René d'Herblay, alias Aramis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
afineseamstress) wrote2015-06-10 01:05 pm
afineseamstress) wrote2015-06-10 01:05 pm
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In the end, Aramis does not wait long.
In the time that follows their own terrible discoveries, Aramis hangs onto his nerve as best he can, and Athos prevents his descent into despair with touches and a few well placed words. Despite his best efforts, Aramis still feels restlessly caught between wishing to see Porthos and never facing him with this. He excuses himself to the shower in the hope that it will make him feel right again, but the warm water sluicing down his body is too reminiscent of tears, and Aramis hurries lest he finally break and begin weeping. If he does, he may never stop, and Aramis dries and dresses quickly to return to Athos.
He has only just stepped from the bedroom door when he hears a key in the lock outside, Porthos' heavy steps settling just long enough to work it open.
The blood drains from Aramis' cheeks like a stopper pulled, and he eyes Athos in near panic, but they both know what must come next. He's sick with exhaustion and heavy with grief, but Aramis is a soldier. Not a one of them will be any better for it if he balks from this, and he fights against the way his body wants to curl in to protect his middle, his heart, the way his arms itch to reach for Porthos the moment he passes through the door.
Drawing an unsteady breath, Aramis lets his eyes pass over Porthos for what might be their last moment of peace, and locks the image away inside of him.
In the time that follows their own terrible discoveries, Aramis hangs onto his nerve as best he can, and Athos prevents his descent into despair with touches and a few well placed words. Despite his best efforts, Aramis still feels restlessly caught between wishing to see Porthos and never facing him with this. He excuses himself to the shower in the hope that it will make him feel right again, but the warm water sluicing down his body is too reminiscent of tears, and Aramis hurries lest he finally break and begin weeping. If he does, he may never stop, and Aramis dries and dresses quickly to return to Athos.
He has only just stepped from the bedroom door when he hears a key in the lock outside, Porthos' heavy steps settling just long enough to work it open.
The blood drains from Aramis' cheeks like a stopper pulled, and he eyes Athos in near panic, but they both know what must come next. He's sick with exhaustion and heavy with grief, but Aramis is a soldier. Not a one of them will be any better for it if he balks from this, and he fights against the way his body wants to curl in to protect his middle, his heart, the way his arms itch to reach for Porthos the moment he passes through the door.
Drawing an unsteady breath, Aramis lets his eyes pass over Porthos for what might be their last moment of peace, and locks the image away inside of him.