis tries to force a reaction out
of Athos’ unresponsive mouth.
Athos pulls away after a moment. "Aramis-"
"They don't own me," Aramis says. It doesn't feel like he's talking to Athos
anymore. His voice gets louder, more insistent. "They don't own me." And he's
kissing Athos again and again, desperate biting little kisses, and pleading, "I
want to feel something.”
This isn’t right. Athos lets himself be pulled through the hallway and down
onto one of their beds, but when Aramis goes for his shirt he shies away. “You
don’t have to do that. Just lie down.”
“Stay with me,” Aramis pleads. His eyes are glassy, far away. So Athos gets
into bed with him.
Aramis goes right back to kissing, this time along his neck. And logically,
Athos knows, it shouldn’t feel any different than kissing on the lips. But it
does. He squirms away, holding up a hand to block Aramis. “None of that. I said
you don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Aramis pleads. “Athos, I want to, I want you, none of them, not
any of them. Just you, and Porthos, and we all stay together. I want…”
Athos strokes his hair through the muttered words, repeating “It’s okay, it’s
okay” as if Aramis was some kind of frightened animal.
Eventually, something he says must get through because Aramis starts to relax.
He picks up Athos’ hand and presses a kiss into the palm, and Athos finds he
doesn’t mind that at all. “I know. My Athos.” His eyes are glassy. “Kiss me,
Athos.”
So Athos leaned down very carefully, and pressed his lips to Aramis’. Aramis
let out a soft sigh. And the moment seemed perfect, so unreal, that Athos says
“I love you” without thinking.
He braces, certain Aramis is going to pull away or club him over the head or go
back to pawing at his clothes, but Aramis does none of those things. Instead he
just snuggles closer. “You, too,” he murmurs, and then drifts off the sleep.
Athos strokes a hand over his hair a few more times, careful not to touch
Aramis’ back, and then surrenders to sleep himself.
When he awakes, Aramis is still there. The gashes on his back have stopped
bleeding, but he looks like a mess. There's smudged eyeliner around his eyes,
his hair is wild, and he's got a ring of bruises around his collarbone. He
looks like he's been through hell, and Athos is paralyzed by the thought that
he's contributed to it. Last night Aramis had needed a friend, not kisses. Did
it make him any better than a Capitol person, taking advantage of a drunk and
distraught friend?
Suddenly, he can't stand it. The idea that he may have hurt his dearest friend,
contributed to his misery.
He flees, locks himself in a closet somewhere in the training centre with a
bottle and stays there. For an hour? A day? The rest of his life? I hurt him.
Aramis would be waking now, stretching and feeling the pain in his body where
people who claimed to love him had instead caused pain. People like Athos, who
couldn’t keep his feelings in check. What had he been thinking?
Would Aramis come looking for Athos? Or would he slink into his own room,
trying to pretend nothing of the previous night ever happened? Athos would call
that the best option, if not for his certainty that neither of them will be
able to forget.
Porthos finds him, of course. Light floods the closet as the victor from Twelve
pulls the bottle from Athos numb and protesting fingers. "Aramis said you might
be freaking out. Having a flashback."
"No flashbacks." Not of the arena anyway. you're a victor darling and running
running flowers in her hair. Forget-me-nots. He couldn't forget.
Porthos just sits beside him, pulling Athos' unresisting body into an embrace.
"Talk," he orders. "Something happen between you and Aramis last night?" No
response. "I know something happened. And I saw how he looked this morning.”
"I did that," Athos says finally. "My fault."
"Your fault, hm?" Porthos asks softly. It's enough to get Athos' attention; he
looks up. "Did you put those marks on his back?"
"No, but-"
"Did you do anything he didn't ask for?"
"No,"
"Look," Porthos swallows hard. "You care about him, yeah? You want him to be
happy." He meets Athos' eyes. "You love him."
Athos thinks briefly back to how it had felt, to have Aramis in his arms. He's
not sure if he knows what love is, but he knows he wants this. In the moment he
had wanted it all, had presses his lips against Aramis' and said words he can't
take back.
But still.
He wants.
"Nothing to forgive," Porthos says gruffly. He reaches out a careful hand, and
seems gratified when Athos takes it. "We'll work it out. Aramis isn't upset and
neither am I. We're in this together."
Suddenly Athos feels better.
Together.
"We can't do this forever," he says instead. It's true.
Porthos turns slightly, turns to search Athos' eyes. "No, we can't," he says
simply. One of these days it's going to break them. The death, the worry, the
addiction, and the hurt. The dreams and nightmares and nights they spend awake.
There's not much more he can stay to that. They sit in silence until Porthos
stands. "You need to see Aramis. Now," he adds when Athos opens his mouth to
protest. "Before you two let it get weird. Come on." He pulls Athos to his feet
and steadies him. "We're not leaving this to fester."
Aramis has been through remake by the time they get to him - the marks are all
gone and his body is as good as new. His eyes, however, are hollow as he stares
at them over a cup of hot chocolate. "Athos."
Too nervous to do anything else, Athos nods.
Thank goodness for Porthos. "The boy from Three died this morning," he cuts in.
"That leaves just your girl, both from Two, and pair from Eight and Five."
"Less than a week then," Aramis says, his eyes flicking down. This is wrong.
Athos would give anything to take that look off his face.
Slowly, like every second of it pained him, he walked over and put his hand on
Aramis' shoulder. "I'll bet you they're done in three days."
"Three days, hm?" Aramis looks up.
"And I'll bet they take longer than a week." Porthos adds. It's a bet he can't
possibly win, and he knows it.
Aramis makes a show of thinking about it. "And the winner?"
"Picks their own outfit for the afterparty. Losers get dressed by Ninon." The
District One stylist dresses Porthos half the time anyway. Between Porthos and
Flea, Twelve's stylist seems to have given up.
"You're on." And there is the smile they've been waiting for. Unconscious and
full of mischief. "I've seen the swatches. Athos will look great in sequins."
The games end on schedule, unfortunately, and Athos and Porthos submit to their
punishment as gracefully as possible. At least Ninon knows what she's doing.
Mostly. Athos isn't sure if burgundy is really his colour. And she won't let
him button the shirt past his waist, which strikes him as both ridiculous and
unnecessary. It's not as if he intends to do anything but stand far far away
from people and drink as much as he can get away with. "Is this much skin
really necessary for a victory party?"
"It's the Capitol, darling, they like skin here." Aramis smirks. He’s chosen a
black suit that would be unexciting by even district standards - here in the
Capitol, he's so positively underdressed that it's almost a statement within
itself. "I think you look lovely."
Athos tries his best not to humph in public. "Not half as lovely as Porthos."
They both glance over to where Porthos is dancing with Alice, determined if not
particularly graceful as they twirl around. Ninon put him violet sequins, and
what should have looked ridiculous somehow did not. The colour shone against
his dark skin, the flash of sequins complimenting his masculinity instead of
contrasting. It's a good look on him, Athos can't help but think.
"Porthos," Aramis says slowly, "looks fantastic. No wonder she's got her hands
all over him." He catches sight of Athos' sudden change of expression. "Alice
is fine, as far as I've heard. Sweet girl. Likes the games a little too much,
but she won't hurt him."
"Good." But he plans to watch them carefully either way. Just in case.
Aramis hesitates "You won't come dance?"
"Do you really want to see me dance with one of these?" He gestures vaguely at
the menagerie of Capitol people milling around. He would sooner kill himself
than allow one of them to put their hands on him and dance.
He gets a frown in return, on that quickly morphs into a faint smile.
"Nevermind. I think Adele is here." And he's off before Athos realised that
maybe he hadn’t meant they should dance with other people.
Athos stays in the corner, because it suits him well enough, drinking and
nibbling on the food laid out until Porthos finishes his dance. He's distracted
by the delicious lamb and beef stew, enough that he doesn’t notice someone is
behind him until hands come up quite suddenly and rest on his shoulders.
Athos manages not to flinch. Barely. "Porthos."
"Hey." His smile is really something, Athos thinks. No wonder Alice and her
friends are charmed. Even if it doesn't seem to make Athos hot, there's a
feeling of warm associated with that smile that he can't possibly deny. "You
and Aramis still alright?
"Yes?" Aramis hadn't mentioned that night, and neither has anyone else. Athos
is content to let it just be Something That Happened. While they were drunk, no
less, drunk and lonely and hurting. It would be wrong to hold Aramis to
anything he said or did that night, especially when Athos isn't sure how he
feels himself about any of it.
"He's been looking over here all night," Porthos murmurs.
"Jealous of you," Athos murmurs. "You know he wishes he was the one getting
dressed up."
"I don't doubt it," Porthos says, but he still doesn't sound convinced. He lets
it go though, just watching the people dance. Aramis has let go of Adele and is
dancing with a gentleman in bright blue velvet, his hands running up and down
the fabric in rhythmic motions. "How was it?" Porthos asks, keeping his gaze
fixed firmly on the dancers.
Athos shrugs and says, truthfully, "I don't have a lot to compare it to." He
doesn't want to say that, excluding Milady de Winter, Aramis is the first
person he even kissed. He's never wanted to, before the games, and that hardly
changed when he won.
"I'm sorry then," Porthos says. He looks like he wants to say more, but all he
says is, "It should have been better. Something more."
Athos thinks about that. He had been drunk, yes, and mostly following Aramis'
lead, but it had still been something good. He hadn't felt uncomfortable or
awkward, if only for the moment, and he's pretty sure it had something to do
with the fact that it had been Aramis.
"It was everything," he says, and means it.
Porthos' face is very still. "I'm not the one who needs to hear that."
No. Perhaps he needed to hear something else - Athos doesn't know what that is,
though, or how to give it to him.
Just as he's opening his mouth to try, Porthos gives him a nudge. "Go and talk
to Aramis."
So Athos lets it go. Instead, he squares his shoulder and heads into the crowd.
"Aramis?"
Both Aramis and the man in blue velvet turn to stare at him, and the sudden
weight of their expectation hits him like a ton of bricks. "Would you-" He
can't do it. "Are you hungry?" He asks instead. It's a stupid question. No one
in the Capitol is ever hungry.
Aramis smiles anyway. "It would be my pleasure. Until next time," he says to
his partner, bowing. Athos can't bring himself to ask if the man in blue is one
of the people Aramis has been sold to before.
Instead he leads Aramis over to one of the desert tables, far enough away that
they won't be overheard. Aramis grabs a chocolate covered strawberry to nibble
on, his dark eyes tracking Athos.
"About- Ah-" He doesn't have the words for it. Doesn't know how to ask for the
things he's still afraid of wanting.
Aramis saves him. "If Milady de Winter had never existed," he asks slowly,
"would you-"
"No. Never," he adds, in case Aramis fears it's some sort of defect of his own.
Aramis nods. "Okay."
And it seems as though they'll leave it like that - you can't leave it like
that. Athos struggles for the right words to say, something that conveys I Care
About You.
The words drag out of him with great difficulty. "Stay with me tonight?"
Aramis' answering smile is gentle. "Always," he says. "I won't even make you
dance. We need Porthos though."
It doesn't sound like he's talking about the trivial anymore. Athos nods. "We
need Porthos."
And then Aramis reaches out his hand and Athos, without thinking, takes it.
It's a little thing, but to Athos it means so much more than a kiss could ever.
Chapter End Notes
     So if you haven't picked up by either the tags or the text, Athos is
     asexual in this fic. He likes romantic and platonic touch, but sexual
     or sensual touch makes him uncomfortable. It is, as he noted,
     unrelated to his sexual trauma (though that does influence things, of
     course). Both the author and beta are ace-spectrum, so if you have
     questions feel free to sound off in the comments.
     As always, my tumblr is here and I may give out preveiws if you ask
     me nicely. Aramis II is definitely one of my favourite chapters.
     Athos'_suit, but with the shirt almost completely unbuttoned ;)
     Porthos'_suit, tell me you wouldn't pay to see howard charles in that
***** Aramis II *****
Chapter Summary
     He doesn't even have to think about it. The first words were hard,
     but these the easiest thing in the world to say "I want in. What do
     you need?" He knows he can fight, anyone who's been in the Hunger
     Games can hold their own against capitol soldiers.
     "Well, victor Aramis," She leans close, suddenly, eyes fixed on him.
     "can you keep a secret?"
There are whispers in the Capitol.
It starts that way at least.
It starts with a heavy hand that falls on his shoulder and a whisper in his
ear. It starts when Adele giggles underneath him and asks if he's heard the
scandalous rumours about who's been arrested and why. It starts with a
practiced hesitation, a carefully chosen word, a sideways glance he follows all
too well. There's something building.
Aramis wants to be part of it.
After five years a victor he knows how the game is played. If he goes right up
and asks, they'll refuse him. And they'd be right to - if he's stupid enough to
ask he's stupid enough to betray them. No, getting in is as much of a test as
it is a challenge.
He listens carefully while Ninon snips at his hair, prattling aimlessly about
her troubles. It's soothing, the feeling of her hands on him, taking care of
him. Even if she tsks him every time he comes in with bruises. "-and there's
been no shellfish for a week, people are just about dying. With all the trouble
in Four."
"Trouble in Four?" he asks quickly, careful not to tense. He gives her his
best, most charming smile in the mirror. She rolls her eyes and tilts his head
back into position.
"If you took better care of this during the year I wouldn't have to cut it so
short when you get here." Ninon tells him, pulling out another piece and
cutting it. "There's bad weather in Four. Nothing's getting in or out."
"Ah." He almost nods, before remember that there are scissors close to his ear
and that may not be a good idea. "Just in Four?"
"I think there are some storms in Eleven as well." She finishes, running her
fingers through his much shorter hair. "And you never know if it'll spread to
other districts, if it's raining in one district it might be raining in the
others." A careless shrug, as if she didn't care in the slightest. As if they
were still talking about the weather. "What about District One? You were just
there."
He thinks about Athos, bitter but defeated, and the other victors bickering
with one another over something as easy as dinner. "Sunny skies."
"That's nice," she says blandly. "Be sure to spend some time outside and enjoy
it."
Strange, to feel guilty. "I've felt a few raindrops. And-" he hesitates, just
for a moment. "I've always liked the rain."
"Do you now?" Her hands rest on his shoulders. This woman he has known since he
was sixteen, who he has long suspected of being involved with something bigger
than styling his hair.
"Are you going out tonight?" Ninon asks.
"Yes." Of course he was, the games had started and the Capitol was breathless
with anticipation.
"Are Athos and Porthos waiting up for you?"
"They're with the tributes." Someone has to watch the tributes from One while
he's off following orders, and Porthos needed to watch his own.
"Come to mine when you’re done."
For a brief second he wonders if it's a come-on. But she's not giving him the
look - he's seen her sex eyes, she usually directs them towards Athos - and
with the conversation they've been having...
He makes a split second decision and turns on the heavy-lidded stare. His voice
drops. "I'll see you tonight then." She throws her head back to laugh,
unexpectedly, but agrees.
It's nearly morning by the time he arrives at her doorstep, flowers that he
swiped from some centrepiece in his hand. Ninon cries "Darling!" when she opens
the door, followed by a kiss on the mouth and "You look like a mess."
"Forgive the late hour, madam," Aramis says, as Ninon pulls him out of his bow
and into the brightly-painted house. The sound of the lock scraping seems
final, somehow. Like a declaration.
"We have a lot to discuss. But first - are you injured?"
He takes a moment to consider it. There's soreness, tension, but nothing out of
the ordinary. "No."
"Good. Take that off." A second later a washcloth hits him in the chest.
Ninon watches him as he wipes the smell of sex and alcohol from his skin. He's
well used to it, there are always people watching him, and Ninon's never looked
at him with anything but a clinical compassion. She's waiting for something,
but he's not sure what.
"Who was it tonight?"
He shrugs. "Adele."
"Ah." They've had these conversation before. He's not here to talk about Adele.
He finishes cleaning up in anticipatory silence, glancing back at her every few
seconds.
She stands, waiting for him, with a smooth poise. As soon as he hands her the
washcloth, she looks him right in the eye and answers his unspoken question
with one of her own. "You're no fan of the Capitol."
Aramis nearly stops breathing.
To say it so blatantly, in the Capitol itself - he knows this place can't be
bugged, they'd have hauled her away years ago - but he can't quite make himself
say the words.
I hate the Capitol.
He's never said it aloud before.
His mouth is dry. He forces the word out.
"I am no fan of the Capitol." There, he said it.
"Good." She's smiling, but relief is palpable in the way she sighs. Cameras or
no, this is still treason. Aramis could probably get her executed on this
alone. "There are many who share that opinion. Like me. Many of them are
powerful enough to do something about it, do you understand? There are large
forces at work."
He doesn't even have to think about it. The first words were hard, but these
the easiest thing in the world to say "I want in. What do you need?" He knows
he can fight, anyone who's been in the Hunger Games can hold their own against
capitol soldiers.
"Well, victor Aramis," She leans close, suddenly, eyes fixed on him. "can you
keep a secret?"
He wets his lips. "Only if it's a secret worth keeping."
"There's rebellion in Four." Ninon turns away from him, starting to pace as she
talks. "And riots in Eleven, and Five." He'd guessed as much. Outright
rebellion against the Capitol. But-
"No one's rebelling in One."
"They will be. It's a start."
"And what will happen if they don't?" They'll die. Four, Eleven, Five - they'll
all die. The Capitol will blow another district right off the map if they have
to. And he knows that One is unfailingly practical, that they won't rebel
without a solid chance at winning.
"Then we die. But we're dying every day. For now, we need information. Victors
travel between the districts and Capitol, and you have the ear of the Capitol-"
"-The bed of the Capitol."
"Either way," she maintains. "You have information the rest of us would kill
for. Have killed for."
This is not what he was expecting. They don’t want him to rebel, they want him
to spy. To creep around in people’s beds and steal their secrets. His voice
goes toneless, flat. "All the information you could want. Did you know Anne has
far more lovers than her husband believes? She tells him she's going to visit
his sister, and instead she's with Buckingham. Or me. Or both of us."
"Be serious."
He gives in with a sigh. "Richelieu is getting ready to make a move. He's
consolidating power. And he's no friend of any rebellion."
Ninon sucks in a breath. "And if things get too bad in Eleven it might just
give him the opening he needs."
"Athos can help you, and Porthos," Aramis adds quickly, before she can ask him
for any more of his lovers’ secrets. "And Marsac... he'll help you, he will.
Just... be careful with him." He didn't want to think about Marsac right now.
"Flea and Treville as well. Most of them are trustworthy."
"We'll have to be the judge of that, I'm afraid." She kisses him again, softer
than at the door, and rests her hands on his arms. It's comforting, grounding.
"Do you want to stay?"
He's tempted, but only for a moment. "I have people waiting for me."
"Your boyfriends." Ninon smiles. "I know. They do guard your time jealously."
He doesn't bother to correct her, he's too far past caring. Let people call the
three of them whatever they want, there's nothing between them other than the
fact that when he sleeps beside them he doesn't wake up screaming. "They
worry."
A memory comes unbidden - Athos waiting up, eyes shining and lips wet with
wine. A kiss that tastes like tears and desperation, and feels like flying
instead of falling. Then fear settling into his gut when he woke up alone.
Athos doesn't do that. He's never even seen Athos expressinterest in someone
before, of any gender. He knows there's a partial reason, a forget-me-not
trigger that sends him running, but beyond that it is just Athos. Holding
himself apart, like if he comes too close he will break.
Ninon sighs. "You need to go home anyway, I think. Sleep. I don't want to send
you through remake tomorrow."
"It wasn't me calling midnight meetings." He tipped an imaginary hat to her.
"If there's anything more..."
"Keep your eyes open. I'll let you know."
Porthos and Athos are waiting when he slips back into the training centre,
despite the hour. They take in the tension in Aramis' body, the circles under
his eyes, and Porthos immediately pull him into a hug. Athos rests his hand on
Aramis' back. They stand like that for a minute, because that is what Aramis
needs right now. He needs to feel home.
"It wasn't bad," he says, as he often does.
"Aramis. It's almost dawn." Athos looks him over carefully, not bothering to be
subtle about looking for any injuries.
"I was with Ninon."
Porthos' eyes go dark. "Some kind of extra-styling?" He knows it's nothing of
the sort, he thinks Aramis slept with her.
But he's not going to talk about rebellion in the middle of the training
centre. "Something like that."
They retire to Aramis' rooms, knowing that Flea will watch District Twelve's
tributes for the morning. It's quiet, sitting together on the floor in a tangle
of limbs. They don't speak. Athos passes around a bottle of wine, and Aramis
rests his head on Porthos' warm shoulder. This is what he needs. Something
grounding after the revelations for the night.
A spy. He knows what that means, to defy the Capitol so completely. To complain
to his friends under his breath is one thing - even their occasional
expressions of anger can be overlooked in the absence of credible threat. But
this? They will kill him, regardless of how useful he is, the second they get
word of what he's agreed to do. Worse - they could kill Athos and Porthos. He
has no doubts the Capitol will kill every single person he knows rather than
face rebellion.
Aramis reaches out to grip Athos' hand, seeking a connection to them both.
Earlier he hadn't made up his mind on whether or not to tell them, but he has
to now. They are risking their lives too, if he does this. Athos gives him a
small smile, really more of up upturning of his lips, and Porthos shifts to
wrap an arm around him. This is how it should be, Aramis thinks, but of course
it's over too soon.
"I should get to bed," Athos says, as he does all too often. Aramis stopped
asking him to stay years ago. He will, but only when Aramis or Porthos needs
him to. Never of his own desires. As he traces a thumb over the widest part of
Aramis' palm, Aramis sees something uncertain on his face. And he almost asks
Athos to stay.
But the moment is over before he gets the chance. Athos stands, brushes himself
off, and says goodnight. Porthos too hovers in the doorway for a moment,
uncertain, until Aramis pulls him down to the bed. "Stay with me." Porthos, he
knows, will never say no. He needs it just as much as Aramis, even if he'll
hesitate and excuse like they haven't moved past that years ago.
Lying together in the bed doesn't feel sexual at all right now, just the
comfort of contact and familiar hands around him. Aramis tucks his face into
Porthos' shoulder and listens to steady beat of his heart. He can hear the low
rumble of Porthos' voice. "One day I will kill them for you."
"They're not all bad." He noses along the skin of Porthos' neck, feels the
intake of his breath before remembering that this is Porthos and he's not
supposed to be doing that. He forgets, sometimes. "Anne is kind, and Adele is
delightful."
"And the rest?"
He thinks of Buckingham and shivers. "Some of them I would not mourn, should
you make good on your promise to kill them for me."
"One day..." It comes out almost as a sigh. Aramis sees his chance.
He shifts even closer, until his lips are an inch away from Porthos' ear.
"Ninon wanted to talk about rebellion. It's happening. Probably sooner rather
than later. They want me to spy."
He lets Porthos take in the information, and is surprised when Porthos flips
them suddenly. There's just a brief flicker of tension before Porthos leans
down to whisper back, "I'm in. Flea too. Twelve wants to fight."
"One doesn't." Aramis arcs under him. His body is responding the way it's been
responding all night, and he barely has the presence of mind to gasp out, "Time
this is going to take time Porthos. They're rebelling in Eleven. But they're
not going to win. Not yet." His voice, embarrassingly, has gone low and raspy.
"Eleven?" Porthos pulls back. Aramis nods, glancing at his wide pupils, the
brief flash of hunger on his face. For a moment, he wants it. He wants to surge
up and kiss Porthos. Wants to see if kissing Porthos feels as good as it did
with Athos, if it feels good when he's not drunk and hurting. Whether Porthos
will be there in the morning-
He pushes the thoughts away. He doesn't need that, Porthos doesn't need that
and neither does Athos. He is capable of having non-sexual relationships in his
life. And there is a rebellion starting.
With difficulty he forces his mind back to the present. "Ninon told me. Four
and Five, too."
Porthos curses. "Soon then."
"Not soon enough." It's another weight hanging over him now, the knowledge of
what's happening in the rest of the world. They settle in again, this time with
Porthos tucked into Aramis' side and sprawled across his chest. Aramis lets his
fingers draw patterns over his friend's skin for a few minutes before saying,
"A year. Maybe more."
"I wouldn't want to be the tributes for next year then," Porthos says sleepily.
"At least yours volunteer."
"Yeah," Aramis says shortly. He's too wrung out to explain that it's no more
comforting when you watch children signing up for slaughter instead of being
picked by lottery. "Next year will be a bad one."
There's nothing more to say to that, so they sleep.
***** Porthos II *****
Chapter Notes
     soooo, ah, notice how 6/8 turned into 6/10? Oops. There's going to be
     one more set of Athos-Aramis-Porthos to round this fic out before the
     finale.
     Chapter takes place the same year as Aramis II, so their ages would
     be
     Athos - 23
     Porthos - 22
     Aramis - 21
     Roughly anyway, as the chapter takes place over 8 months and their
     birthdays are all in there somewhere. You get the idea
"And then he said, I don't want to be the general I want to be the queen!"
Alice says. Porthos laughs right on cue, doing his best to not spit out his sip
of coffee. "Do you have to go home so quickly?"
"Games are over, they can't keep us much longer." Porthos shrugs. They'd been
in the Capitol for almost two months, the games had been long this year.
But that was never enough for the Capitol, even someone who's company he
enjoyed. "It's too bad Twelve didn't win, I could see you during the tour."
Ten had pulled a victor this year, a girl who'd lost several fingers in the
winning of it. Too late to reattach them after she won, she'd been slowly
learned to use the ones she had left. Porthos' tributes had died during the
bloodbath, as usual. He tries not to think about them too much.
He says instead, "At least it's not District One again. I'd never hear the end
of it from Athos."
That makes her smile again. "I'd rather not have to do it at all, despite
enjoying the company it brings."
"Alice," Porthos warns.
"I know I know." The smile vanishes. "I'm not dissenting, I only meant-"
He catches her eye as she falls silent. "I know." More than anyone else, he
knows. But they can't talk about this here. "May I escort you home?"
"You may." He always walks her home after tea, if only to enjoy the jealous
looks women on the street send their way. Alice is no one particularly
important - then again neither is Porthos, a district boy and the son of a coal
miner. But a victor is desired, coveted, and they can't see how she keeps his
company so regularly.
They don't consider something as simple as friendship.
Athos doesn't understand either, Porthos knows. Athos has never known anything
of the Capitol except for their cruelty. And while Porthos is under no
illusions about the priorities of the people here... he knows some of them now.
"I wish you could say," Alice says on the doorstep.
"I'd make a terrible Capitol person, you know that." And my friend is planning
to blow it up. He'd tell her, if he dared. Would she agree?
"And I could never live in your districts. Have a good train ride back!" She
kisses him on the cheek, runs a hand through his curls, and disappears. Still
smiling, Porthos turns around and heads back to the training centre.
Being a victor's not the worst way to live, Porthos decided long ago. He and
Flea are practical like that. Everyone from District Twelve is: the poorest,
smallest district, filled with coal miners and people just scraping by. Once he
was one of them.
Instead when the train drops him off he walks through town and beyond it to the
winding road up to Victor's Village: population 2. Population 3 now, because
Charon's moved in while they were in the Capitol. Porthos tries to work up some
outrage.
"Miss me?" Charon says when Porthos pushes open the door. He's stretched out on
the sofa.
"Your house not good enough?" Porthos sighs. He doesn't have the energy for
this right now and Charon is in the mood to spar.
"Please. I know it's been a while, but do try to remember how the rest of the
district lives." He's referring to the small houses most of the district lives
in. The house he was given after aging out of the community home, with its
rough wooden furniture and three rooms and floor space roughly one tenth of the
mansion that Porthos was given when he won the games.
"Trade you any time," Porthos growls anyway, pushing past Charon and into the
kitchen. Unfortunately, he follows.
"Going to cook me dinner, Porthos? Just like old times?" Charon demands. His
eyes roam over the gleaming countertops, the fresh bread from the bakery that
Porthos pulls out of his bag. He'd bought it on the way home, something to take
the sting out of being back in District Twelve again. He hadn't anticipated
sharing it with an old friend. "The Peacekeepers are out in force," Charon
adds, a note of pleading in his voice. "Everyone's staying home for a while."
Porthos takes that to mean They shut down the black market and everyone's too
afraid to trade right now. Charon may not have another place to go. He sighs.
"Stay then. Just don't keep me up." Sleeping alone was hard enough, he needs
every precious moment of unconsciousness he can muster up.
The Capitol is not one of Porthos' favourite places. It's full of people he
rightly despises, people who brought him there to fight to the death for
entertainment and wagered on the outcome (his win made a lot of people slightly
poorer and a few people very rich). It's full of parties, obligations, and
Ninon trying to drape him in silk and cut off his curls.
But it's also full of his victors from One, the truest friends he's ever had.
So much that he's wondering if the word 'friends' is still the right one. He
looks at Charon, sitting at the table watching Porthos cook, and cannot even
compare the two.
He and Charon have history. They fought side by side long before the threat of
the reaping hung over them. It was Charon who taught Porthos how to fight, and
in return Porthos showed him the hole underneath the fence that you could just
barely squeeze through. They'd explored the woods together, and many days
after, and Porthos had gotten them out of many scraps with the other children
at the community home. But for all that they had never been particularly close,
never shared secrets or thoughts. And when Porthos had stood on that reaping
platform and the escort had called for volunteers Charon had been silent.
As Porthos puts the pasta on to boil, he compares that to spending a day with
Aramis and Athos. The screens all turned to mimic sunlight, illuminating the
room. The quiet conversation punctuated by bursts of raucous laughter. How the
light would catch the edge of Athos' smile as he turned his head. How Aramis'
hands drew patterns on his shoulder. How safe he felt, curled up in a bed with
the both of them.
"Thinking of some Capitol boy?" Charon cut into his thoughts. "Or that girl I
saw you with on television?"
"Thinking of how much better the food tastes when I don't have to cook it,"
Porthos retorted. And, because he knew it would sting, "There's nothing here
that can beat it. Roast duck draped in its own feathers. Wild boar. Soup that
takes like springtime."
"You're lying." Charon's eyes narrowed.
"Springtime," Porthos maintains. It's enough. Charon sits back in his chair and
stops commenting until Porthos serves the food and sits down himself.
"Porthos," Charon says slowly, chewing the fresh bakery bread, "you have a
position in the Capitol." It sounds like a question. It's not.
Porthos doesn't know if he wants to know where this is going. "No more than any
other victor. Less than some."
"It doesn't matter. You go back and forth between them in a way no one else
does. You can get us what we need."
His brow furrows. "And what do you need?" A petition for better conditions in
Twelve? He'll get laughed out of any government office and sent home. And
somehow he doesn't think Charon wants him to bring home perfume.
"There's a component-" Charon pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket and hands
it to Porthos. "We need it. Badly."
Who's 'we'-? he wants to ask, but he's getting the feeling this is not a
conversation to be overheard. So instead he says loudly, "No shoptalk during
dinner. Afterwards we can go for a walk and you can tell me all about it."
Charon's eyes narrow. "Porthos-"
"After dinner," Porthos repeats firmly.
They eat the rest of the meal in silence.
As soon as it's done, Porthos makes good on his promise and leads Charon on a
walk. They stroll out of Victor's Village, down the electric fence that hasn't
held a charge in years. Finally, they stop at the spot where the fence leaves a
small gap at the bottom, a gap where eight year old Porthos and Charon had
wriggled out and into the woods to explore.
"Now," Porthos says, "what's all this about?"
"Rebellion," Charon says. "We will no longer be subjected to the whims of the
Capitol. We will be free or we will die trying."
"You have support for this?" He remembers what Aramis had said - there was
rebellion in Eleven and Four. Could Twelve join them?
"We will fight," Charon promises. "With or without you, we will fight."
Three districts is surely better than two. "Tell me what you need," Porthos
says. Charon pulls out a paper.
It's a crudely drawn picture of a machine, a few components labeled. Porthos
has no idea what it is.
"It's a machine that fixes fabric," Charon explains. "Popular in the Capitol.
We need it for these components-" He pointed to the diagram. "The isotope, and
the ability to hold a charge, so when we add coal-"
Oh. Porthos gets it now. "You're building a bomb."
"We're going to blow that mine sky-high," Charon says. "No more industry."
What they’re planning to do… the damage is incalculable.
"Those mines are people's livelihood," Porthos says hoarsely. Without them...
"Charon," he says desperately, "how will people eat? What will they do?"
"They fight," Charon says. "We need to fight all together or not at all. This
is our one chance to make it out of District Twelve."
"By forcing them?" Porthos turns away, eyes scanning the distant treeline as if
it held answers. "Charon, what if there are people in the mines when it goes
off?"
Charon shrugs. "Martyrs," he says it so casually. "Like my parents were. Like
most of the orphans in this district are." He fixes Porthos with a level look.
"They are already killing us. This place, the Seam... it's not a place to live,
Porthos. People in poverty, starving children, grime over everything. No one is
living. We're just surviving."
"I can't do it," Porthos says firmly. "Ask someone else. I won't be part of
this slaughter, even if it's for a good cause." He turns and starts walking
back to Victor's Village without waiting to see if Charon will follow. "You can
stay for a few days," he calls over his shoulder, "but that's all."
Charon follows, breaking into a jog to catch up. "What happened to you?" he
asks, just at they come up to the entrance to Victor's Village. "The kid who
used to explore the woods and forage for food, the best damn thief I know, the
man that won the Hunger Games... scared of rebellion? What happened?"
"He grew up," Porthos says.
Thankfully the Peacekeeper presence in the Hob dies down quickly, and Charon
slinks back to the black market. It's only then, alone in his mansion, Porthos
feels safe enough to call Aramis.
"Hey," Aramis says when the line connects. He sounds sleepy. Porthos hopes he's
been getting enough sleep, that he's been taking care of himself. That he and
Athos have been taking care of each other now that Porthos isn't there to do it
for them.
"Hey," Porthos says right back. "Miss you."
"You too." They daren't say a lot on these phones - every single one is bugged,
Porthos is certain of it, just like the rest of their houses are. But they can
have this; Aramis' voice, tinny and echoey on the dodgy line, telling Porthos
that Aramis missed him.
"How's Athos holding up?" Porthos asks.
"With a bottle. It's okay. He's drinking, but he's sleeping and eating. He goes
outside sometimes."
"What's it like outside?" Porthos asks suddenly. He saw it on his victory tour,
sure, but he didn't get to see much of the district.
"Cold, right now." Aramis says dryly. Then he laughs, and Porthos' chest warms
at the sound. "There was a bluebird the other day, just sitting in the tree
outside my house. It keeps coming back."
"Yeah?" Porthos prompts. He slides down the wall, receiver pressed to his ear.
"You going to keep it as a pet?"
"Not a pet, I like it free. Athos named her Serena."
"Serena the bluebird." Why not? Porthos thinks. Aramis doesn't have anyone else
to keep him company in that house. He's as good as an orphan, just like
Porthos. Just like Athos, who lost his brother to a president's whims. Maybe
they should all befriend bluebirds. "Tell me what it looks like."
"There's a tree in the yard, a big birch, and right now there's snow all around
the base. I've never seen this much snow. When the sun breaks over the hill..."
Porthos closes his eyes, letting himself be transported to a different
district, to a world that included Aramis and Athos.
Midway through an explanation of the path from Victor's Village into the market
square, however, Aramis cuts off. "Hold on-" he says, and Porthos can hear
muted conversation on the other end.
"Aramis? Everything alright?" There's no reply. "Aramis?"
"That's not my name," says a new voice on the other end of the phone, and
Porthos' body sags in relief.
"Athos."
"Disappointed? I can get Aramis..." It's a joke, but there's something lurking
under it. Another uncertainty.
"Never," Porthos says with feeling.
There's a pause on the line. Athos isn't the chatty sort, and Porthos isn't
sure what kind of conversation he would welcome, if any. Finally he says, "I
heard you have bluebirds in District One.
"You heard correctly," Athos assents dryly. "How are you, Porthos?"
Porthos flashes back to Charon, to the distant rumble of rebellion, to how very
large and empty his bed seems without them. "Making it work," he says. "How are
you holding up?"
Athos says, "Surviving," and leaves it at that.
Another silence on the line. This time Porthos doesn't push - he doesn't have
much more to say, anyhow. For a long moment, they just listen to one another's
breathing. Then Athos says, very quietly, "Thank you."
Porthos senses that this is it, Athos is about to hang up. Before he can,
Porthos finds himself saying, "Wait. Tell Aramis something for me? Just that...
it's been raining a lot here. I think there might even be a thunderstorm."
"I think I know what you mean," Athos says. There's a brief scuffle, the phone
being passed, and he hears Aramis’ voice again.
"Be careful." It's a command, short and sharp. "Be careful, Porthos. Don't...
get struck by lightning."
That night his dreams are terrible.
Porthos runs through a darkened Capitol city street, bombs going off around
him. Somewhere up ahead his mother his screaming - if he can reach her, just
reach her, she'll be okay. He won't be an orphan anymore.
"Athos!" he calls. "Aramis!" If they're there they'll help him. But this is the
Capitol, so when he turns the corner it's to see the two people he loves laying
dead in the square. The people of the Capitol mill about, chattering with one
another, each with hands stained red with blood. They carry little Aramis dolls
in their hands, each one a piece of the man Porthos loved.
"Did you enjoy the games?" A woman asks, a raven-haired woman so terrible
Porthos can barely look at her. The forget-me-nots- woven through her hair
tumble down in a cascade, threatening to drown him, until he blinks and she's
replaced by Alice. "These will be the best games ever!" She's replaced by
Aramis, who leans in to kiss him on the mouth. Only when he pulls back from the
kiss Aramis has turned into Athos, who has time to give him one haunting look
before being replaced by a boy from One, a boy named Sable with a dent in his
forehead where Porthos killed him.
The dream lurches as Porthos spins, trying to get away. But the Capitol people
are on him now, their hands crawling over his body. A pair of hands is pulling
at his jaw, trying to open it so they can rip out his insides and leave him
like Aramis and Athos -
Porthos wakes with a shout. It takes several minutes of breathing before he can
even get out of bed, and several minutes more before his heart stops racing.
It's just a dream. He's had them even since becoming a victor. Knows Aramis and
Athos get them too, that he's hardly alone in this particular torture.
Still, he scrambles to the phone. Calls Aramis’ house even though it’s the
middle of the night. Athos picks up. “Hello?”
“Is everything alright?” Porthos asks him urgently.
“...Yes?” Athos’ voice is a drawl. “Is everything alright with you?”
“Had a nightmare,” is all Porthos says. I dreamed you were dead. “I just had to
make sure you two were alright.”
“We are.” Athos breaths on the other end of the phone. “Porthos-” He stops. “Be
careful,” Is all he says. “Do what you need to do. But be careful.”
“I intend to,” Porthos says, then lets Athos get back to his sleep. He makes
tea as the sun slowly rises, then leaves to find Charon.
“I’ll get you the part you want,” he growls in greeting.
There’s surprise on Charon’s face for a moment, surprise that settles into an
easy smile. “Good.”
“But we do this on my terms.”
“No.”
“Then find someone else. I’m sure Flea will be happy to help you.” Flea will
not, in fact, help him. She is even more aloof, more antisocial than they are.
Charon knows that won’t work. “You will not kill anyone except in self
defense.”
“That is completely unworkable-”
“Do you know what it’s like to kill someone?” Porthos bullies right over him.
“Because I do. I have. It takes something you can’t get back.”
Charon is staring at him. Porthos decides to take it as a victory and move on.
“If you ruin people’s lives, you must have a plan. If you blow up the mine, how
are people going to eat? If you provoke the Peacekeepers, how will you keep
people safe?”
“That’s not our job.”
“It is now.” Charon is glaring. Porthos grins.
“Anything else for the mighty victor?”
“Yeah,” Porthos says. His smile drops away. “Wait till the games. They’ll be
distracted, and you’ll have an excuse to be outside in large groups.”
He walks away, then. Leaves Charon standing in the black market, watching him
with careful eyes.
He remembers what Aramis said, almost seven months ago. Next year will be a bad
one.
You’re right, love, Porthos thinks as he forges a new path through the snow
that lays heavy on the ground. But it’s worth it.
It’s worth it.
It has to be.
***** Athos III *****
Chapter Summary
     His name is D'Artagnan.
Chapter Notes
     sorry sorry sorry! Three weeks overdue... my cat was very ill, and I
     took a lot of time off to be with her. She is pulling through,
     however, so we are back! The next chapters I'm trying to have done in
     a 2-3 week frame because I'm writing them from scratch, then the
     finale posted the week after. We're almost done, folks!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The Games kick off with a splash, and it's just as horrible as expected. Athos
stands on the reaping platform, behind Treville where the cameras can't catch
his face too easily. He's sober today - it's reaping day, he needs his wits -
but it had a tendency to make him look worse, not better. His smiles are
nonexistent, his face is a mask of impassivity.
"I volunteer as tribute!" Ladies first, as always, and a pretty blonde thing
with determined eyes walks onto the stage. Her name is Fleur, because of course
it is, and she looks like a strong wind would break her in half.
The boy is no better. He charges ahead as soon as the name is called, with all
the brashness and stupidity that comes from being sixteen in a career district.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
"There's no need to shout," Athos mumbles before he can stop himself. Aramis,
front and centre like a good victor, turns to give him the briefest smile.
His name is D'Artagnan.
The train ride to the Capitol is quiet, as it usually is. Treville is mentoring
this year, along with Athos. Aramis goes because he doesn't have a choice and
besides, it's the one chance they have to see Porthos. "Maybe he'll pull a
victor, or we will," Aramis says as they board. "Then we'll see him on the
victory tour too."
Athos doesn't hold much luck out for District One. Fleur is more competent with
books than with blades, by her own admission, though Athos notes she's clever
and quick. D'Artagnan is as stupid as he looks. When Treville asks how well he
can fight, D'artagnan says only, "Well enough to win."
"What does that mean?" Athos challenges. "Can you use a sword? A spear? Throw a
knife and hit a moving target?" There's no answer. He turns back to Fleur. "Why
did either of you volunteer for this?" Why did any of us? He volunteered for
this. Aramis volunteered for this. A million years ago, Treville volunteered
for this. Each of them signing up for slaughter. His voice is rising but he
doesn't care. "You are both going to die in that arena and for nothing-"
"Go," Treville barks at Athos. "I'll deal with this for now."
“Fine.” He doesn’t want to be here anyway. Athos shoots Treville one last dirty
look as he stands to leave.
Aramis looks at the tributes, then Treville. He follows Athos.
Leaving, they can still hear Fleur say quietly, "I wanted to see the Capitol.
And the games. The glory..."
Glory.
He wanted glory, once.
Aramis goes with him to his compartment, hovering carefully. He knows Athos
doesn’t like to be crowded. But right now, Athos feels as though he may just
shake apart. It takes him a moment to identify the feeling.
Anger.
For just a moment, he lets the fury wash through him, scraping his insides
clean of the fog of alcohol. He’s angry. He’s bloody furious that they’ve been
put in this position, that they are so helpless to stop other people from going
through the same. He wants to shout, to punch the wall, to take a knife and
shove it right through the president’s heart.
“Athos?” Aramis asks gently. He reaches out a hand, like he’s approaching a
wild animal, but Athos is too rigid to respond. “Can I...”
He’s too angry remember why they shouldn’t. One short, jerky nod and he says,
“Touch me. Please.”
Aramis wraps his arms around Athos immediately, resting his head on Athos’
shoulder. It’s a tight embrace, the kind that Aramis favours - he hugs so hard
Athos worries for a moment if he’ll ever let go.
“They’re going to die,” he says. They all know it.
“I know.”
“Even if they win, it’s wouldn’t be a kindness.” They’d be thrown into the same
horrors the victors all face daily: the nightmares, the flashbacks, the fear.
The unending pressure to be something else, to be turned into a product for the
Capitol to consume.
Aramis shakes his head immediately. “Don’t ever say that.”
“Aramis…” Because Aramis knows more than any of them how true it is. And if he
knew the rest… what did it matter, really? Athos swallows. “If I hadn’t of been
such a failure, the Gamemakers-”
“Would have let me die in that arena?” Aramis pulls back, studying him with
sharp eyes. “So I owe you my life. I’m grateful for it. Athos-” his eyes are
blazing, Athos can’t look away, “if you were not you, it would have been
harder. Sure. But they don’t decide everything, and I did intend to come home.”
He looks up, bright-eyed and unafraid. The deadliest of their trio, the
consummate survivor.
Athos closes the distance between them and kisses him.
It lasts for just a second - one glorious second with his lips pressed against
Aramis’. Neither of them are drunk this time, neither of them are hurting, and
every part of Athos is focused on the fact that he’s kissing one of the people
that matter most to him.
And it’s good. Aramis’ lips are soft, the beard around them a rough
counterpoint. He’s still in Aramis’ arms, and Athos has never felt so close to
another person.
Until Aramis pulls away. “Athos-”
“I’m sorry.” It’s like a bucket of cold water has been poured over him. He’s an
idiot. A perfect idiot. He’d thought-
“Don’t be,” Aramis says, and reaches out to touch his cheek before pulling away
like he’s been burned. “But we’re in the Capitol tomorrow, and I can’t have
that when I’m there. It would make things too hard, having that while I was
with other people.”
Athos just nods miserably. The last thing he wants is to cause more pain for
Aramis. “Nothing happened then.”
“Nothing happened,” Aramis agrees. He sighs, then reaches up to press a kiss to
Athos’ cheek before he goes. “Don’t tell Porthos.”
Athos is banished from talking to the tributes until they reach the Capitol,
where Ninon whisks them away for the opening ceremonies. Both are dressed in
silver, styled aggressively, though Athos notes that Ninon didn't force
D'Artagnan to cut his ridiculous hair.
"Eyeliner is a good look on you," Aramis tells D'Artagnan. The boy looks like
he's trying to decide if Aramis is being serious or not, and gives up in favour
of adjusting the metal pieces that hang in his hair. Fleur's dressed the same
but with flowers, metallic flowers everywhere.
"So the audience will remember your name," Ninon says simply. Athos has to hand
it to her, she does always try her best.
As the chariots go out to the roar of the crowd he turns to Ninon. "I still
wouldn't bet on the girl. The boy either." He was so young, they both were.
Foolish children about to lose their innocence along with their lives.
"His name is D'Artagan, not 'the boy'," she tells him coolly. "And her name is
Fleur. Try to remember."
"I'll try." But it's a coping mechanism, one all of the victors indulge in.
Pretending they don't care. That the person going to die was the boy and not a
name, not a person.
The last chariot has just left the building when he hears Porthos call his
name. A smile - a real, genuine smile - breaks out across his face. “Porthos.”
“Hey,” Porthos strides over, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and throws an
arm around Athos. “Missed you.”
“You too,” he says, and it’s one of the first honest things he’s said since
coming to the Capitol. He melts into Porthos, just for a moment, before pulling
away. “Aramis is over-”
“Want to see you first.” Porthos gives him a once over, careful but warm, and
runs a hand down the lapels of Athos’ jacket. “Suit’s nice.”
“Ninon’s. If I’m mentoring this year she’s got to make me presentable.”
“Not the sad sack you usually are?” Porthos laughs, his arm coming around Athos
again as he leads them towards Aramis. “You’re pretty in whatever you wear.”
“Thanks,” Athos says, the tips of his ears turning red.
He does his best to avoid D'Artagnan and Fleur - avoid the tributes - as much
as his mentoring duties allow. But then comes practising for the interviews,
and he's sitting across from the boy with a scowl on his face.
D'Artagnan prompts him, "So? What's going to happen?" It does nothing to
improve his mood.
"You've seen it on television. You have three minutes to be so charming the
sponsors will want you to live instead of die."
The boy snorts. "And how do I do that?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." He stands and circles the boy, if only
to see if it makes him uncomfortable. D'Artagnan shifts in his chair, trying to
keep Athos in view as much as possible. Good. That kind of awareness could keep
him alive in the arena. "I think you're going to be the hero. Listen, you
volunteered for glory and you want to make a name for yourself. You're bright-
eyed and eager and will triumph over anything."
"But that's not-"
Athos talks over him. "It doesn't matter what's true. It matters that this is
what you can pull off that will convince them to sponsor you."
"Can't I be fierce, then? They like fierce competitors."
Athos takes a long moment to look him up and down - the skinny frame, the youth
that fills out all the sharp angles of his face, the brightness of his wide
eyes. "If you were two years older and fifty pounds heavier, maybe." But not
even then. He's not too much life in him, too much spirit.
D'Artagnan pouts for a moment, then comes back with, "What did you do?"
"Sarcastic. Uncaring."
"Not much of a stretch."
Point D'Artagnan, Athos thinks, but retakes his seat. "Sarcastic isn't going to
win you any help though. So let's try it. I'll ask you questions, and you can
try to be as heroic as you can."
"Fine." D'Artagnan crosses his arms. Then he remembers, uncrosses them, and
sits up straighter.
"Now, D'Artagnan." Athos can't resist the urge to put on a Capitol accent. It's
ridiculous and they have to listen to it all day long. "Tell the audience, I'm
just dying to know, what lead you to volunteer at the reaping?"
D'Artagnan stifles a smile and clears his throat. "Well. Uh. Glory."
Athos waits, but there's nothing else. "Glory?"
"Glory in the arena."
"Well, we're all cheering for you." That's about all Athos can come on with. He
prods the boy again. "And what does your family think about it?"
D'Artagnan crosses his arms again. "I don't want to talk about that."
"Now, D'Artagnan, be a good sport don't leave us hanging!" The accent is much
harder to keep up when he's scrambling for what to say. "How about a
girlfriend, do you have one of those?"
"No."
"Plans for after your glorious win?"
"I haven't really thought about it, after." He shrugs, not looking at Athos.
Athos drops the accent. "You have to talk about something."
"I will! Just not that."
"They want to know you, D'Artagnan." He sighs. "You signed up for this."
"I'll answer the questions."
Athos arches an eyebrow. "You will?" D'Artagnan says nothing. Point Athos.
"You're going to be up there for three minutes, like it or not you'll have to
talk. And they'll interview your family anyway, if you make the top eight."
Which, at this point, would require an awful lot of luck.
D’Artagnan still doesn’t say anything.
He fixes D'Artagnan with a stare. It's a very good stare, and the boy can only
hold it for a few seconds before dropping his eyes. "My father's dead. That's
why I volunteered."
"And your mother?" D'Artagnan just shakes his head.
"I have sisters?"
Athos stands up and begins to pace, the questions coming faster. "Younger or
older?"
"Younger, both of them."
"Good." He whirls to face D'Artagnan. "That's your angle. Your volunteered to
win glory and to honour your father's memory. You love your sisters and are
fighting for them. Heroic." And it makes so much sense Athos barely notes the
fury gathering in D'artagnan's features.
"No!" the boy spits out. "I don't want to do that, that's not why- I didn't
volunteer for him and I don't want to talk about him." He looks like he might
go for a weapon right here.
If Athos cared, he could grab D'Artagnan and force him to see sense. He could
shout the tribute into submission, or lay out all of the logical reasons why
he's right. He could do what he usually does at this point, which is to snarl
fine and go find someone he cares about and knows won't die in the next week.
He doesn't do any of that. Instead, he asks frankly, "Do you want to live?"
In the seven years he's been in the Games, it's a question he's never asked.
D'Artagnan hesitates, probably because the question's so unexpected. He
actually thinks about it. "Yes," he says finally. "I want to live. I'll say
it."
"It doesn't end in the arena," Athos warns. "If you want to live - you're
theirs, forever. You never get off the train."
The boy pushes his hair out of his eyes. "I can do it."
"Good." They practice for another hour, and by the end D'Artagnan is offering
answers freely instead of making Athos drag every word out of him. They’re not
even bad answers. The next morning he sends D'artagnan to Ninon with no further
instructions.
He can do it. If he tries. He's young, but no younger than Aramis was. And as
he presents his answers in the interviews, smiling as he reveals a desire for
honouring his late father, Athos is sure he's got the favour of the crowd.
Maybe, maybe....
Porthos, unfortunately, is mentoring the same tributes he has every year. Two
skinny kids from the poor part of town, neither one of the looking like they
could so much as hold a sword without toppling over.
Two down, Athos thinks, even though that's horrible. He can't help being a
victor. Scanning the other tributes he does a quick count: Two and Four are as
competitive as ever, glossy and vicious. The boy from Five looks whip-smart as
well, nearly six feet tall. So is the boy from Seven, and he tells D’Artagnan
as much in the training centre the next day.
"Stay with the careers. Take out Five and Seven first." Before the team could
turn on each other.
"And the girl from Three," Aramis adds, from over in the corner with his book.
He comes over to sit on the table.
"Get off," Athos tells him.
"No," Aramis says simply, and turns to the tribute. "Don't trust the girl from
Three. I don't like the look in her eyes."
"Fair enough." Athos nods. "Nor the girl from Three. Get a weapon as soon as
you can, even if it's just a knife. Seconds count in the beginning of the
Games. And," he turns back to Aramis, "get off. I mean it."
"Make me," Aramis shoots back, all smiles, and then stops as if he suddenly
remembers where he is. He slides silently off the counter.
Athos lets it go. We've been here for only a few days and they're already
getting to him.
The victors assemble in the control room that night, to ensure everything is
set for the Games tomorrow. Athos is drinking - he doesn’t want to be sober for
this, he doesn’t want to see these two idiot kids die - and Aramis is biting
the side of his fingernail. Porthos rests a hand on each of their shoulders.
“Why Ninon doesn’t kill you both is beyond me.”
"Because the Capitol would be very displeased if they didn't have Aramis to
drool over," Athos says dryly.
"And besides," Aramis echos with an easy smile, "she thinks Athos is pretty."
"Ninon's not wrong," Porthos chuckles.
How they got on this topic is beyond him. Athos feels the tips of his ears
turning red. "I don't think that's entirely appropriate."
"It's the Capitol." Aramis lounges in a chair, but he's far more subdued.
"Everything is appropriate."
"How are your tributes this year?" Porthos asks casually.
Athos thinks about it for a moment. "Young."
"Spirited," Aramis adds.
"Yes." They were spirited, both of them. "But young."
"Not much chance for a victory tour then." Porthos' mouth twists. "My kid,
Tate, he's alright. Butcher's boy, he can use a knife at least."
"Yeah?" Athos considers it. Knows that with a District One victory so unlikely,
it may be better to start hoping for Twelve.
"Aramis, are you in or out tonight?" Porthos asks.
"In. They're all drooling over the boy from Four who won last year."
"Getting too old for that then? All the fresh blood available?" It's a horrible
question for Porthos to ask, but it's not as if they haven't all thought about
it. Aramis is only twenty three, but there’s been six years of tributes since
then to take the heat off him.
"Maybe." Aramis frowns. "I'm seeing Anne tomorrow."
To his credit, Porthos doesn't waver. "Then let's make the most of tonight."
By now it's a ritual, the two of them curled into bed. Athos sits in a chair
nearby, drinking and watching them. Wondering at things he can't let himself
have. Have they kissed each other? Would Aramis allow such a thing, or would it
be the same situation as with Athos?
He wants to kiss them both so badly.
But he doesn’t, and eventually they sleep. Porthos and Aramis in the bed
together, and Athos their quiet sentinel.
In the twilight hours before dawn, Athos finds himself examining D’Artagnan’s
chances. He has a good training score, a solid interview, and is from a career
district. He’s got a chance. Athos has dutifully signed up all the sponsors
that Aramis leads over to him, praying it will be enough.
There’s nothing left to do but wake Aramis and Porthos, then go and get his
tributes as Porthos excuses himself to do the same. It’s time.
Aramis can’t stop shifting with nervous energy. Athos puts a hand on his
shoulder to still him while they say goodbye to their tributes, but he just
shrugs out of it and goes to embrace both D’Artagnan and Fleur.
Athos isn’t going to go that far. “Don’t die out there,” he says.
“We won’t,” says D’Artagnan, already setting his chin.
“Remember that we know things you couldn’t possibly. Trust in that. This is our
job.”
The boy takes it in, nodding shortly.
Aramis says, almost too quiet to hear, “I need to tell you something.”
Athos is so focused on the two kids in front of him he barely takes it in. By
the time he registers what Aramis has said, the moment’s passed. He’ll ask
later.
“Anything else?” Fleur asks, and Athos has to focus on that.
“Get water, right away. A lack of food and water will kill you as quickly as
any tribute, and you have to survive if you’re going to be in fighting shape.
Take it day by day, don’t leave anything for tomorrow.”
Both nod, and someone comes over to inform them it’s time to go. As they’re
taken up into the hovercraft, Aramis slips a hand into his. “Do you think they
can do it?”
Athos just shakes his head. “Not both of them.”
Chapter End Notes
     My_Tumblr
     As always, comments and kudos are loved
***** Aramis III *****
Chapter Summary
     That was the opposite of dying: living. Most of the time it felt like
     he existed in some grey in between, dead but still breathing.
     He wants to live.
     Even if it's only for ten minutes.
Chapter Notes
     Heyyyy two weeks isn't bad. Thank you nanowrimo
     Enjoy this one, it's the one you've been waiting for.
Aramis has been a victor for years now. He’s not a trembling child anymore, he
knows how things work in the Capitol. Things that would have turned his stomach
a few years ago don’t even make him blink. He’s learned how to deal with it.
He’s always known that fighting openly is futile. The powers that be have too
tight a hold on him, and value too little the lives he cares about. But that
doesn’t mean Aramis has to roll over at take it.
Little things. Small acts of resistance. He does what he can, knowing that it’s
not enough. That if he’s not quick enough, or clever enough, he’ll pay the
price for failure. So when Ninon makes him an offer, late at night in the
safety of her home, he finds himself murmuring a quiet agreement.
Small things. He showers every night when he gets in without fail. When he was
seventeen it was a comfort, scrubbing away the memory of skin on skin. Now it’s
perfunctory, a quick wash to ensure he’s not smelling like sex when he goes to
bed.
Porthos is waiting for him, stretched out on a bed reading a book. He puts it
down the second Aramis steps out of the shower, with his usual look of concern
as he gives Aramis a once over.
“It wasn’t bad,” Aramis says. He rarely says ‘it’s bad’ anymore. But he has no
bruises, he hasn’t taken any alcohol or drugs, and he’s on his own two feet.
That’s enough for tonight.
“No?” Porthos says. The initial concern has faded into a wariness. “Who were
you with tonight?”
“No one. New person.” He’s already forgotten the man’s name. “It was his
birthday. Why?”
“Just curious.” Porthos shrugs.
"Athos?" Aramis asks.
"Drunk. I put him in bed a few hours ago," Porthos says. It's the first day of
the Games, Athos drinking himself unconscious isn't unheard of at this point.
"How are the tributes?"
"My boy, Tate, he's still hanging on." So the butcher's boy is smart. Aramis is
glad of it, Porthos deserves to have a fighting chance for once. "Both yours
are still alive. Snoozing with their alliance."
"Good," Aramis says absently. Sleep was good. "Move over." Porthos moves to
make room on the bed and Aramis slides in to rest his head on Porthos’ wide
chest. His fingers brush back and forth across Porthos’ abdomen like he wants
to memorize every inch of it. "I have something to tell you."
Porthos' arms wind around him, strong and warm. "Yeah?”
“It’ll be out tomorrow, on the news, I just…” wanted Porthos to hear it first.
And why? There’s nothing between them, officially. Nothing you could quantify,
or label. Nothing but what he has, what he wants, and the gulf in between. “I’m
dating Ninon. Officially.”
The papers will spin it any number of ways - the fickle libertine's heart
caught at last, the beauty secrets she used to entrap him, the scandalous
things they do together out of sight. They won't see it for what it is: an
offer, freely given and accepted. A necessity.
Porthos winds his strong arms around Aramis. "How could she?" he asks, and
there's a danger lurking in his words. Aramis doesn't want to be Ninon the next
time she runs into Porthos.
"It is a kindness." His mouth is dry. "It gives me an excuse to be at her house
more, to exchange information." For the supposed rebellion that never seems to
arrive. Soon, Ninon had promised him again. Maybe next year. There are too many
pieces to put in place. "And..."
"And?" Porthos asks. Up close, his eyes are large and kind, the dark brown shot
through with hazel. Beautiful, Aramis thinks, not for the first time.
"And she thinks it will deflect attention and interest away from me. If I have
a girlfriend, you see. If I'm no longer the libertine."
He sees Porthos' eyes widen, and then his arms tighten around Aramis in a hug.
"Will that work?"
Adele will be furious. Buckingham won't care in the slightest, but nothing he
could do would move Buckingham. Anne... he can never predict how things will go
with Anne. "It's worth a try." And then, because he can't bear to see Porthos
in pain, he adds, "There's nothing between me and Ninon. I've never- well," he
amends mid-sentence, remembering suddenly.
"'Never well?'" Porthos echos, one eyebrow raising.
Aramis huffs. "I was eighteen, everyone does stupid stuff when they're
eighteen." And, remarkably, he's smiling. Porthos is trying his best to look
judgemental, trying and utterly failing to keep the smile off his face. And
Aramis is laughing. "It's not even the stupidest thing I did when I was
eighteen!"
"No?" Porthos laughs. "What's the stupidest, I've got to know."
Falling in love with you and Athos. He doesn't say it. "Punched the mayor in
the face. Spent a mildly unpleasant night in the stockade for it, but I've
never regretted it. He deserved it."
Porthos laughed. "You not controlling your temper... why am I not surprised?"
"Because you know me." Aramis shifts forward, just slightly. The urge to close
those last two inches of space, to kiss Porthos, is nearly impossible to
resist. But somehow he does. It will make things harder. There will always be
more chances. If they survive. And with a rebellion coming, that's a big 'if'.
But he lets the moment pass. Lets himself shift down into a more comfortable
position, tucked against Porthos' side, and surrender to sleep.
It’s always the little things that matter, Aramis knows. When you can’t control
your life, little things are all you have to keep you going. It’s the voice in
your head that says I can’t make it better, but I can do this and gets you
through the day.
They can’t change everything. They’re involved with a growing rebellion, sure,
but they’re cogs in a machine. He has precious little information, Athos and
Porthos even less.
But he can do this:
He’s at a party, there as a ‘friend’ of a man who wants to impress their host
by flaunting a victor on his arm. At least, thanks to Ninon, he’s not anyone’s
date anymore. It sends a thrill of satisfaction through him, to at least take
that from them. He’s their ‘friend’, sure, and nothing in the status quo has
changed, but he still took something from them. So as they’re standing around
with glasses of wine, talking about the games, Aramis gets bold.
“I don’t think District One can pull a victor,” a woman says. She’s dressed
head to toe in fur, with ridiculously long eyelashes.
“Not even with their winning streak?” his ‘friend’ counters. “Come on, Viola,
three winners in how many years? They’re just deadly in One.” And he reaches a
hand over to squeeze Aramis’ hip.
Aramis doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course we are, but no more than any other
district. If you flip a coin ten times and get heads every time, the next toss
still has a fifty-fifty chance.”
Sure it would. If they were flipping a coin and not talking about a game
everyone knew was rigged. His patron shifts uncomfortably, and the woman
flashes a smug smile.
She ruins the triumph, however, when the next thing out of her mouth is,
“Beauty and brains, you’ve definitely found a winner here.”
Beauty alone doesn’t win the games, he wants to snarl. He holds his tongue.
It’s not the time to be honest.
Instead he gets taken back to a glamorous apartment, where the man yells for
twenty minutes about embarrassing him in public. And really, how was Aramis
supposed to know he wanted to sleep with that woman? Especially considering the
guy had been flaunting Aramis as his lover right in front of her.
He only just manages to not roll his eyes, to finish everything he’s been told
to do and go back to the training center. A quick shower, a few hours rest in
an empty room, and he pads down to the control room.
It's night in the arena. It's been night for two days now, the gamemakers
having chosen to liven things up by screwing with the tributes' heads. No
breaks for night and day means no clear divide for hunting and resting. It
means death could come at any time.
Unless one was a career tribute, in which case they were more likely to be the
ones bringing death. D'Artagnan didn't look very deadly right now though,
curled up with the rest of the careers. Fleur's tucked under his shoulder,
having also survived the first three days. They've also got both from Four and
the girl from Two, making up a nice little career pack. Aramis just hopes they
can hold onto it.
A brush of his fingers against the screen brings up more statistics. The
careers have made their camp by the cornucopia, as usual, and have the bulk of
the loot. D'Artagnan has access to food, water, weapons. He only has one kill
so far though, the girl from Eleven in the initial bloodbath. Fleur has no
kills, but she's not dead yet. Worse tributes have won.
Porthos, however, is pinning all his hopes on his one surviving tribute. Tate's
on his own, making his way steadily across the pine forests and open moors of
the arena. What he's looking for, Aramis doesn't know.
"Everything good?" Athos asks him.
"Good as it can be." Aramis spins in the chair, turning to face both of them.
Athos looks grave, which is normal; Porthos looks even graver, which is not.
Aramis raises an eyebrow at him.
"Let’s take a walk," Porthos says casually to the both of them. "Yours are
sleeping and mine's walking, they'll be fine for a while."
That's new. Something must be going down. "We can do that," Aramis agrees
easily. "I know just the place."
He takes them to the fountain park that Ninon showed him. Water flows musically
over various metal shapes and splashes into basins. Wind chimes sing amongst
flowers that open and close in time to the music. It's beautiful. And even
better, it's loud.
"District Twelve-" Porthos starts, but Aramis holds up a hand. He's still
smiling congenially.
"Come over here, this garden is particularly beautiful."
They go deeper into the gardens approaching a tall stone wall, fountains
spilling from it. Aramis looks once in each direction, casually, to ensure
they're really along. Then, with a smile still on his face, he closes a hand
around the little camera mounted on the wall and rips it free. "We have about
20 minutes before they come to see what's going on."
Both Porthos and Athos are staring at him. More accurately, glancing between
his face and the still sparking piece of machinery in his hand. He drops it on
the ground, and Athos flinches. "We don't have a lot of time. Porthos, what is
it?"
"Rebellion in Twelve," Porthos says.
You told us that before. Or indicated it, at least. So this must be something
else. It's clear Athos has the same thought, because he turns to Porthos and
says, "Worse?"
"They're going to blow up the mines. Open revolt. People are going to die."
Porthos fidgets, restless. "They won't do it while there are people inside, but
it's still rebellion."
"People are dying every day," Aramis says.
"Tell your people," Porthos says simply. "Make sure... if there's a way for
this to not be in vain."
"I will."
"Fifteen minutes," Athos says. "Is there anything else you want to talk about
while we have the chance?"
"District One?" Porthos asks.
Athos just shakes his head. "They're not ready. People want to fight, but it's
all simmering resentment. There's not enough to spark them."
Porthos curses. Aramis rests a hand on his shoulder.
"What's the point in doing this if we're not going to get anywhere?"
"Because we have to." It's Aramis that speaks. He almost surprises himself.
"Because if we don't, we'll die. If we don't, we condone it."
"Ten minutes," Athos chimes in. Ten more minutes of nothing the Capitol can see
or overhear.
Small acts of resistance. We do it because we have to. We do it because we want
to live. That was the opposite of dying: living. Most of the time it felt like
he existed in some grey in between, dead but still breathing.
He wants to live.
Even if it's only for ten minutes.
"Porthos," he says, to catch the man's attention. To give him a warning, just
in case. And then he leans forward, trying to control his haste, just in case
Porthos doesn't feel the same-
Porthos meets him halfway in a kiss.
Compared to the very many kisses he's had, this one is clumsy. Rough,
uncertain, two people who have never kissed before trying to find out what
works for them while holding back a groundswell of feeling.
He wouldn't trade it for anything.
When they pull back, Athos is staring at them with a hungry expression. Aramis
reaches out to him, please, and for once Athos allows himself to be swept into
their arms. Aramis holds him, wrapped in a hug, and Porthos tilts Athos' head
up to give him a gentle kiss. It's tamer than the one he shared with Aramis,
just a brush of dry lips, but it still sends a hot bolt of lightning through
Aramis’ lower abdomen just to see it. Then they're breaking apart, and Athos is
turning to Aramis.
They're nose to nose, looking into each other's eyes. God, Athos' eyes are
blue. Some impossible shade he couldn't name even if he wanted to. Ninon would
probably know, if Aramis ever wanted to ask her. Instead he picked up Athos'
hand from where it was hanging loosely as his side and, never breaking eye
contact, brings it up to kiss the palm. And he is treated to what is possibly
the first real, honest, joyful smile on Athos' face.
"Whatever happens," Porthos says, breaking the silence, "we do it together."
"Together," Athos agreed. Aramis takes one of Porthos' hands, Athos takes the
other.
They can't start a rebellion on their own. They can't topple the Capitol on
their own. But they can have this, and for today that's enough
***** Porthos III *****
Chapter Summary
     "Get him medicine," Athos says. "Get him medicine, Aramis, don't
     leave him there to die-"
     "You think I didn't try that?" Aramis shouts.
Chapter Notes
     This is the last full chapter of Epithets. There will be a finale
     (rather than an epilogue) posted next Sunday. Enjoy them being happy
     for once.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When Porthos wakes, it's with a wonderful feeling of contentment. He stretches
out, every muscle loose, and looks over at his companions.
Aramis is debauched and imperfect, gorgeous in his nakedness even as he drools
on the pillow. And Porthos knows, knows in his soul, that this is a side of
Aramis that the Capitol doesn't get to see. Honest and relaxed, joyful in every
single one of his imperfections being out on display.
His arm reaches out to twine with Athos', who is fully clothed down to his
boots. Athos, who looks so much younger when he sleeps. Porthos had always
wondered how he looked when he was so unguarded. Still disgruntled is the
answer, but there's a softness there that Porthos had not anticipated. He looks
like a sleeping prince, just waiting to be kissed awake.
Porthos, for his part, is content to lay back with the two men he loves, the
two men he gets to be with now, and bask. Maybe they'll kiss again when Aramis
and Athos wake up, he thinks to himself. Maybe we'll just stay in the room all
day and damn their responsibilities.
There's a knock at the door. Three sharp raps, and all Porthos can think is,
we've been caught. Somehow the Capitol knows. Somehow, in some way, this is not
allowed. But that's ridiculous - Aramis has spent the night with at least half
the victors in this building. That can't be it.
Unless they know about the rebellion.
The knocks come again, and just as Porthos is preparing himself to kiss both
victors goodbye he hears Ninon's voice on the other side of the door. "Aramis!
Athos! We need you now."
Athos stirred at the first knock, and now he groggily raises his head. "Ninon?"
He leans over and shakes Aramis awake.
Aramis snaps awake - it's a spilt second, one minute he's slumbering and the
next his eyes are open and he's sliding out of bed. He doesn't even grab a robe
before opening the door. "What's going on?"
"Fleur is dead," Ninon says crisply. "They're tracking D'Artagnan. You need to
get dressed and come up."
Aramis nods. "Give us five minutes."
Her eyes flick past him, into the room where Porthos and Athos lay. It looks
like Athos may have fallen back asleep. "Congratulations," she says simply. "I
hope it was worth it. Let's go."
Porthos helps Aramis untangle their clothes, getting dressed with nimble
fingers. "Pass me that?" he asks Athos.
Athos merely raises his head from the bed. "Why," he says slowly, "do I not
feel awful?"
"Because you're sober," Porthos says dryly.
“Ugh,” Athos huffs. He drops his head back onto the bed with a groan.
"Come on." Aramis, now fully dressed, hauls him up. "You're his mentor."
Between the two of them they manage to drag Athos to the control room, propping
him up in a chair with a cup of coffee. Various victors lounge around, watching
their tributes or just sitting listlessly. Misery loves company.
Porthos has always admired one thing about Aramis - his ability to do what
needed to be done, with no complaints. Gone was the happy young man from last
night; in his place was a victor, steely eyed and laser focused. "What's going
on?"
Marsac fills him in. "Careers tracked down the boy from Seven about an hour
ago. Killed him. They started arguing over his pack, then they started
fighting. My girl broke Fleur's neck and D'Artagnan took off. He's been
travelling steadily west, but they're tracking him."
"Mine?" Porthos asks gruffly.
"Got into a tussle with some mutts around 4am. Killed two, then the others
backed off. He's got some claw marks though."
Porthos pulls up the screen, fingers flying. There's Tate, sitting by a stream,
examining the deep gouges in his arm. Not for the first time Porthos wishes
they were a career district. What he wouldn't give to be able to send Tate a
salve, some bandages. But he doesn't have a lot of money to work with, so he
waits to see if the boy will make do.
He does, ripping pieces off his shirt and bandaging it. But one of the wounds
keeps soaking through; it's too deep for bandages alone to staunch. Porthos
grits his teeth and pulls up a sponsorship page. A few clicks and there's a
parachute carrying a basic needle and thread is lazily spiralling its way
towards Tate. His account goes down by half. It's not the most hygienic thing
in the world, but all Porthos can do is pray it doesn’t get infected.
A prayer Aramis and Athos must share, it seems, because D’Artagnan looks even
more worse for wear than Tate. He’s bleeding from a dozen small wounds, heading
towards the forest. It’s funny; as much as the Games play up the children
killing each other, it’s as much hunger and infection that does them in.
Beside him, Aramis starts going, "No no no, what are you doing, stop." He looks
over. D'Artagnan, apparently deciding he's no longer being pursued, has stopped
and is dragging logs together for a fire. "Of all the stupid-" Aramis curses.
"They're right there! They're going to see the smoke!"
But D’Artagnan isn’t thinking clearly, that much is clear. He’s in pain, he’s
exhausted, and he’s going through the motions so he can rest. It’s just going
to get him killed.
"Send them a sponsor gift," Athos speaks up from his chair, eyes never leaving
the screen.
"What? You want to send him a nice note saying run you idiot and hope that does
it?" Notes are not allowed with sponsor gifts. They all know this.
"Not him." Athos waves a hand at the screen, where the two tributes from
District Two are still tracking through the woods. "Them. Something small -
bread, matches-"
"-And D'Artagnan will see the parachute," Aramis finishes wondering. Genius.
The select the cheapest gift, a roll of bread, and send it off to the two from
Two. D'Artagnan squints when he sees the parachute, watching it drift down into
the trees not to far away. For a moment he hesitates - is it mine, and they
just missed?
Porthos finds himself cheering for the boy in spite of himself. Think,
D'Artagnan. Think.
Suddenly, the boy's eyes go wide as he gets it. He grabs his pack and takes off
into the brush, abandoning the unlit fire behind him.
“With Fleur dead, that’s the final eight,” Athos says. “D'Artagnan, Tate, both
from Two, the boy from Eleven and the girls from Eight, Seven and Three.”
Huh. He’s never had a tribute in the final eight before.
“They’ll be wanting to get a head start on interviews,” Aramis murmurs. “Please
try and be civil, Athos, you’re his mentor this year.”
“I hate interviews.”
“It will help him win.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it. I just said they’re awful. I hate them.”
Porthos’ breath catches. Athos had put a little too much emphasis on them. And
while it was plausible he was still talking about interviews, it sounded very
much like he was talking about the people who conducted them instead.
He shares a long look with Aramis. “Alright,” Aramis says crisply. “Let’s get
you set up. Porthos, we’ll see you later?” And then he flushes, improbably,
bright red.
And Porthos is smiling dopily back. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you both later.”
Which is how three days later he finds himself, for the first time ever,
upstairs in his rooms being interviewed about a final eight tribute. The
questions aren’t hard. He talks about Tate’s fighting style, his drive to win,
his underdog status. Somewhere around the story of Tate’s bravely facing down
the muttinations, Ninon slips into the room.
Porthos’ eyes flick over to her as he keeps talking, but she makes no move
towards him. Just waits until the film crew is done and packed away, each of
the crew thanking Porthos for his work. Then they file out, and Porthos and
Ninon are alone.
“What-” he starts, but she holds a finger to her lips and pulls a small cube
from her bag. One delicate press of a fingernail and a low whining fills
Porthos’ ears. He winces.
“It’s not pleasant, but it’s all the bugs will hear. There’s still video
though, so act like we’re friends.” Her smile was full of daggers.
“Friends, of course.” He followed her lead, into the spacious kitchen where
they sat down with a basket of rolls. “May I ask what this is about?”
“Rebellion.” She said it so matter-of-factly. “I was lead to believe you are
the key to the rebellion in District Twelve, are you not?”
No, he’s not. He’s just Porthos. He hasn’t plotted anything, or overthrown
anything, or started anything. “I wouldn’t say key-”
“Are you aware of a plot to blow up the mines and spark a rebellion in your
district?” she asks, picking up a roll and examining it.
“I-” That stops him. He realises, suddenly, how small their plot must seem to
Ninon. Twelve is the smallest of the districts. Insignificant, really, their
whole plot unconnected to the rebellion she seems to be building. “Yes,” he
says. “And I told Aramis that.”
“And Aramis told me.” Her smile didn't falter. “We don’t have much of a
foothold in Twelve. And we need it, Porthos, we need every single district if
we want to take the Capitol.”
“Take the Capitol?” Porthos echoes dumbly.
“Yes. One large thrust, a coup to topple the regime. Then we can negotiate
better for every citizen in Panem.”
“What do you want from me?” he asks, because she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t
want something.
“I need you to put off that rebellion for a year. I can’t have it poisoning our
efforts. But if we combine them…”
“Then it won’t be in vain.” Yes, Porthos thinks. Charon will be on board for
this. “When?”
She tells him. It’s the date that next year’s Hunger Games will start. “That’s
when?”
“Everyone will be out of their homes, assembled in public. If we all work
together, we can avoid getting bogged down in guerrilla war.”
And then the war would start. Porthos doesn’t know what to think about that.
Anything would be better than what they have now, and yet… “What will happen to
us?” he asked.
“You three, along with any other ‘valuable’ members of the rebellion,” she puts
air-quotes around ‘valuable’ since aside from Aramis their only value lies in
the fact that they’re famous, “will be moved to a secure facility.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you that.” And she smiles, wide and delighted, for the cameras
watching them. “But I can make sure you stay together.”
“Thank you.” That’s all he’s ever wanted. A future with Aramis and Athos. The
freedom for them to build something together, to have a real home.
“I meant it when I said congratulations.” She stands, roll still in hand. “I
think Aramis is being a fool, but… let him be a happy one. The risks of the
Capitol killing you in the next year are low, and god knows he needs some
happiness in his life. Athos too.”
“They make me very happy,” Porthos finds himself saying.
“And when Aramis has to go out and be happy with other people?” she queries.
“When Athos locks himself in the supply closet with a bottle of wine?”
“Then we deal with it,” Porthos says steadily. Is she expecting him to flinch
away? He’s spent enough time with them, he’s going into this with his eyes
open. “As we always have.” As they help him, when the nightmares make him
scream.
“I’m happy to hear it,” Ninon says. She tosses the roll, catches it. “Now-”
Suddenly, the screen set into the wall crackles to life. It’s meant to, Porthos
knows, whenever his tribute is onscreen.
As Tate is now, squaring off against the girl from Three. She’s small, but she
does have a knife in her hand. Porthos is proud of how wary Tate looks.
“We’ll work better as a pair,” the girl is saying. “Have you seen the career
pack? They’re vicious, and it would be nice to get some sleep sometimes.” The
Gamemakers are altering the daylight in three-day segments, as far as Porthos
has been able to tell. Three days of darkness, then three days of light. Not
all of the tributes have been adjusting well.
Tate nods, and lowers his axe. “That makes sense. You have food?”
“Not really,” she admits. “Some berries, and a bit I found in this pack.”
“I killed a rat earlier. You can have some if you want.”
“Sure.” She smiles brightly.
Tate kneels down to open the bag, his back to her for just a moment, and that’s
when Porthos sees her raise the knife. “Oh no,” he says, as if Tate can somehow
hear him. “Turn around, turn around you-”
Porthos has survived one games, and been a mentor in seven more. He knows what
it looks like when sometime gets stabbed. It’s always harder, though, when that
someone is the tribute you’re responsible for protecting. As the girl from
Three stabs Tate again and again, Porthos can only watch in impotent horror.
There’s nothing to do. The canon sounds, and that’s it. Tate is dead.
"Oh, Porthos." Ninon had a hand over her mouth. "Oh Porthos, I'm sorry."
"It's fine," he says hollowly. "It had to happen sometime." A victor. Why did
you think you could have a victor? He's been mentoring for seven years now, and
every single time he's lost his tributes.
Porthos rises on unsteady legs. Find Athos. Find Aramis. They are the only ones
he know he can go to. The only ones who can understand, and whose comfort he
will welcome.
He finds them in the control room. Aramis is hunched over the display, pulling
up what looks at statistics, and Athos is finishing off a bottle of what looks
like it might be straight rum. But when he sees Porthos he puts the bottle down
and goes to him. Gentle fingers wind down his arm and through his hair, and
even if he doesn't use words Porthos understands the meaning. We're here for
you. He leans into the touch, enjoying the comfort of it.
"Athos," Aramis barks suddenly. "We have a situation."
Both of them go over to see what Aramis is looking at. It's not good.
D'Artagnan sits in a stream, the leg of his pants cut off at the knee. His
lower leg is ghastly, red and swollen and leaking clear fluid. He pokes the
wound with a knife, groaning in pain, trying to see if it needs to be drained.
"Blood poisoning," Aramis says quietly.
Athos curses. Then, when that doesn't get the desired reaction, he curses
again. "There has to be something we can do."
"Hope he wins before he dies?" Aramis offers. It's not likely and they all know
it. D'Artagnan likely can't even walk.
"Get him medicine," Athos says. "Get him medicine, Aramis, don't leave him
there to die-"
"You think I didn't try that?" Aramis shouts. He pulls up the other page; it's
not statistics, but rather a list of what such a gift would cost. Porthos
swallows. Even with all the sponsors District One has, it's still not enough.
"They don't want a victor from One," Aramis says simply. "It would be boring,
wouldn't it? To have another. They want him to die." Porthos isn't willing to
go that far, but it's clear the odds are not in their favour.
"We need to save him," Athos maintains, then checks himself. "I'm sorry,
Porthos, this is insensitive-"
"It's fine." There's no time for sensitivity in the games.
Aramis is looking at the screen. "You really want to save this boy," he says
softly. “I’ve never seen you riled up like this.”
"D'Artagnan," Athos corrects, then lets out a little sigh. "Yes."
"Alright." Aramis stands. "Then we save the boy."
"Aramis?" Porthos asks. He doesn't like that look on Aramis' face.
"When you see Ninon," Aramis says, "Please inform her that we've broken up,
that I've lost my heart to the only woman who can understand me." His voice is
flat, monotone. "If we’re doing this, we don’t have time to wait. The sooner he
gets medicine the more effective it’ll be. I'll see you two in the morning."
"Aramis, wait!" It's three in the afternoon. Even if he is planning to do the
things he seems to be implying - sleeping with one of his ladies to gain enough
sponsorship to save D'Artagnan - where is he going now?
"I can't see you two right now, I'm sorry." Aramis shakes his head, standing.
"I'm going to see Marsac. I'm sorry." His eyes meet Athos' for just a moment.
Athos nods. Aramis flashes both of them a quick, hollow smile before leaving.
"Marsac?" Porthos asks critically. He doesn't know a lot about the victor from
Two, but what he has heard he doesn't like.
"Marsac." Athos pronounced his name like a curse. Then he sighs, and collapses
into the chair. "Sometimes... Aramis doesn't want to be loved. Marsac is an
awful creature, but Aramis is allowed to do what he wants."
"He is," Porthos says.
“I’m not sorry for it,” Athos says, staring at the wall past Porthos like it
might hold some answers. “He’s going to die.” And he curses again. “I hate the
world.”
Porthos hesitates, not sure how to phrase his request. "Athos?" Thankfully
Athos understands, and fits himself right into Porthos' side. He even lets
Porthos drape an arm over him and pull him close. They stay like that for a
long time, just watching the raw footage of various tributes cycle through the
feed.
When night falls they move, without discussion, downstairs to where they
usually wait for Aramis.
"Remember?" Porthos says softly, one hand playing with Athos' hair. "This is
where we met. Sort of." They had met before, they had even spent time together
with Aramis. But here was the first time Porthos had really felt connected to
someone.
"We did." Athos's smile is a ghost. "You told me how they dance in District
Twelve."
A million years ago. Not much has changed, he can't help but notice. Seven
years later and they're still sitting here waiting for Aramis to come back to
them. Still just as useless, unable to protect the people they love. Choosing
between one or the other, weighing Aramis' soul against D'Artagnan's life...
"It feels so different," Athos says. Porthos looks at him in surprise.
"What?" Because he doesn't see it, he really doesn't.
"I'm not alone anymore," Athos says, and turns his face into Porthos' shoulder.
Maybe that;s it. It's not their situation that's changed, but them. Rising to
meet it, pushing back against the worst. Fighting to change it. There's a
rebellion on the horizon, and with it a whole new set of challenges. But,
funnily enough, he thinks they can make it. They're victors of the Hunger
Games, they've dealt with worse.
"I love you," he says, because it's true. Athos pulls back just enough to press
a kiss into his shoulder.
Aramis returns with Adele as a sponsor. He doesn't talk about it. Three days
later a clear-eyed and healthy D'Artagnan beheads the girl from Three and is
crowned winner of the Hunger Games. Porthos kisses Athos and Aramis goodbye,
knowing that one way or another it's the last time he'll have to do so.
Chapter End Notes
     My_Tumblr, come shout about musketlads with me.
     As always, comments and kudos are loved. Next week is the finale!
***** Finale *****
Chapter Summary
     The countdown to the games
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It's three days until the games, and their tributes are both sound asleep.
Aramis is 'busy' so it's left to Athos to watch over D'Artagnan. He shows the
boy the control room, as if it mattered, and makes it halfway through dinner
before abandoning them for a bottle. D'Artagnan, like a fool, follows him into
the bedroom.
"You should be watching the tributes," Athos says, as D'Artagnan hands him a
glass of water. He's proud to see the boy's hands aren't shaking.
"So should you."
Athos gives him the point, takes a sip of water, and lets D'Artagnan sit beside
him in the darkness of the room. There aren't windows in their rooms. Screens,
if they want, that can display any conceivable landscape. But never windows.
D'Artagnan is the first one to break the silence. "The tributes, they're going
to die aren't they?"
"Yes."
"Even- even if things happen. Either way. They're going to die." There's not
going to be time to break into an arena. Athos knows that. There are going to
be people ready to try, but every sensible cost-benefit analysis requires the
vast majority of rebels to be ready to take the Capitol.
That doesn't make it any easier. "The games are hard, you know that. People
die. District One isn't going to have another victor. You were a miracle
enough."
"Three victors in less than ten years," D’Artagnan says ruefully. "How did that
happen?"
"The games are always unpredictable." Athos sighs. He adds, somewhat
reluctantly, "I was considered to be a failure as a victor. Aramis is much more
useful to them." He doesn't want to explain Milady de Winter today -hopefully,
she'll die in the assault on the Capitol and he'll never dream of her again.
D'Artagnan doesn't need to know the whole story to guess. Athos sees the wheels
turning in his mind as he puts things together: Athos' alcohol addiction and
sudden disappearance from television. Aramis' late nights in the Capitol and
the way Porthos holds him after, ferociously protective. "Oh." He pauses a
minute. "Useful. And what about me?"
Athos thinks about telling him, explaining the lengths they went to keep him
safe in that arena. There wasn't a reason; D'Artagnan is no more special than
any of the other boys or girls they've seen die. But something caught their
attention, made Athos sit up and start trying again, and somehow D'Artagnan
wormed his way into their hearts.
Athos still isn't sure if he regrets it or not.
He looks over at D'Artagnan, who's peeking out through a fringe of dark hair
like he's afraid of the answer. "You were a thing I did not want to lose," he
said simply. "Just once, I wanted to save someone victor. I was drunk the year
Aramis won - more drunk. I wasn't even in the Capitol. I wanted to save
someone, instead of all this killing." He killed six tributes in the arena.
He's certainly not saved six lives.
Not yet. There's still a future out there, a future they agreed to fight for.
The games are in three days, and when the rebellion starts he might able to
save a lot more.
 
There are two days till the games.
Aramis is out in the Capitol, this time of his own violation. She is surprised
when he shows up at her door. "Aramis?" She hasn't summoned him. Her smile
flashes, then dims as she takes in the tension in his body. "Is everything
alright?"
"My lady." He dips his head to her, as always. "Forgive the intrusion. Is your
husband home?" This would never work if Louis was here.
"No," Anne says breathlessly, and holds the door open.
The first thing he does is glance into every room of the house. No Louis. And
no Buckingham. Good. He didn't want to deal with either of them at the moment.
He takes both of Anne's small hands and leads her over to the couch. "I'm
leaving for a while."
"Oh?" Her mouth draws up into a pout, even as she reaches forward to card a
hand through his hair. Gentle, Anne is always gentle with him. Unlike
Buckingham, who has a tendency to pull. She kisses him softly and he lets her.
Ninon is going to kill him. Too late now. "It may be good for you to leave as
well." He kisses her palm, breath ghosting over her fingers, and prays she is
as smart as he always suspected she was. Think, Anne. I wouldn't be telling you
this if I didn't have to. I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to. It's coming.
But she can't see beyond the lie. She still thinks this is about them. "You
want me to come with you?" He drops her hand, drops any pretense of seduction.
His eyes snap out of their heavy-lidded stare and suddenly he's a victor again,
deadly.
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes, Aramis, I-"
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Then don't ask me why." He can't sit anymore. He stands, barely repressing the
urge to pace. "If you trust me like you say you do, you will take everything
you care about and leave. As soon as you can. Tonight, if possible." They were
running out of time. "Goodbye, Anne."
"Aramis!" She reaches for him and he lets her pull him in for a deep, slow
kiss. And then he leaves, before he can regret his decision.
It's two days to the games.
 
There's one day left.
Porthos goes to Flea, for once not content to remain with Aramis and Athos. If
all goes well… he will have a lifetime with Aramis and Athos. Flea is refusing
to come with them. "Twelve is my home," she says, sitting on the rooftop with
her legs dangling off the side. Below the people of the Capitol scurry like
brightly coloured ants, the noise of their parties drifting upward on the wind.
Porthos feels as distant as the moon.
"What will you do with it?" he asks her. "After." If there is an after. They
could all die here tomorrow, everything gone horrible wrong.
"I don't know," she says honestly. One foot kicks out absently against the
abyss, just shy of hitting the forcefield. "Maybe I'll run for mayor," she says
it like it's ludicrous, but Porthos thinks he can see it.
"You could, you know. People would listen to a victor."
"What people?" she snorts, but still keeps her voice too low for any bugs to
overhear. "It's going to be a war, Porthos. Don't think the districts - don't
think any of us - are going to come out unscathed. I'll be mayor over ashes and
bones."
"They have a good plan," Porthos countered. He hadn't seen it personally, for
security reasons, but Aramis knows most of it and he trusts Aramis.
"Even so. You know there's going to be a cost for all of this?"
He looks out over the Capitol, to the parade going on too far below to hear.
"There's always a cost." He thinks about Athos, so brave even when he was
alone. Of Aramis, ferocious and generous in equal measure, and how he never let
one cancel out the other. He thinks of himself, a man from Twelve caught up in
a victory, a rebellion, a chance. Of Marsac's predatory loathing, Flea's
constraint, Treville's determination, D'Artagnan's boundless hope. He thinks
about how he will never know who these people were before the games, not even
Aramis and Athos, because being in the games has changed them so utterly.
As the sun dips over the cityline on last day before the games, Porthos thinks
about victory.
 
It's the day of the games.
They're together when it starts: too tense to stay in bed, Ninon finds them
sitting at the dining room table holding hands. She's covered in blood and
carrying an assault rifle. "Are you coming or not?" she barks. They stand, and
they're no longer victors.
They're rebels.
END
Chapter End Notes
     That's all folks! My first ever multi-chaptered fic, started
     somewhere around the end of season 2. I put it down for a year and
     finally finished the thing.
     While the fic ends where it does for very deliberate reasons, you can
     check out my headcanons_for_the_rebellion on tumblr. There's also
     cool stuff like fic outtakes and me whining about the writing
     process. There will be one more fic in this verse, but it's a oneshot
     rather than a continuation of the story.
End Notes
     You can find my tumblr here. I love talking fic and musketeers in
     general.
     Comments and kudos are loved
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!