Fic: The First Adieu
He had thought back to the day of Porthos’s wedding. He had strategically maneuvered himself in such a way that when everyone was seated in the small church he ended up sitting (admittedly, obnoxiously, and entirely on purpose) right in between Aramis and Athos. Watching their mutual discomfort had caused him almost as much pleasure as observing the exchange of the vows between his dear friend and the future Madame du Vallon. D’Artagnan was studying his two companions out of the corners of his eyes, taking in Aramis’s expression, which was impassive, as well as the face of Athos, which seemed to reflect a sea of emotions as the ceremony dragged along, and for the hundredth time, d’Artagnan found himself asking the question of “What does he see in you that I do not?”
During the brief celebration following the exchange of the wedding vows, Porthos shone forth with genuine joy and, resplendent in his newly made courtier’s attire, was at the peak of complacency. He laughed raucously at d’Artagnan’s bawdy jokes about his impending conjugal duties, while Aramis shook his head and mumbled something in Latin under his breath that d’Artagnan figured only Athos could hear and understand. The latter surprised no one by getting drunk with exceptional speed, and making his excuses to M. and Mme. du Vallon, was the first to leave the festivities, thus abandoning d’Artagnan effectively one on one with Aramis.
D’Artagnan had once heard Athos say, “In order to have rivals, one must first have equals.” Keeping that in mind, he studied his rival’s face, trying to convince himself that Aramis was merely his adversary. There was no denying it, face-wise Aramis had him beat hands down. D’Artagnan angrily swallowed the contents of the glass of wine he had been holding.
“And what are your plans for the night, Aramis?” d’Artagnan suddenly asked, trying to sound as casually conversational as he could.
“I shall have to return home soon, myself. I still have an entire canto of a poem to finish that had been commissioned from me.”
“A whole canto, huh?” d’Artagnan had refilled his glass. “Does it just happen that easily for you, or do you usually have to wait for some visitation from the Muse before feeling inspired?”
Aramis gave his companion an inquisitive look, as if trying to determine whether d’Artagnan was sincere or if he was being mocked. D’Artagnan made his own face an impenetrable mask of goodwill and naïveté. Finally, deciding that there was no way that d’Artagnan could possibly not be trying to wheedle him, Aramis responded by saying, “Well, d’Artagnan, my door is always open for my Muse.”
“I bet,” d’Artagnan snickered, but quickly checked himself by returning the smile to his face and adding, “I certainly hope the Muse does not leave you waiting long tonight. It would be a shame if you had not slept a wink while in the throws of your poetic devotions!”
Aramis transformed his own face into a smile of such exquisite grace and beauty that d’Artagnan felt as if he had been punched in the gut.
“Have no worries, my dear friend,” Aramis uttered, the timbre of his voice becoming velvety and husky to d’Artagnan’s ear. “I shall sleep splendidly tonight.” His thick, long lashes cast a shadow over his eyes as he made a rather ceremonious bow towards d’Artagnan. “A pleasant night to you, M. Lieutenant.”
“I hate you,” d’Artagnan suddenly found himself mumbling through his teeth, as he watched his friend take his leave. This unwitting uttering of his own thoughts gave d’Artagnan a start. When had he actually started to hate Aramis? Had his blind jealousy truly led him down such a treacherous path? Suddenly, as he could still make out the plume of Aramis’s hat making its way towards the exit, he became aware of an overwhelming desire to see for himself. He wanted to see them together.
In retrospect, he had to admit, he should never have given in to this perverse curiosity. Even that night, he already knew that nothing good could possibly come of having such a wish granted. However, he managed to convince himself that if he were to see… to really see the two of them together, it would help him accept the fact that Athos was not meant for him, and he’d be able to let go of this nascent hatred for Aramis that was taking a hold of him.
Having gotten used to hearing Aramis’s excuses over the years, d’Artagnan had gained the ability to glean at least the partial truth in them. Therefore, he felt no need to follow the man, since he was pretty sure he was, indeed, heading back to his house on rue Servandoni. He was not mistaken, for when he arrived, the windows of the residence were lit up; their master had returned. D’Artagnan, who had only ever been inside the apartment but once, none the less remembered the layout and realized that the windows of the bedroom faced the garden. He immediately cleared the wall separating the garden from the street and crouched down in the greenery to avoid being seen. “So far, so good,” he mumbled to himself, not believing his luck. “Now I’ll be able to see you without you being the wiser for it.” A wicked snicker escaped him, and he clasped his own hand over his mouth and mentally reprimanded himself for both his thoughts and his actions.
The noise must have startled Aramis, who was indeed sitting at his desk and writing something. He quickly raised his head and cast a look through the window, trying to penetrate the nighttime darkness of the garden. Aramis’s hand, with the quill in it, was suspended in the air for a few seconds, and then he quickly resumed his interrupted missive. By the nervous expression on Aramis’s face, d’Artagnan was ready to swear that he was writing anything but poetry. He continued to hungrily observe the writer’s face for any clues as to what was actually going on. Unaware of the fact that he was being closely watched, Aramis’s face looked more alive with emotion than d’Artagnan had ever recalled seeing before. The most profound of these emotions, or so it seemed to d’Artagnan at the time, appeared to be grief or some kind of deeply rooted regret. At the moment, d’Artagnan would have given anything to be able to read what it was that was apparently causing his rival that much pain. He would have given his eye teeth for it.
Aramis had put the quill down and quickly scanned the contents of what he had just written. Then, he dropped his face onto his arms and remained immobile for a few moments. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, grabbed the paper off the desk and angrily put it to flame from the candle to his right. He pensively watched it burn and scattered the ashes onto the floor. His gaze was clouded and his face was flushed, as if from the heat of the fire, which he just set to his work.
Suddenly, both Aramis and d’Artagnan were startled by a knock coming from the direction of the front door. “You destroyed your evidence just in time,” d’Artagnan thought to himself, “because your Muse now stands at your front door.” Then he added to himself, “You bitch.” It suddenly occurred to him that Aramis’s midnight caller could be anyone at all, and he flushed to the roots of his hair and quickly planned his escape. However, the momentary hesitation was in vain, since when the door to the bedroom opened, it was Athos who walked into the room. It began to appear more and more that d’Artagnan was going to get the chance to see the show he had been hoping for that night.
He could not hear them because the window was closed, but he could continue to observe them fairly easily since Aramis had not put out the light. Athos navigated the room with the ease of a man who was very used to being inside it. He said something to Aramis while carelessly tossing his hat aside, and removed his cloak. Aramis took the cloak from his hands and hung it up next to his own musketeer’s uniform. D’Artagnan then watched Athos gently draw Aramis closer to himself and say something with a concerned expression on his face. The younger man shook his head and turned his face away. D’Artagnan noted that too - he had never seen Aramis have this little control over his own emotions that he would resort to hiding his face. A few more words were exchanged between the two men in the bedroom, and then d’Artagnan heard a barely audible laughter emanating from inside. He had guessed that whatever the cause of the tension was, it had been broken.
And that’s when it happened, the imagery of it forever burned into d’Artagnan’s mind, as if by an executioner’s scalding brand. Aramis sat down on the bed, and Athos leaned over him and locked his lips to the other man’s lips. In that one kiss alone, d’Artagnan perceived so much tenderness and longing that he wanted to look away, and yet found himself unable to tear his eyes from the softly lit room, and from the two men kissing each other inside it. As if to punish him, the kiss, which started so softly and unexpectedly, became deeper and seemingly interminable. Then, Aramis’s hands flew up like two white moths and entwined themselves in Athos’s hair, pulling the man even closer to himself. “My god, you’re going to eat his face,” d’Artagnan thought bitterly, and once again tried to force himself to look away. But no matter how many times he mentally kicked himself and tried to avert his eyes, they remained focused on the bed, as if chained to it by some form of dark magic.
Somehow, the rest of it was much easier for d’Artaganan to watch than that first kiss that seemed to never end, and took on a life of its own in d’Artaganan’s mind. It seemed to him that each subsequent time their lips touched, it was only an echo of that initial contact, which burned into his mind and with it had burned up his heart.
That is why, even though Aramis had disappeared, finally, at last, had fucked-off into oblivion, just as d’Artagnan had fantasized, he could not really feel the triumph he had so wanted to feel. Standing in front of Athos, or, rather, of the statue that had once been Athos, looking at that pale face, those nervously twitching hands that he watched through the window having their way with his rival’s body, d’Artagnan did not feel triumphant in the least. There was a part of him that wanted to yell, “I told you so!” at his friend. “Did you really think he was going to stay with you forever?” Instead, he had walked over to where Athos was sitting and drew the man into his embrace.
For the next few months, d’Artagnan hated Aramis more than he had previously thought possible. It was one thing to see Athos the way he was used to seeing him, broodingly drunk and recklessly self-destructive, but it was a whole other thing having the responsibility of being the only person left in Paris who would care enough to reanimate him from the stupor into which Aramis’s departure had plunged him. Hungrily, he waited for the news that refused to come of what had become of the demon of a man, so that at least Athos could have some iota of closure. So that he, d’Artagnan, could finally make his move.
At last, inevitably, the rumor mill had paid off and d’Artagnan found himself sitting in front of the man who had for so long eluded him and saying, “My dear Athos, it was as we expected. He had left you to go back to his first husband.”
“His first husband?”
“Jesus Christ.”
Athos made a face that caused d’Artagnan to wonder whether he was not about to vomit and if perhaps he should get the chamber pot.
“Look on the bright side,” he said quickly.
“There is a bright side?”
“Aramis was true to himself to the very end.”
“And he’s not dead,” Athos added, coldly.
“Right,” d’Artagnan continued, feeling somewhat embarrassed that his words were seen through so easily. “Of course. If he’s not dead, he can always be found.” The last part was spoken so quietly that d’Artagnan was hoping Athos had not heard him at all.
Athos had gotten up from the chair and walked over to the window. For a few moments he was silent and then he turned back towards d’Artagnan and said, “Do not worry yourself needlessly, d’Artagnan. I am not about to go looking for him.”
“I am unabashedly happy to hear that,” d’Artagnan declared, also rising from the chair in his turn. He made as if to walk out the door, but his movements were deliberately slow and uncertain.
“Wait,” d’Artagnan heard the voice of Athos behind him. He turned around to find the man standing within inches of his face. He must have moved as silently as a ghost, it occurred to d’Artagnan, whose heart was beating rapidly at this newly found proximity. “Don’t go,” Athos said.
“I won’t,” d’Artagnan replied, breathlessly. He wanted to reach out and grab the man and pull him to himself, but he also knew that this bird had to come to the cage of its own accord.
“I’m sorry,” Athos whispered.
“For what?”
“For everything I am about to do to you.”
But d’Artagnan understood what he meant. He had not apologized for his actions; he had apologized for the reasons behind his actions. Still, at the moment, d’Artagnan did not give a damn. So, he just opened the cage of his arms, and allowed the bird of Athos’s desires to fly into it. However, as soon as their lips touched, d’Artagnan’s mind was transported back to the night of Porthos’s wedding, to the garden and Aramis’s window. He saw the kiss again, and he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he would never be kissed like that by Athos.
He knew then, even as his clothes were being torn off his body by frenzied hands, as he was being pushed further into the recesses of Athos’s bed, he knew that he would go on hating Aramis until his last dying breath. Perhaps, he thought, this hatred might even survive him.