Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/14018043.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Musketeers_(2014)
  Relationship:
      Aramis_|_René_d'Herblay/Porthos_du_Vallon
  Character:
      Aramis_|_René_d'Herblay, Porthos_(Trois_Mousquetaires), Jeanne_Treville,
      Athos_|_Comte_de_la_Fère
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Canon, Growing_Up_Together
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-18 Words: 8659
****** To Meet You ******
by Melodious329
Summary
     Another Kinkmeme prompt: What if the brothel Aramis grew up in was in
     Paris, near the Court of Miracles? What if Porthos knew Rene when
     they were boys? When Porthos joins the Musketeers, he isn't expecting
     to make friends. He's a long way from the Court of Miracles, after
     all. But one friendly face starts to look very familiar...
Notes
     This fic does touch on rape/underage sex though it is in no way
     explicit. Sexytimes were saved for the adults.
     Also if you read my last fic notes and if you care, this is not the
     fic that I mentioned. I'm still working on that one. It's written,
     but it needs more work.
Porthos enters the Musketeer garrison for the first time at the head of a group
of new recruits.  He can feel their judgmental eyes on his back. He knows what
they’re thinking, that he doesn’t belong, that he doesn’t deserve this
opportunity.  It’s not the first time that he’s been looked down on for the
vagaries of his birth, his color and where he comes from. It certainly won’t be
the last.  His head high, he knows not to show fear or hesitation like a rabbit
in the midst of predators. His eyes canvas the area, taking note of everything
so he won’t be taken by surprise.  The men are clustered around sturdy wooden
tables situated in front of the staircase to the building’s upper level, all
wearing their decorated pauldrons and bejeweled sword hilts. They all stand as
Porthos comes closer and he tenses, bracing for a confrontation.  But just then
an older man steps out onto the balcony above the tables. The man has an air of
authority that Porthos recognizes first, before he realizes there stands the
man who recruited him, Treville. Everyone has stood to give their attention to
the imposing man.  
Treville leans both hands against the wooden railing and surveys them from his
lofty perch.  “We’ve got some new recruits joining us,” he announces. “Don’t
scare them off.”
With that he leaves, and the veteran Musketeers erupt into laughter.
 Determined not to be fooled, Porthos sets his mouth into a scowl and keeps his
senses aware of his surroundings.  The army had hazing rituals as well, but he
won’t be an easy target. One man breaks apart from the others to approach him.
 The man has long curled hair and a meticulously groomed beard, laughing dark
eyes. Porthos dealt with this kind of joker before, a man who is always wanting
the approval of others, a dandy.  He lets the man make the first move, not
wanting to be thrown out for starting fights.
But the man simply slaps him on the shoulder in greeting, “Welcome to the
Musketeers, brother.  My name is Aramis if you need anything.”
Feeling spiteful, Porthos responds, “I’m not a Musketeer yet.  I have to
receive my commission.” He hasn’t forgotten that there’s a long way to go to
prove himself, and a lot of pitfalls to avoid.  He wants to remind this man
that he won’t be taken for a fool. He knows all their tricks.
The man simply smiles back, unperturbed, his smile warm and welcoming.  “I’m
sure you’ll get that commission in no time.”
With that, the man moves on, giving the next recruit the same treatment, same
smile, same platitudes.  And that in itself is suspicious to Porthos. Because
he’s not like the other recruits. And because he’s never known someone where
there wasn’t something behind their smile.  Well, he did know someone, once…
***Denotes Flashback to Porthos’ childhood in the Court of Miracles***
Porthos hears the scuffle before he sees it.  It’s late in the afternoon, and
he’s just loitering near the entrance to the Court of Miracles when the
squealing of younger children fighting reaches his ears.  There’s a ring of the
dirtier children from the Court encircling a boy and girl who are clean and
better-dressed. Porthos sighs. At seventeen, he feels very much above these
kinds of squabbles.  He can tell that the two cleaner children are from one of
the brothels situated outside the Court’s entrance. There’s often tension
between the two. Brothel children are thought to be uppity, lazy, and shameful.
 Children of the court are, in turn, thought to be ignorant and disgusting.
He’s not going to intervene, not even when the clean little girl is pushed
over.  But then the little brothel boy launches himself at the attacker like a
wolf taking down a much larger elk.  Genuinely concerned, Porthos sighs to
himself in teenage angst and goes to grab the brothel kid by the collar of his
fancy shirt.  This prompts all of the other kids to scram. Soon there are no
other sounds but the crying of a little girl and the infuriated squeaks of the
kid in his grasp.  It takes a moment for Porthos to realize that the kid in his
grasp isn’t just trying to get away from him, but trying to reach the girl.
Releasing the little bugger, he watches as the crying girl is shushed and
fussed over.  When the boy looks up, he looks a bit older than Porthos first
thought. Standing beside one another, the two are a pair, both well groomed and
pale, and attractive with big dark eyes.  Only their hair is different, both in
long curls but the girl is light to the boy’s dark.
“Don’t stand there, help me,” the boy orders him in a still high-pitched voice.
 
Porthos sneers.  Over the last few years, he’s moved up the ranks to be an
actual respected member of the Court of Miracles.  He won’t be ordered around
by a child. “I think I’ve done enough.”
“You haven’t done anything,” the boy mutters and then the little girl is
leaning against his leg.  Porthos has no option but to hold her up since her
leg is scraped.
The boy is busily picking up a spilled bag that Porthos hadn’t noticed and then
he’s leading the way to a nearby brothel.  “C’mon,” the boy calls to him.
The boy leads them around the back, past the washing hanging out to dry and
into a large kitchen.  There are several young children sitting at a long table
and it’s loud and raucous as any alley of the court until they see the boy
arriving.  Then they quiet and hurry to finish their bowls of stew, smiling all
the while. Like a much older man, the boy flits around the room, putting down
the bag, kissing the head of each child, checking a pot of soup on the fire,
and pulling up a chair for the injured girl to sit in.  But the boy’s bossiness
doesn’t end at the door.
“Hand me that pitcher of water,” the boy tells Porthos, gesturing.  
Curious despite himself, he complies and hands over the pitcher.  The boy
busily dabs at the girl’s scrapes while her crying increases.  “What’s your
name?” Porthos asks over the wailing.
“Rene,” the boy responds, gracing him with a smile despite his current task.
 Then he looks back at the little girl. “Pauline, I need you to stop crying,”
he says, looking sympathetic.  “Mother will be down here soon and you don’t
want her to be upset, do you?”
The girl quiets but still sniffles in response, the tears continuing down her
round cheeks.  Rene stands up and reaches into the bag that he hung on the
hook. “Really? What if I give you a sweet?” he teases, producing some rock
candy.  
Cautiously, she smiles and reaches for the candy.  He gives it to her and then
wipes her face gently, like a mother would do.  It causes some unnamed emotions
to rise in the back of Porthos’ throat. Then Rene turns to him and winks
cheekily, “It’s a gift.  And your name?”
“Porthos,” he answers, even as Rene is flitting away again.  He hands out more
sweets around the table in exchange for wiping hands and faces with the cloth.
 He picks up the empty bowls and moves them to a bucket, presumably for washing
later.
The boy turns back to Porthos and opens his mouth, but before he can speak, an
older woman enters from the stairway.  Well, she’s older than the children
currently in the room anyway.
“Rene,” she calls out.  In looks, she is the same as the boy with long dark
curls and warm dark eyes.  She stops when she sees Porthos in the room and he
is suddenly aware of what he must look like, large and dark and looming in the
doorway, hand me down clothes that he doesn’t wash enough and a bandana on his
head like a pirate.  She looks away immediately, instead focusing on the girl
sitting away from the table. “Honey, are you all right?”
   Pauline takes the sweet out of her mouth, all smiles.  The woman smiles back
and brushes her finger along a pink cheek.  “Rene, I told you not to spend your
money buying them sweets.”
Rene simply smiles and shrugs as he walks over to her.  The boy reaches up to
tuck a loose curl behind the woman’s ear.  Porthos is a bit confused at who is
really the parent here. She seems to care about the children so why is the boy
taking care of everything?  Standing together, the two seem very close in age.
“Rene, Elisa needs your help upstairs,” she says, quickly looking back down at
the girl instead of watching the boy’s expression.  
Porthos’ teenage hormones cause his face to heat as he realizes what’s waiting
upstairs for the other boy.  Ready to slip out the door and away from this
awkward situation, he’s not expecting Rene to turn his focus back to him.
 “Porthos, lovely to meet you. We will have to get to know one another at a
later time.” The smile aimed at him is genuine and warm, and Porthos could not
be more surprised.  
When Rene turns toward the staircase, however, his smile is much different.  
***End Flashback***
That night, the veterans take the new recruits out for drinks in a nearby
tavern.  It’s a sort of last hurrah before the training begins the next
morning. Unsurprisingly, most other men, veterans and recruits and even serving
women, give him a wide berth.  Whereas when in the Court, he is treated like a
king, here he is less than the lowest peasant. He does not even have the luxury
of belonging to the land as a peasant does. Having taken to holding up one
wall, he is thus surprised when the cool metal of a mug hits his arm.  
That man, Aramis, is there, waiting until Porthos’ surprise dissipates enough
to grip the mug.  With a salute with his own mug, the man just walks away, not
waiting for a thank you. Not that Porthos was going to offer one.  Aramis
doesn’t patronize him, doesn’t stay and try to make small talk like he’s some
child in need of a friend. He just doesn’t ignore Porthos, doesn’t act like the
man doesn’t exist.   
Despite not wanting to be grateful, Porthos’ eyes follow Aramis around the
tavern.  The man seems to know everyone, even outside of the Musketeer
regiment, and he speaks to most of them.  He’s certainly vain about his
appearance and Porthos watches him flip his long hair and flirt with all of the
serving women, even the ugly one who was very grateful for the attention.  But
Aramis doesn’t leave with any of them.  In fact, Aramis disappears out the door
alone, long before the celebration is over.  Porthos decides to follow suit. He
made an appearance so that they know he won’t be scared off, but he does want
to be his best tomorrow.  
Porthos is up the next morning early and heads over to the garrison while the
streets are still relatively quiet.  Despite the early hour, the garrison isn’t
empty. There are a few Musketeers scurrying quickly on errands. The tables
outside are empty, but he hears voices so he peeks his head inside and sees a
communal dining area.  And there is Aramis holding a book. It figures. Of
course, Aramis with his perfect hair and fine clothes would read handbound
treatises. Porthos has learnt his letters, but he doesn’t know enough to be
reading whole books.  
He sees an older man put a bowl of porridge on the table as he’s coming in.
 The man looks at him like he’s scum on the bottom of his boot before saying,
“I’ll bring another bowl.”
Porthos doesn’t know what to think of the man as he limps back to the kitchen,
but Aramis’ chuckle derails his indignation.  “That’s Sarge. He treats everyone
like that.” The man explains and then gestures to the seat across from him.
As Porthos sits, Aramis sets aside his book.  “Blaise Pascale’ Lettres
provinciales.  Have you read it?”
Porthos shakes his head and looks after Sarge, not wanting to get into a
discussion on all the works he has not read.  But Aramis simply brushes his
response aside.
“Ah, too bad,” he says as he sits up in his chair.  “You must be excited for a
day of sparring to be here so early.”
“I did not want to be at a disadvantage,” Porthos says carefully.  
“I’m certain that you won’t be,” Aramis continues, pretending to look him up
and down to signify his height.  
Porthos laughs as Sarge places another bowl down on the table.  He’s used to
men only seeing his size and being intimidated. Certainly, his prospects in the
Court picked up substantially when he started gaining muscle and height as a
teen.  He started serving as enforcer, but fortunately, he proved himself to be
more than just brawn.
The first day is brawling, at which he excels, if he does say so himself.  He
certainly impresses the veterans who spontaneously break into cheering at one
point.  His eye notices Aramis, of course, leaning casually against a wooden
column. Their eyes lock as Aramis claps lazily and Porthos finds it difficult
to look away.  He holds those dark eyes as Aramis stretches an arm out to the
post again, cocking one hip to the side, almost posing for his benefit. The
moment is broken as another man challenges him, coming at him with a yell.
 Unfortunately, his fellow recruits are not so excited by his victories.
Next is sparring with swords.  At this, Porthos is not so dominant.  Swords are
expensive and he certainly didn’t grow up learning the skill.  Both in the army
and the Court, his experience was limited mostly to hacking at his opponent and
trying not to die.  Still, he utilizes other skills, including strength,
deception, and punching. Aramis cheers for some of his tricks and even jumps in
a bit, shows him how to use his other limbs, even his legs to block.  The real
problem comes when they move to the shooting range on the third day.
Porthos is a terrible shot.  Truly terrible. Guns weren’t much available in the
Court, too expensive, especially the shot.  And they’re too loud, liable to
draw unwanted attention. In the Army, it was easy enough to simply aim at an
oncoming horde of men.  But shooting at a target is not the same.
Aramis comes over to help.  Of course, the man is an excellent shot, the best
in the regiment.  Aramis’ long fingers push at his biceps, adjusting his aim,
explaining how to sight down the barrel.  Porthos is still terrible. And the
more he misses, the more frustrated he becomes. Until finally, Aramis begins to
chuckle.  
“Are you laughing at me?!” Porthos thunders, more annoyed when he fails to
intimidate the slight man.
Aramis claps a hand on his shoulder as the man is wont to do and manages to
stop laughing long enough to tell him, “Porthos, you are a terrible shot.
 There is nothing for it. But, you have other skills,” he raises his voice
prevent Porthos interrupting. And then he starts laughing again.
Porthos can’t help but chuckle a little himself, the other man’s laugh is
infectious.  The words are unfortunately true and feels more like a joke
between friends than being laughed at.  Still he can’t help whining, “But we’re
the musketeers!  How can I not be able to shoot?!”
“It’ll take more than one day,” Aramis soothes and suddenly his eyes are
intense.  “You’ll get it.”
Porthos isn’t used to failing, but this is why he left the Court.  He wanted
new experiences, new skills. He wanted his life to be more than what it was.
 That’s what he told Rene all those years ago and this is his chance. He will
get better.
**Flashback***
Porthos is sitting on the outskirts of the Court.  He likes to watch and
daydream of a life outside these claustrophic stalls, a life with a loving
father.  It’s there he sees a coach draped in silks pull up, and a well-dressed
boy exit. Thinking the boy is a mark, Porthos stands, trying to seem casual.
 The boy actually heads toward him and that’s when he finally realizes that
it’s the boy, it’s Rene, smiling at him.
“Why are you dressed like that?” is his immediate question.  
Rene laughs.  “This?” he asks, holding out his arms to show off his finery.
 Porthos has the instinct to tell him to stop being so flashy. The boy is
wearing a dark blue satin doublet with a high collared white shirt.  “This is
for a client. But that was yesterday.”
Suddenly, the boy is yanking on his arm and pulling Porthos away from the
Court, away from safety.  “C’mon, we’re going into the city.”
Porthos is too shocked to resist.  The alleyways of the Court are familiar and
safe, where he knows everyone and everyone knows him.  He knows how the rest of
the world views him, how even Rene’s mother looked at him. But Rene is a force
that is difficult to stand against.  So he gives in and hurries to walk
alongside the boy.
Rene looks up at him and smiles.  “With this outfit, we can get in anywhere in
the city,” Rene finally explains.  “I want to show you something.”
They take a couple of corners and it’s like they’ve entered an entirely
different world.  Porthos barely has time to look around, but the buildings are
huge and ornate, instead of short squat and crushed together.  But amazingly,
people aren’t staring at them. Porthos supposes it isn’t that strange. He’s
dressed a bit strangely, but as a black man, he can still pass as some sort of
manservant to a little lord.  And Rene fits in perfectly.
They pass through a pair of open elaborately styled gates and suddenly are
surrounded by green trees.  “Look,” Rene orders. “Isn’t it amazing?”
And it is.  Porthos has never seen such greenery in his life.  It must be some
garden attached to some palace where nobles took their evenings strolls, but
it’s nothing that Porthos had ever dreamed of seeing.  It’s late afternoon and
they pass a few couples, but the place is so large that it’s easy to get lost,
to find a little corner where it is only the two of them.  And then Aramis
flops onto the soft grass.
Cautiously, Porthos sits, running his hands through the grass before finally
lying back.  He looks over to see Rene staring at him with a smug look on his
face. “Told you.”
“How did you find this?” Porthos asks.  “You’re what thirteen?”
“Twelve,” Rene replies.  “You need to get out and about sometimes.”
“It’s not as easy as it is for you,” Porthos says, indignantly.  
Rene only hums.  The words are true, but not the whole story.  Porthos frowns
to himself. He does dream of things beside the Court.  Looking up at the trees,
he thinks of Flea and Charon. They are as close as family, but it seems as if
all of their conversations are about pulling their next job, about their next
mark, about how to move up the food chain.  He doesn’t think that either of
them would even be interested in seeing this garden.
As he considers this, he looks back over at Rene.  How does Rene find the time?
He admits that he generally considers the brothel workers as lazy and spoiled,
but what he saw that day has stayed with him.  Orphans of the court simply run
wild. No one attempted to take care of any of them, only use them as runners,
beggars, and pickpockets. “Who is watching the other children?”
Rene looks surprised at the question.  “Sometimes, I have to take clients
outside the brothel.  It pays more.” He looks up at the treetops before
continuing, “I don’t intend to stay, I mean, I’m not going to work in the
brothel forever.  I want to see more, do more.” He looks back at Porthos with
those big dark eyes just begging him to understand. And Porthos does
understand.
He feels suddenly inspired, just having being able to confide his own dreams
that he’s been stuffing in the back of his mind his whole life.  “I want more
than this. I want to see more than just the inside of the Court.” It feels like
a confession.
Rene rolls toward him, now lying on his side and tucking an arm under his
cheek.  Then he smiles, “Besides, I’ll be back before dinner and before the
evening rush. I make certain they have a meal and clean clothes and
everything.”
Porthos smiles back at this strange boy and feels like the winds are changing.
 And he’s not just talking about the wind currently on his face bringing air
cleaner than he’s ever smelled, heavy with the scent of flowers.   
***End Flashback***
The next few days at the garrison pass by in a haze of hard work.  Porthos
hasn’t made any friends, but he hasn’t made any enemies either.  He’s sparred
and cleaned the stables and organized the weapons with all the other recruits.
 Luckily, he still has some funds saved up. Unlike most of the others who are
the second sons of lesser noble families, families who can support them with
weapons and food and lodging, Porthos supports himself with card games in
taverns and saved wages from the army.  
He’s watched his other Musketeers, soon to be ‘brothers’.  Most of them seem
harmless, and are, in fact, very diligent in their duties.  He’s watched Aramis
perhaps more than the others. The man is quite the conundrum.  Having overhead
that the man has been with the Musketeers since the beginning, he’s not
surprised that Aramis seems to know everyone and speak to everyone.  But he is
surprised at how he can often be found alone hidden in the kitchen area with
the latest treatise on religion. Some nights, he’s unsurprised to know the man
has gone off with some rich widowed noblewoman, but other nights he seems to
forego the taverns that everyone else frequents.  He’s certainly more than the
vain playboy that Porthos first took him as.
Perhaps Porthos is developing a bit of a fascination on the other man so he
resolves not to notice the other man.  He needs to focus on earning his
commission. That becomes a difficult resolution to keep when the next morning,
Treville sends him on an errand with Aramis and two other veteran Musketeers.
 It’s an opportunity, but it’s also a test and Porthos aims to make the most of
it. The men around him have a common history that he isn’t a part of, but it’s
easy to fall into the sort of joking that characterizes most military
regiments.  At first, the other Musketeers are surprised, but Aramis laughs and
jokes back and soon they’re all joining in.
Still, while they’re comfortable joking with him, no one wants to bunk down
near him when they stop to camp for the night.  It’s as if they’re afraid
someone like him might steal from them while they’re asleep. Until Aramis plops
his horse blanket down on his side of the fire without even looking at him.
 With a sigh of pleasure, the Musketeer removes his feathered hat and flicks
his long curls over his shoulder before he begins stripping off his leather
doublet. Underneath, he’s only wearing a light linen shirt with the neck half-
untied so that it shows a wide swath of pale skin and light dusting of dark
hair.  
Porthos gulps and looks away from the tantalizing sight.  This is another way
in which he’s an outsider from the group.  In the Court, it’s known if not
truly accepted for a man to take other men to bed as he would a woman.  And
there, he would know the signs to discern other men who might be interested.
But here, it could mean his life.  
“You alright?” Aramis asks, solicitously.  
“Of course,” Porthos answers without looking at the other man.  Lying down, he
turns onto his side and pulls the blanket over himself.  
The next morning, Porthos is starting to get real sore in the saddle and the
sun is beating down on him.  He knows things will just get worse over the rest
of the day so he’s quietly grateful when one of the other men recommends
stopping at a farmhouse for a drink.  But then they hear the screaming.
They all charge forward when men suddenly stream from the house dragging a
screaming woman with them.  That’s when a bullet whizzes by.
“Shit!” Porthos curses as he veers off to the side, ducking his head.  
“With me!” Aramis shouts as he heads off towards a copse of trees that offer
them some cover.  Aramis is already flying off his horse when Porthos pulls his
own to a stop. “Get down.”
All of the men find a tree to hide behind though the tree doesn’t offer a ton
of protection to someone as wide as Porthos.  Aramis, meanwhile, shoulders his
musket and carefully aims, managing to hit one of the robbers even at this
distance. Porthos is impressed despite his current worry over his inadequate
hiding place.  Then Aramis reaches his hand out to Porthos.
“Give me your pistol,” Aramis orders.  
Porthos stutters a question, but hands it over.  A pistol in each hand, Aramis
sprints towards the house across the open field in full view of their armed
captors.  Shocked, Porthos hesitates long enough to curse the other man before
following with only his drawn sword in his hand.  Aramis fires the two pistols
which provides them some cover, but a bullet wings the top of Porthos’ shoulder
and he stumbles.  Still, he brings down his sword with brutal force on the
first man that he encounters. He loses track of Aramis and doesn’t know where
the other musketeers are.  There’s himself and the man he’s fighting.
He fells the second attacker and slowly realizes that there’s no one left.
 Looking around, he sees Aramis’ smiling flushed face, exuberant from the
fight.  He can’t resist smiling back, breathing hard and jittery himself. For a
moment there’s only the two of them, understanding and excitement passing
between them, like lightning.  It’s hard to look away from that handsome face
even after the two other Musketeers come racing up to them. And then there’s
the woman, still hysterical as she runs up to Aramis.  
Porthos blinks and breaks the spell.  But he’s still watching as Aramis turns
away to calm the woman.  Her hysterical expressions of gratitude just wash over
him like so much noise until she exclaims that her savior is injured.  
“Where?” Porthos interrupts.  “If you hadn’t raced ahead like that with
absolutely no warning…” Porthos starts chastising the man, only to trail off
wondering where his anger has suddenly come from.
“But it worked,” Aramis interrupts, still smiling at him.  “Come with me. Let’s
go find some water and I’ll get my medical supplies.  I see a wound on your
neck too.”
Porthos huffs, annoyed at his own confusing emotions but he follows the other
man as Aramis grabs his medic bag from his horse and they head inside the
house.  The woman fusses and gets in Aramis’ way, but the senior Musketeer
manages to still be charming as he gives her tasks, mainly to get them more and
more water. It’s not until Aramis removes his leather that Porthos gets a look
at the bloody bullet hole in the bicep of the man’s shirt.  
Porthos exclaims, “There’s a hole in it!”
Aramis simply gives him a condescending look and the other musketeers laugh as
they file into the room.
“Do you know how to stitch, Porthos?” the older Musketeer, Phillippe asks him.
 “It’s always a problem when the medic gets injured.”
Porthos has his mouth open as he considers trying to sew a man’s skin, Aramis’
pale, perfect skin.  “Don’t worry,” Aramis cuts in, looking concerned at
Porthos’ reaction. “My fingers still work for sewing,” he tries his
characteristic teasing.  
Porthos isn’t amused, but he growls and plays along.  “The line better be
straight,” he teases back as he watches the medic take a clean cut of cotton
from his bag.  
When he looks back up, they’re suddenly standing very close.  The masculine
smell of sweat seems overwhelming and that deep voice seems to be whispering in
his ear.  “Just pour alcohol on it and then assist in wrapping it,” Aramis
instructs.
Porthos could never be a medic as he hates the idea of hurting this enigmatic
man.  Gently, he grabs the seemingly thin and fragile limb in his big hand. But
Aramis bears the burn of the alcohol with only a clench of his jaw and a
wrinkling of his forehead.
Fear and worry makes Porthos angry again.  “Are you always this reckless?” he
snipes as he begins to wrap the wound.  
“Actually, yes,” Aramis says with a laugh.  “Being reckless is what got me into
the Musketeers.”  The man then gestures to his chest, half-bared in his fancy
and now ruined shirt.  “I was shot at Ile de Re recklesslysaving the Comte de
la Fere.  The Comte apparently recommended me to Treville.  But only if I
survived, he said.”
Porthos still isn’t amused, particularly as he realizes that he’s only angry
because he cares about Aramis.  He actually likes this vain, complex creature.
“Now your turn,” Aramis says, standing and getting out a needle and thread.  
“Can’t we just wrap it?”  Porthos whines. “Just like yours?”
Aramis gives him a withering look in response.  “Bit more difficult to wrap
your neck tight enough, but I could try.”
Porthos grimaces as the alcohol is poured over and then he’s grabbing the
bottle to take a swig.  He hates stitches, hates them. If more than a couple
were necessary then he would need a lot more alcohol.  It reminds him of other
times when a certain younger boy would help him with injuries.
***Flashback***
Porthos never knew when Rene would show up.  Today, he’s sitting on the banks
of the Seine.  Since meeting the other boy, he’s become more adventurous, more
curious about the city around him.  When someone suddenly sits down next to
him, he’s not surprised.
“Porthos!” Aramis exclaims, just before small hands turn his face.  “Again?!”
Porthos huffs a sound.  Because of the nature of the Court and his role in it,
Porthos is often bruised.  Rene always fusses over each bruise like he’s one of
the children. A few months ago, the boy even stitched the large cut over his
eye, doing a pretty good job of it.  
This time, the bruise is already a couple of days old, so he pulls away from
the solicitous hands.  “I’m fine,” Porthos growls, not that Rene has ever been
intimidated by him. Besides he’s not the only one who has bruises.  
Rene’s fine shirt is loose and barely even laced at the neck.  Porthos can
clearly see a bruise over Rene’s breast, a hickey. But this time, a year since
meeting, he has to say something about it.  
“You can come live in the Court, you know,” Porthos tries.  
Rene looks truly confused at the offer as he sits back.  “Why would I do that?”
“So they won’t hurt you,” Porthos says, feeling stupid.  He can’t even say it.
But the other boy never seems embarrassed by his profession.  In fact, his eyes
actually light up, “You want to protect me?”
Porthos feels his face heat, but he can’t look away from those eyes which
aren’t teasing him for once.  Those eyes seem very serious as Porthos’ gaze
slides down from eyes to lips. Porthos has thought about kissing the other boy
since that day in the garden and now with the sun gilding pale skin, he can’t
resist leaning in.  It’s easy to close that small distance between their lips.
Their kiss is chaste and sweet, nothing like other kisses Porthos has shared
with women that he wanted to have sex with. This is more than that.
They part smiling sweetly at each other, and Porthos cradles that loved face in
his hand.  But they do nothing else that day, only trading goofy smiles and
short pecks of their lips.  Soon enough, Rene has to get back to the brothel,
but Porthos floats on air the whole rest of the day, prompting Flea and Charon
to tease him.  The next morning, however, he can’t resist going to the brothel
early the next morning. He doesn’t often meet Rene there, as it always makes
him uncomfortable.  Firstly, because of all the children vying for Rene’s
attention, but also because he hates to be confronted by what goes on in that
house. He doesn’t like thinking of Rene like that and hates the way that Rene’s
face changes for a client.  Though Rene has an admirable ability to fake
affection and excitement.
Today, he also knows that Rene probably won’t have any time to spend with him,
but he just wants to see the other boy.  Approaching, however, there’s a
commotion inside the house and a strange carriage out front. The carriage has a
severe looking man waiting out front that Porthos assumes to be a client.  
Slowing his gait while still at a distance, he tries to ascertain what’s going
on.  The sound of wailing and crying increase and then Rene comes out. Pauline
is crying and clinging to Rene’s leg while his mother and the other children
follow him.  And Rene is carrying a suitcase. Confused and shocked, Porthos
stops dead in the street and watches.
The strange man takes the suitcase and then waits while the wailing child is
pried off of the boy.  When she’s finally curled in her mother’s arms, Rene
looks up and unexpectedly meets Porthos’ eyes.
“Porthos,” Rene whispers, just barely audible.  
But there is no time for further explanation.  Rene is ushered into the
carriage even though he’s clearly hesitant.  It’s clear that Rene is not coming
back. Porthos runs away from the scene before he has to watch the carriage
leave.  
***End Flashback***
After following recklessly into the line of fire, the other two musketeers are
more accepting of Porthos.  As Porthos suspected from the start, he becomes
more a part of the group once he’s proved useful to them. But it’s Aramis whom
Porthos wants to be close to.  He finds himself turning to joke with the long-
haired man, and every time Aramis is right by his side. The other man laughs at
his every joke, coming back with witty rejoinders.  They play off of each other
like they’ve known each other forever.
After they return to the garrison, Aramis’ friendship goes a long way to
bringing the other men around.  Suddenly, they’re not afraid to speak to him,
even offering advice on his sword skills. But there is one person who does not
warm to Porthos, Marsac.  The blonde man has a sharp tongue, his jokes always
have a bite to them. And while he’s not obvious enough to stalk Aramis’ every
move, he seems jealous of Aramis' attention.  He has a tendency to show up and
interrupting the man’s conversation or herding the brunette away from the
group. It’s the way that Aramis' face changed around Marsac that bothers
Porthos most, though.  His expression becomes controlled, the smile static and
insincere.  Porthos doesn’t like seeing that reaction as it reminds him vividly
of Rene at the brothel.
Porthos’ habit of keeping within spitting distance of Aramis is how he notices
when the other Musketeer gets a visitor.  One afternoon, a boy that Porthos
recognizes from those same brothels darts through the gates of the garrison,
heading straight for the curly-haired man.  When Aramis follows the boy out
into the city, Porthos follows. He almost calls out to them, but decides to
wait. As suspected, they go inside a very familiar brothel, but before he can
follow, Aramis comes back out, pushing a well-dressed man out the door as well.
 
“I don’t want to see you back here!” Aramis raises his voice, even as a blonde
woman grabs his arm as if to pull him away.  
The blonde woman can barely get a word in edgewise, “Rene, stop…”
Porthos sucks in a surprised breath hearing the name.  He knew, knew it as soon
as Aramis went in the building, but it’s different to actually hear the name. 
“Get out. He’s not for sale.”
“You were his age when I had you,” the man cajoles, smarmily.
“That’s why you won’t have him,” Aramis replies and now he drops his hand to
his pistol in warning.  
Porthos decides now is a good time to show up and he walks up behind Aramis,
knowing his size alone is intimidating to most men.  And in fact, the client’s
eyes widen before he suddenly hurries away. Aramis whirls around, mouth open to
start yelling again, but closes it when he sees who’s behind him.  Then he
drops his eyes and suddenly seems reticent.
“Come inside,” is all he says before he goes in the door, without waiting for a
response.
Porthos follows the other two into that same kitchen that he used to know as a
teenager, filled with children that begin filing out of the room at Aramis’
prompting.  Finally, he gets a look at the beautiful blonde woman standing by
the fire.  She still closely resembles her brother.
Still shocked, he greets her.  “Pauline, you look well,” he stutters out.  
She lays a hand on his shoulder as she ushers him into a seat.  “Porthos, it’s
so good to see you again.”
Porthos smiles but his attention is immediately drawn back to the other man in
the room.  “Rene,” Porthos says, just wanting to say the name.  
The man smiles and takes the seat across the table.  “Yes,” Aramis says
sheepishly. “You remember.”
“Of course,” Porthos answers, and then swallows.  “You didn’t say anything.”
Aramis shifts, clearly uncomfortable.  “I didn’t think that you’d remember.
It’s been twelve years, after all.”
Porthos’ eyes scan over that face.  It seems so clear now, that Rene and Aramis
are the same person.  He doesn’t know how he missed it before. Aramis certainly
looks different, older, more masculine, but he’s still beautiful, and his eyes
are the same.  “I couldn’t forget you. Even though you disappeared that day.”
Aramis waves his hand, as if trying to wave the past away.  “My father. My
mother said she didn’t want me in that life anymore, asked him to do his
christian duty for a child.”  The words seem rehearsed. “I left at sixteen to
join the army. I didn’t…” he pauses to look up at Pauline. “I didn’t come back
to Paris until I joined the musketeers.”
“But your mother?” Porthos starts.  He knew of her death just a year after Rene
left.  
“I didn’t know until I came back to Paris,” Aramis says quickly, shutting down
the conversation.  “Anyway, so I try to check in on my old friends whenever I
get the chance. Speaking of which…” Aramis smiles at his sister who’s taken the
seat next to him as he drops a small pouch on the table, the clinking of coins
inside audible.  
“Rene,” Pauline starts, chastising.  “You have to stop doing this.”
Aramis just smiles wider.  “What? I want to help.”
Pauline scoops up the purse even as she complains.  “It’s still whoring, even
if the client is a woman.”
“It is different.  Because women don’t hurt me.”  Porthos watches as Aramis and
Pauline share a commiserating look, a look that says they’re both familiar with
being hurt by men.
And then Aramis stands up.  “Pauline, let me know if he comes back.  Porthos,
let’s discuss this privately.”
Porthos scrambles to follow the other man back out into the streets of Paris.
 “Aramis!” he calls out, hurrying to fall in step beside the other man. “Or is
it Rene?”
Dark eyes look over at him.  “Aramis, please. I decided I didn’t want to be
that boy running away from his father.  But you, Porthos. Next in line for the
throne of the Court of Miracles and then you walked away.  I was shocked when I
saw you at the garrison, but I am so proud of you.”
Porthos’ face feels hot at the praise.  Rene could always affect him when no
one else could.  “Well, I finally decided to actually do something about those
dreams that I told you about.”
Aramis looks over and blinks those long lashes at him.  “You do remember.”
Porthos grabs the other man’s hand and pulls him to a stop.  “Aramis…”
“Not here,” Aramis says, tossing his curls over his shoulder.  “Come to my
rooms and we’ll talk.”
Obediently, Porthos follows as Aramis leads the way into a nice looking house,
going up an outside stairwell that leads to a nice set of rooms that obviously
belong to Aramis.  The place is fairly clean but with several piles of books in
unlikely places and a washstand full of several combs, creams and potions.
Aramis takes a seat on the made bed and looks up at him expectantly.   There
isn’t another chair in the bedroom so Porthos hesitantly sits beside the man.
“I missed you,” Porthos starts.  
“I’m sorry,” Aramis says, bending his head so that curls fall like a curtain.
 “I didn’t know if you would remember or want to see me. We only knew each
other for what?  A year?”
“But you recognized me?” Porthos digs.  “You knew I had left the Court. You
cared all these years?”
Aramis smiles without moving his lips.  “I did. I couldn’t forget you. But I
had changed.  I’m not…” The younger man gestures to his chest, where Porthos
knows there are now a myriad of scars.  It pains him that the younger man went
through that without him there. But it doesn’t change how Porthos feels.  
“I thought,” Porthos swallows.  “I thought you might be upset about that kiss.
 I wanted to be the one person who didn’t want that from you, but…”
“But you were the one person that I wanted,” Aramis breathes out the words,
already leaning closer.  
Porthos waits this time, waits for Aramis’ lips on his own.  Even twelve years
later, their kiss is as graceless as the kids they used to be, all sweetness
and no skill.  But this time, Aramis moves closer and closer still, wrapping
his arms around Porthos waist. Only then does Porthos reach out his hands to
cup Aramis’ beautiful face.  It doesn’t last, they’re both too excited and they
have to break away to pant. But they can’t break away from each other. Aramis’
long fingered hands clench in his loose shirt and the slight weight leans
against his chest as Porthos presses a cheek to that beautiful hair.  
Their hands aren’t idle for long as after a moment, hands are pushing off coats
and untying the laces of shirts, shimmying out of breeches.  Aramis slips out
of his lacy linen shirt and that’s when Porthos finally gets a good look at the
scars. It hurts him to see. A bullet wound, multiple sword wounds, and the new
wound on the right bicep, they all cause Porthos’s breath to catch and his
fingers are drawn to those ridges.  
He can admit that when he dreamed of this moment, of finally being with Rene,
he still imagined the man as smooth and effeminate as the boy.  But Aramis is
different, scarred and independent and stronger. It’s better than his
imagination and Porthos’ hands hold his lover tighter, skin against skin, as if
Aramis will be stolen away.  He feels a strange curved scar down Aramis’ back,
but he doesn’t ask. It doesn’t matter right now as he lays the younger man down
on the mattress.
Dark curls spread across the pillow and liquid brown eyes look up at him with
fathomless trust.  Porthos’ hands are on the laces of the other man’s small
clothes, just that one layer between them.  Aramis nods at him and lifts his
hips for the thin cotton to be removed, planting his feet on the mattress.  
Porthos has to stand up to remove his smalls and Aramis gestures at the nearby
washstand with its vials of oils.  Aramis’ arms reach out for him as he
approaches and he’s drawn into those hips, between those thighs, pulled into
that beautiful body.  His fingers search between the cleft of his buttocks.
“Gentle,” Aramis advises him, teasingly.  “I’m not as used to it as I was.”
Porthos isn’t sure how to respond to that, not wanting to bring up the past.
 “I was certain you and Marsac…”
“Not this way,” Aramis explains, shortly.  
Porthos nods his understanding.  His oily fingers play over the furled skin,
 his free hand rubbing the smooth belly comfortingly.  Unsurprisingly, Aramis
doesn’t like being teased and he shifts impatiently.  
“Not that slowly,” Aramis chastises him with twinkling eyes.  
Porthos only smiles smugly, enjoying having this man at his mercy.  “Too late,
you’re at my mercy now,” he teases, slowly inserting the tip of a finger.  He
takes his time fingering the other man, enjoying the view, memorizing the new
lines of that body.  
“That’s what you think,” Aramis replies, but his eyes stay closed, a wrinkle
appearing between his brows and full lips parted.  Aramis is restless, shifting
minutely with every stroke of Porthos’ finger. And his mouth still runs. “Those
fingers, I’ve thought about this since the first moment I saw you.”
Porthos huffs a laugh and arches his fingers so that each knuckle is pressing
against the silky front wall as he withdraws his fingers.  Aramis’ whole body
convulses helplessly and his hands reach out for the other man. Finally,
Porthos removes his fingers and leans down, balancing on one elbow beside
Aramis’ head.  With his free hand, he positions himself, pushing in so slowly.
Aramis tosses his head to the side and back, his face creasing as if in pain,
but the soft sounds coming out of his mouth are pure pleasure.
“Alright?” he asks, breathlessly, overwhelmed by the tightness.  He pulls out a
bit and pushes in deeper.
“Yes,” Aramis hisses through clenched teeth.  He pants as he presses his head
back into the pillow, lifting his chin and exposing that long throat.
Porthos has to close his eyes, press his face into the mattress to catch his
own breath, control himself.  Slowly he slides his hands underneath Aramis’
neck, turns his head to mouth at the bearded jaw, his hips continuing their
slow thrusts.  This slow, he has time to feel the exquisite friction as he
slides in.
Aramis’ reactions seem more passionate by being hushed, more intimate. It's so
different from the loud raucous noises he heard from the walls of the brothel.
He can't help but think of all the times that Rene must have had to play a
part, had to act seductive when he was afraid, pretend to be in pleasure when
he was in pain, smile when he was sad even to his own mother.
Porthos shifts, changing the angle of his thrust and is gifted with a low noise
and squeezed thighs. But he has a better idea so he slowly pulls out despite
objections. He smiles at the bitching as he pushes the lean body over and tucks
himself up against Aramis’ back, lying on their sides, molded against the warm
skin. Aramis attempts to look behind, but catches on and helpfully pulls one
knee up to his chest. Porthos positions his dick against the now stretched hole
and pulls the smaller man back against himself, sinking in much deeper at this
angle.
This time his reward is a higher pitched moan that trails off into a whine.
Aramis’ hands clutch at the arm that's wrapped around his chest.  Porthos’
other arm is wrapped around slim hips pulling back still into harder thrusts.
Though he can no longer see Aramis’ face, he can feel every inch of skin from
top to tail, the curves of that ass tucked perfectly into the cradle of his
hips, his belly filling the curve of Aramis’ back with every breath.  He
breathes wetly into the curve of the man's straining neck and drops his hand to
wrap around Aramis’ cock. Over the curve of a pale shoulder, he can see that
even that part of the man is beautiful, darker than the rest of that pale skin,
long and angled to the left. He runs his fist down to the tip, thumb rubbing
the flared head.  Aramis spasms and grabs Porthos’ hand, his grip tight while
he thrusts helplessly. Reaching his other hand up, Aramis steadies himself
against the wooden headboard.
It’s like trying to hold onto an eel as Aramis bucks against him when Porthos
runs his thumb against Aramis’ chest, the raised line, the peaked nipple.  He
gives in to the man's urging hand, pushing his fist faster, the lean hips
shifting between the two sensations. The closer Aramis gets to orgasm, the
quieter he becomes, even his loud breaths seem to stop. The tendons of his neck
stand out but any sound seems caught inside.  And when he cums, it's with only
a choked noise and locked limbs. Porthos catches most of the seed in his fist,
though it mostly ends up smeared on pale skin when he grabs the lean hips
again. The lean body is relaxed and quivering when Porthos’ bulk pushes him
onto his belly.  Trying not to be too savage, Porthos thrusts, quick and hard,
his own orgasm quickly cresting over him. He pulls out in time to spill over
those pale cheeks.
Aramis chuckles and turns his head.  “Thanks. Easier cleanup.”
Porthos chuckles and manages not to just collapse.  With great effort, he gets
off the bed and grabs a cloth from the washstand, cleaning his hands and then
his lover.  He puts the cloth away and turns to see dark eyes watching him with
a strange expression. The emotion in them draws him near and he sits on the
mattress and brushes wild curls back.  Feeling suddenly protective, his hand
drifts down the muscular back, lingering on strange scars.
Aramis grabs his hand, kisses it.  Turning onto his side, Aramis urges him to
lie down again.  “I didn’t know if you would like Aramis,” the Musketeer
whispers.  
Porthos kisses the side of his head.  “I fell in love with Aramis as quickly as
I fell for Rene.”
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
 
They enter the Garrison together the next morning, side by side, hats tilted to
hide the stars in their eyes.  They're laughing together and not paying
attention to their surroundings, when Aramis runs into a man crossing their
path.  Aramis apologizes merrily, grabbing the man’s shoulder as he is wont to
do. But Aramis doesn’t let go, instead holding on as if he knows the man,
though Porthos has never seen him before.   
“Athos,” the man seems to rush the words out of his mouth.  “I'm a new recruit.
Athos is my name.”
Aramis shuts his mouth and his smile is now softer.  “Of course, Athos.
Welcome, my brother.”
Porthos is still confused by that exchange when Treville appears on the
balcony. The other man scurries away as they all turn to listen.  
“We have a new recruit joining us,” he starts and gestures toward Athos who is
moving towards the base of the stairs.  “I have also planned a training
exercise for some of the veterans so they can get away from all these new
faces. Aramis, Marsac, in my office.”

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