#sick ara/mis

[impala124]

Love in the big city Part 2: Call me "Blueberry"

What if Part 2 was about Yeong trying to adhere to societal expectations and becoming more miserable in the process?

In the philosophy class, which he takes because of something Mi Ae mentioned, he introduces himself as "Blueberry" and says that he's there to strengthen himself. On a completely unrelated note, Mi Ae used to stock up on blueberries for him when they lived together. I might be reaching here, but I think that Yeong is trying to take on the path that Mi Ae followed because rejecting conformity has only led him to loneliness in Part 1.

Mi Ae conformed to societal norms and made up with her parents, got a respectable job and married a suitable partner in Part 1 leaving Yeong behind.

Yeong tries his best to be a good son to his mother. I'll probably talk about Yeong's complicated relationship with his mother on a later date.

Young Soo enters into Yeong's life at a tumultuous time. He is still reeling from the loss of Mi Ae and the shock of Nam Gyu's death and is currently helping take care of his sick mother.

When I was with him, I became someone who spoke and ate little. I was completely intent on observing him.

During their pork backbone stew meal, Yeong mentions that he doesn't play sports. But we know that their next meeting was the futsal game. Yeong is willing to accommodate Young Soo's interests and has a bruise on his face to prove it.

I wanted to listen to him all night, for many nights on end. I wanted to fit together his fragmented pieces and complete the puzzle of him in my mind. The life that was unknown to me, the habits I wasn’t aware of, even his breath—I wanted to reconfigure them all and make them my own.

Now, what do we have here? Yeong wearing lens-less glasses to cover up his bruise. I wonder where he got that idea from.

On Halloween night, Yeong wants them to do something he enjoys, but Young Soo is clearly uncomfortable in the club and snaps at him (giving him a taste of what it might be like to date a closeted guy), resulting in Yeong walking away. Young Soo follows him, and they end up at the Hwe place.

Young Soo brings out the big guns with ' I can see right through you' and ' I like the universe that is you'.

Young Soo removes Yeong's glasses—a part of him that Yoeng is trying to emulate; maybe it has something to do with his internalised homophobia and self-hatred—and kisses him.

Later, when Young Soo says that he knew that Yeong was gay since the moment he laid eyes on him, he looks pleased. I wonder if Yeong is happy that Young Soo 'saw' him from the beginning because his mother tries her best to not acknowledge his queer identity.

I couldn’t stop myself from falling headlong in love with him. To understand him, and beyond that, to understand my own thoughts and feelings as I crashed into him, and to interpret that whole mess of contradictions, I listened to every word he said, observed every little thing he did, and recorded it all. Desperately and plaintively, just like a grad student spending years writing their dissertation.

Yeong tries to hold onto Young Soo even after the reveal and later agrees to meet him at the pasta place wearing their COUPLES' shirt. Young Soo notably wears a plain black one.

Even trying to conform to societal expectations has led him to loneliness, so he just can't see a way forward, hence the suicide attempt.

That's why it hits so hard to see T-aras at the hospital when he wakes up. Here are the people who don't expect him to be anyone other than himself and that's enough for them to love him.

It is interesting to note that Young introduces himself by his name while addressing the philosophy class in the novel. So, this change was only made for the on-screen adaptation. I wonder if he made that change because of the chronological order of storytelling done in the series.

[groundcontrol21]

A Little Help from My Friend (M, Musketeers)

So the hindbrain wrote this one. CW for: inducing, contagion, mess, stuffy-talk, character with the kink, and absolute desecration of characters from classic literature. Very glad Mr. Dumas is not around to see what I've done here. How far we've strayed from the light.

This is a marked departure from what I usually write and I honestly don't know what came over me. I'm very nervous about posting it for some reason (?) so please be kind.

“Hehh… uhhh…” For the umpteenth time that day, the sneeze which had been building and dragging Aramis to the precipice now abandoned him there, snuffly breaths hitching as he rubbed his hands over his face with a groan. “Snf!” His nose squelched as he rubbed at it, in one last vain attempt to coax the sneeze forward. He huffed miserably. “I’m so ill, Porthos.”

As attractive as it was to watch Aramis’s face go through the slow, agonizing permutations of readying to sneeze time and time again, Porthos felt terrible for him. “I know,” he said, biting at his lip. “I didn’t have it half as bad as you.”

Aramis coughed, the sound wet and congested. Porthos’s own cough hadn’t sounded that bad, had it? He thought back to when he’d been sick with this cold. The first couple days it hadn’t been bad enough to keep him from duty, so Aramis had merely hovered beside him like a worried nursemaid, urging him to drink often and offering his own waterskin when Porthos’s had run dry. Then when Treville had taken him off duty to prohibit him from sneezing on the royal court, Aramis had been with him in his every spare moment, pouring him tea and washing his sodden handkerchiefs. Really, Porthos supposed, he should have expected that just as soon as his own sniffling diminished, Aramis’s increased, as though the cold had just seeped from his head into his friend’s.

Aramis’s croak drew him back to the present. He flopped his arm around miserably on the bed. “I’m beginning to think I’ll ne-eh’hehhh—never be well again. Snf!”

Porthos couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Aramis shot upward, curled in on himself in what Porthos was sure would end in a sneeze, only for his nose to be left a dripping, flaring, unsatisfied mess as the sensation abandoned him once more. “HEHH...ohh.” He pressed the back of his hand hard against his nose with a set of marshy sniffles. “If I could only sneeze, the world would look so much brighter.” 

In more ways than one, Porthos thought, making a concerted effort to swallow down the fluttering feeling in his stomach. He felt bad enough that he was enjoying his friend’s misery in a way; he would be damned if Aramis found out about that fact. Whereas the day previous Aramis had been veritably unable to stop sneezing, each expulsion somehow leaving him sounding more congested than the last, today he was many times taunted but never satisfied. Yesterday had brought its own challenges when Porthos had come to check on him, namely the need to hide any untoward reactions to his friend’s desperately ill sneezes, but when Porthos had agreed with Aramis’s plea for the heavens to make him stop sneezing, it hadn’t been with this new misery in mind. Misery for Aramis, but also for Porthos, because these near-sneezes were hardly any better.

Aramis coughed again, rubbing at the swollen glands near his jaw. “Oh, and my throat,” he moaned with a harsh swallow. “And my ear.” He winced as the coughs continued and Porthos felt his heart split in two. No sooner did the coughs cease than did his breaths begin to hitch again–

“Hehhh…Ihhh…IHHHhh–”

–only to fade away into nothingness once more. Poor Aramis let out a hoarse, throaty groan, and that pitiful noise not only increased Porthos’s concern but also must have banished whatever sense he possessed, for he suddenly heard himself saying, “I think I know something that could help you with the sneezes.”

Luckily, Aramis’s eyes were closed as he pinched and rubbed at his leaking nose, for Porthos was sure he looked like the portrait of a mortified man. His hands shook slightly and he blinked; help him? Dear God, what was Porthos thinking, exposing himself like that? Worse, what if Aramis accepted? How could Porthos pretend to be normal in that?

A second passed in which Aramis said nothing, and so Porthos rushed in with a fumbling attempt to somehow explain his offer. “It’s something I’ve done–uhh, it’s a bit unconventional… but…” Good Lord, Porthos thought, he was merely digging himself deeper into this godforsaken hole.

“Porthos,” Aramis sighed, cracking open a tired eye at him, “at this point I would join the Cardinal’s Guard if it would make me feel better.”

Porthos gasped in mock scandal. “You don’t mean that.”

He was stalling, this much he knew, but he also knew he would rather be trampled by every horse in the garrison than continue this conversation, even though Porthos had been the fool who brought this whole predicament upon himself in the first place.

Aramis said nothing in reply, merely fished his handkerchief out from beneath the blankets and gave a liquid blow into it. He fixed his gaze balefully on Porthos when he finished, rubbing at his nose with the corner of the cloth in slow, slurpy circles. He looked so utterly miserable, his cheeks flushed, his nose chapped, his eyes bruised with purple, that Porthos knew instantly he would swallow every inch of his pride to make him feel better. 

“Sit up, then,” Porthos said, and said a quick prayer to nothing at all to help him, for surely this was out of God’s domain. “I have a feeling this might help you.”

Aramis grumbled and groaned but did as Porthos bid him, dragging himself into a seated position and swaddling the thickest quilt from his bedsheets around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Porthos went to the post at the wall where he had hung his own hat and plucked one of the feathers from it. He cared far less for his hat than Aramis did, and anyway he knew that Aramis was planning to give him a new one for his birthday that year, as the man could really be horrible at keeping secrets sometimes. As such, one feather now could be sacrificed to the cause.

Porthos returned to the bed and took a seat across from the bundled, shivering Aramis. His heavy-lidded eyes fell upon the feather which Porthos twisted nervously between his fingers and he grinned, even as Porthos wished the floor would swallow him whole. 

“Ahh, I see,” Aramis murmured, and Porthos nearly lept to the ceiling.

“You-you see?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’ve done this before, too?” 

At this, Porthos’s heart nearly stopped. He felt dizzy, felt his mouth drop open, unable to believe what he was hearing. Aramis continued. “With a feather, I mean. I used to know a woman who was quite, shall we say, fond of sneezes.” Porthos could already feel his cheeks burning, but then Aramis’s eyes took on a far-off sparkle, glimmering with pride, and the words which accompanied them were almost his undoing. 

“Especially mine, so she said.”

I’m inclined to agree with her, Porthos thought. His cheeks felt positively aflame now, and Porthos hardly knew how he managed to keep his voice from being a croak as he asked, “By fond do you mean…” He licked his lips, almost praying that Aramis would spare him completing his question. “Aroused?”

Aramis smiled. “I was trying to be discreet, but yes.” That same faraway look of pride gleamed in his eyes again, and Porthos wished he could slap the man for it. “Ah, I wonder if she’s found a better sneezer than I.” 

At once, Porthos’s mind supplied him with I doubt it, and wished he could slap Aramis for prompting that, too. To hide the tremble he felt rising in his voice, Porthos scoffed. “You,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Discreet.”

“I am very discreet, dear Porthos.” Aramis laid his hand across Porthos’s, the one which held the feather, and Porthos could feel the man’s fever even through his fingers. “Notice how I have not so much as disclosed her name.” Removing his hands, Aramis pressed his thumbs beneath his eyes, near the bridge of his nose and massaged himself lightly. He groaned softly at the contact. “Snf! Now, enough reminiscing. My nose is positively stopped full and it n-n-eh-needs your help. Snf!” 

If the Lord did exist, He must have been very displeased with Porthos, for He was surely testing every mite of Porthos’s resolve this day. Porthos raised the feather slowly, his hand trembling so badly he was worried he might jab Aramis in the eye with it. He was almost unable to look Aramis in the face but he forced himself to, trying to distance himself from the thought that he was really doing this, that he was really putting a feather to his friend’s blocked, sniffly, cold-ridden nose just as he’d always–

“I don’t think it’ll take much,” Aramis said thickly. “Snf! I’ve been hovering on the brink all day.” He caught Porthos by the wrist, stopping the feather a mere hairsbreadth from its target. “I might—snf!—I might sneeze on you.”

Porthos cursed the stirring he felt in his trousers. “That’s alright,” he managed, hoping he didn’t sound quite as breathless as he felt. He tried to don an air of uncertainty; it wouldn’t do to seem to be enjoying it so much, for God’s sake. “I-if it was my cold first, that means I shouldn’t catch it again, right?”

“I should hope not bc I—snf!— I feel miserable and I’d feel even worse if I made you this miserable too.” 

Porthos made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat and worked to push aside any thought that wasn’t of concern for Aramis. The man was freely admitting to feeling miserable, for God’s sake. Porthos could help him, would help him, and would not let any silliness get in the way of that. If this is what it took to alleviate the smallest bit of his brother’s discomfort, so be it. Porthos could deal with himself later. 

Porthos brushed the feather delicately beneath the red, chapped skin of Aramis’s nose, and the man gave a full-body shiver at the contact, bundling deeper into the blanket tucked around his shoulders. He coughed lightly, his nose already beginning to twitch and flare, and Porthos knew the man had been right, it wouldn’t take much. He inserted the very tip into one of Aramis’s nostrils, gave it a slight wiggle, and that was all it took before the man’s breath snagged on a ragged inhale. 

“P-hhhooo’ohhh’ISHHHUHHH! Ihhh’KSSHHH! Ihh’HESHHHH!” 

The dam finally broken, Aramis sneezed and sneezed, collapsing forward with each expulsion. Porthos could see the wetness hang in the air between them, could feel it land on his cheeks. Mess trailed down in ropy tendrils from Aramis’s nose and he cupped his hand in a futile and retrograde act of containment. “Heh’KMMPPFF! Hehh’RMPFFF!”

His hands shook with the fervor of his movement, and he was not successful at keeping them plastered to his face. As they broke away they brought with them a strand of mucus, clinging to his fingers, but still Aramis was far from finished. “Heh’ZDSHHH’ooo! Ihh’GSHHH’ooo! Hehh’ihh’INGSHHHH!” He sniffled almost convulsively between each sneeze, desperate for air. Porthos felt a mist on his cheeks and for a moment he was paralyzed. 

Porthos wouldn’t have minded if the man kept releasing a fountainous spray upon him, but to preserve his friend’s dignity he cast around feverishly in the bedsheets. “Damn it, Aramis, where did you put the handkerchief?”

Aramis was pinching his reddened nose, his fingers glistening with the mess which had spilled onto them. Already his hair was wild and framed his face like an unholy halo. “Udder the pill-Pshhh’IEEWWW! Pillow? Heh’DSHHH!”

It was not under the pillow, nor tangled in the bedsheets, but had rather fallen to the floor halfway beneath the bed. Porthos scrambled to retrieve it as his friend released sneeze after sneeze of the wettest, fullest sort, as though they had been building in his head the whole day. They probably had been, the poor man. He started to cough, only for more sneezes to cut him off.

“Heh’RSHHH! Heh’TSHIEW! Oh, thagk you,” Aramis sighed as he hurriedly took the cloth from Porthos. Their hands brushed, and Porthos swallowed heavily at the dampness he felt on Aramis’s fingers. He watched as Aramis took a deep breath before blowing what must have been every bit of fluid in his nose into the handkerchief. Once he had finished, he folded the cloth, turned it over, and blew again, before seeking out a dry corner and nuzzling into it, massaging his nose between the folds and making stuffy noises of relief.  

He lowered the cloth for a mere moment before his eyes clouded over again. “I’ve got… sdeeze! Ahh’TSCHOO! HEHH’TSHHH!” He blew his nose again and coughed throatily into the handkerchief, before his breath crescendoed into one final, massive sneeze. “Ahh’hihh’HITSCHHOOO!”

Aramis buried his nose in the folds again and simply held it there as if to let gravity drain away the rest, shutting his eyes in the utterly exhausted aftermath of such a display. Porthos was grateful for the man’s distraction, for he was finding it increasingly difficult to sit still. 

“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis groaned in a positively sinful manner as he finally lowered the handkerchief. “Snf, snf! Snf!” The sneezing had clearly shifted the congestion in his head, but already he was beginning to sound all bunged up again. His cheeks and nose were flushed scarlet, his hair a tangled mess, his eyes streaming, and before Porthos could stop himself he squirmed and gave a minute groan of his own. 

Then, to Porthos’s horror, Aramis smiled at him. “Am I wrong in saying that you appear to be enjoying this quite as much as Ju—my friend?” 

At once, the room began to spin. Had he really been so obvious? Porthos’s breath quickened as thoughts and curses jumbled together in his mind, his hands beginning to tremble, his legs starting to bounce in agitation. He would have to leave and hope Aramis would forget this; he was not some oddball lover who–

Aramis’s hand was back on his thigh, stilling its motion. “Porthos, mon ami,” he said lowly, and Christ Almighty, every ounce of congestion was back weighing on his voice. Porthos could not look at him. “I will not judge you. I—heh’TSHIEW!” 

As if on reflex, Porthos found his head snap up at the sound, and he damned himself. Aramis had twisted away to sneeze at his shoulder, but he turned back to Porthos with a bleary sniffle. He smiled at him again, and though his eyes were tired, they held nothing but gentleness.  “What a man likes in bed is between him and the parties in it.”

Porthos could hardly believe what he was hearing, could hardly believe what had happened and what was continuing to happen. He spluttered, choking over thank you for not thinking I am a deviant, and I hope I haven’t made things odd between us, until all he could think to say was, “But I–we–we’re not in bed!”

Aramis gestured to the mattress on which they sat with a laugh. “In any case, I am glad someone is eh-enjoying my… my cold. Hhhh’KSHHHH’uhh!” The sneeze burst from him too quickly to be adequately covered by the handkerchief, and so Porthos saw a heap of wetness slide out from his nose before being sniffled back. “Snf! Guhhh… Because it certainly isn’t me.” 

Aramis gave his nose a haphazard swipe with the cloth. “We could do some more if you’d like. There’s still a lot—a lot…” Aramis trailed off as though forgetting his train of thought, but the true reason for the pause became apparent when his breath gave an almighty hitch and his eyes flickered shut. “Hhhh’RSHHHH!” He sniffled thickly and gave a rueful little smile. “A lot left in there.”

Warmth pulled at the base of Porthos’s belly, but he dared not hope. “Are you sure?”

“After a day of being clogged up with no respite, sneezing like that was nothing short of divine.” 

You can say that again, my friend. Porthos smiled, anticipation thrumming in his veins as he picked up the feather once more, the realization washing over him that he would get to see that divine display again, that he would be able to watch his friend’s beautiful sneezes crash forth and not need to look away for fear or propriety’s sake. It was dizzying, and Porthos felt as though he might burst with it. 

Again, Aramis took him by the wrist. His eyes were alight, but serious. “Tell me how to make this more pleasurable for you.”

Porthos must have been dreaming. “P-Pardon me?”

“My l-friend, she liked it when I tried not to sneeze after she’d tickled me.” 

Porthos’s voice, when he found it, was naught more than a rough whisper. “I—uh—I’d like that too.” If he ever found this woman, he would fall at her feet and kiss them. 

“Noted,” Aramis said with a grin. “Snf!” He slid a knuckle beneath his nose. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold back given how congested I am, but on my honor as a Musketeer I will try.” He patted his breast proudly, and Porthos thought he might love the man for it. “What else?”

And if Porthos thought he loved the man before, he was surely infatuated by that comment. What else, the man asks? As if this weren’t already everything and more. The heady thrumming pulsated in his ears, and he could hardly feel his lips as they moved. “Tell me how you feel.”

Aramis blinked at him blankly, and for a moment Porthos feared all was lost. Stuttering, he pushed ahead. “Y-your symptoms. How miserable you feel.”

“Oh, you like it when I complain?” Aramis flashed him a sparkling, devilish grin, and in that instant Porthos saw what every woman must see in him. “You are in luck, dear Porthos, because I feel awful.” He frowned, shaping his features into a dramatic pout. “Every part of me feels run-down and achy—“

Porthos danced the feather ever so lightly across the man’s septum, marveling at how much it quivered at such slight contact. 

“Snf! And sh-shivery. Snf! Like I have a-a f-fehhh… a fever.” 

Porthos pressed his hand gently to Aramis’s warm forehead, his fingers stroking back the sweat-damp hair. “I think you do, poor Aramis.” 

“Poor me, indeed!” Aramis cried hoarsely, breaking off into a few sharp coughs directed at his shoulder. Porthos’s fingers slid to Aramis’s jaw and he guided the man’s face back to him. Porthos ran the feather against his septum again. Aramis’s entire face twitched, but he soldiered on. 

“My throat… my…” His expression went lax as the feather ghosted against his skin and his eyes fluttered to half mast. He gripped Porthos’s thigh, his fingers flexing and relaxing, his nails digging into the flesh. “Oh, I have to sn-sneeze. Hehhh—“

Were it not for the iron grip of his friend’s hand, Porthos felt as though he might float away into the ether. “Keep holding on,” he croaked, sounding almost as wretched as Aramis. “Keep talking.” 

Aramis doggedly blinked away the tears which had begun to form in his eyes. “Oh, snf!” His nose was red, chapped, and quivering, and yet Porthos taunted it more with the feather. Aramis squirmed. “My throat feels like I’ve choked on my sword. My ear feels hot and full. Snf! Hehhh…. Oh, and my nose. Snf! How is it possible for it to be so stuffed up and… and so runny… HEHhhh… Snf! At the same time?” 

And indeed, Porthos could see the evidence of such a predicament, a line of mucus dripping from one of Aramis’s nostrils no matter how forcefully his nose twitched and sniffled. It wouldn’t be long now, and so Porthos made the final gesture, inserting the feather into the snotty nostril inch by inch with a tantalizing slowness. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, his breath already beginning to hitch. Porthos wiggled it a couple times and then withdrew it at the same pace, drawing with it a thick rope of slime. 

“Ohhhh…” Aramis was trembling, his breath shaking as he fought against his body’s urge with every ounce of strength. But he was no match, this Porthos could tell; he was going to lose this battle, and lose it quickly. 

“I’b really…hehhh’EHHH...huhhhh—Snf, snf!” His voice was rapidly taking on a breathier and breathier quality with each word he spoke, and Porthos’s heart raced. “Really dot feelig—HESHHHOO! Ihh’TSSCHHH! Uhh… I’b dot feelig well at all, Porthos. Heh’TSHIEWWW! Oh…”

They were both done for now, Aramis lost in a violent haze of sneezes, even more vigorous now than the first, and Porthos swirling in his own private ecstasy. “Heh’ZDSHHH! KSHHH’uhh! Hehh…Ihhh..HEHISHHH! Hhhh’ITSCHHH! Snf! Huh’TSHHHH’ooo! Nggghhh…”

Aramis rubbed at his nose with the handkerchief as he sniffled and sneezed, letting it fall to the side with a sigh of irritation upon finding the cloth utterly soaked. Mucus dribbled down his lips no matter how many times he sniffled, and the sharp inhalations made him cough. 

“Let it all out,” Porthos rasped, “you’ll feel better.”

“I deed–de-heh’HESHHH’oo! Snf! Oh, Porthos… Heh’KSHHHIEW! Snf, snf! A haddkerchief–snf–please! Ahh’TSHCHH!” It was true, Aramis’s face was a mess of fluid from his eyes to his chin. Porthos dug out a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and passed it to Aramis, before flopping back against the bed and tending to himself as Aramis blew and blew. All the while, Porthos lay on his back, panting, staring at the ceiling as visions of what he had just seen danced across his view. 

“Ugh, I’b exhausted,” Aramis said upon finishing, before dropping abruptly onto Porthos’s chest, pillowing his head against his breast and curling up beside him. Porthos stroked the top of the man’s head, gratified when the man let out a hoarse and congested, yet content hum at the contact. He pressed a long kiss to the hot skin of Aramis’s forehead, suffusing it with the thank yous and I love yous and my heart breaks when you aren’t feeling wells that he could not put into words. Aramis turned and pressed his nose into Porthos’s shirt, drawing a long breath in before muffling his next sneeze into the fabric, though some still spilled over onto Porthos’s exposed skin where the shirt came undone at his chest.  “Ehh’KMPFFF! Oh…” He sniffled and laid his head back down on Porthos’s chest, before murmuring tiredly, “You’d best hope you can’t catch this again.”

[jawsandbones]

Going Home

Why the Sabrae clan really helped Zevran in DA2

He keeps it close to his heart. Underneath his tunic, against his skin. It is quiet as he steps through the underbrush, twigs snapping underfoot, leaves pressed into the grass. Birds chirp in the branches, a polite twittering song that jumps from tree to tree. A song, carried by a choir. Were he still travelling with the others, he would never have known its melody. Oh. It catches him in the chest. He reaches out, presses his hand against the rough bark of a tree as he doubles over. His other hand on his knee, and he thinks he might be sick. He breathes quickly, fleeting inhales, over much too soon. The necklace slips from his shirt, dangles beneath him.

He had heard the offers, of course. He could have stayed in Denerim, with Alistair. He would have found a position for Zevran, no doubt. King Alistair would have been a sight to see. He could have gone with Wynne and Shale, seeking answers to questions he didn’t understand. Even Sten offered, but that would mean the Qun, and Zevran had never been good with obedience. He almost took Leliana up on hers. Her hand extended, a soft smile on her face, offering refuge. A place where he might find counsel, some kind of peace. He couldn’t accept. His destination had already been promised, to another. He could only watch. With sweat slick hands, he holds tightly to his swords. She brings her own sword over her head, blood on her lips. A grimace of grim determination crosses her face as she stabs it downwards, into the soft flesh of the Archdemon. The resulting explosion knocks Zevran off his feet, back several paces. His ears ring with the sound of it, his body aches with the force of it. His swords are somewhere now, but they don’t matter. Three worlds slowly merge into one as Zevran closes his eyes, shakes the tolling from his head. He forces himself to his feet. Somehow, she’s still standing.

His steps are slower than he means them to be as he closes the distance between them, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for her. She has dropped the sword. She stands stone still, slightly hunched over, her hand pressed against her chest. Her hair is a veil around her face. Her head slowly turns, to look at him. He watches with horror as the darkened lines of taint begin to creep up from the line of her armor, twist around her neck, and touch at her face. “My Warden,” he says, his voice breaking, his words barely able to rise above a whisper. “Mi amor.” Words spoken far more desperately, as he finally finds himself in front of her, wrapping his arms around her.

“Zevran. Vhenan,” she says, clinging to him tightly. He feels her breathe against his neck, his jaw, his cheek. “Everything will be alright. You’ll be fine.” She presses her hand over where she knows the necklace to sit. “Don’t forget.” Her kiss tastes of iron, of salt. She smiles even as her eyes turn cloudy and grey, her hand soft against his cheek. She gently wipes away his tears. She sighs as she rests her head on his shoulder, indulges herself in one last hug. He holds her up with him for as long as he can, until his knees buckle. He sinks to the ground with Mahariel in his arms, and weeps over her body. Zevran isn’t sure when it ends, just that it does. He lies on the forest floor, watches the world sway with the wind. He holds his hand over his face, looks at the dried blood there. The bark had bit into his skin, tiny cuts which pepper his palm. It takes him a few more hours, but what are those few compared to the weeks of travel? The Free Marches will take time to be more familiar to him. Still, a mountain is an easy thing to find. There is only one entrance to the camp at the base of Sundermount. He approaches with his hands raised, his hair pulled away from his face, pointed ears. His elvish is poor, unserviceable. He tries.

“Aneth ara,” he says, as she taught him, but his pronunciation is painful to even his ears and he winces. “I was sent by one of your clan, to find Keeper Marethari.” The guards speak in fluent elvish, too quick for him to understand. They gesture for him to follow. Curious eyes follow him as he walks through the camp. They lead him to an older woman, her grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. The vallaslin touches all parts of her face. Absentmindedly, he brushes a hand against his tattoo.

“Andaran atish’an. We do not have many visitors. I am told,” she says after the guards have finished speaking and returned to their post, “You have been sent by one of our clan. May I ask who?”

Carefully, he pulls the necklace over his head. He slowly lets it fall into her palm. She rubs her fingers over the beads. Hundreds of them, all uniquely carved into the shape of a different animal. They chase each other round and round. Curiosity gives way to understanding, and her eyes grow sad, the corners of her lips turning downwards.  “Da’len na melana sahlin, emma ir abelas. Souver’inan isala hamin,” she murmurs as she rubs her thumb over the shape of a wolf.

“I do not understand,” Zevran says, his words pricked with pain. She looks up at him, as though she had forgotten he stood there, and her face softens.

“I am saddened to hear of her loss. She was a gift to us, as was Tamlen. Now we have lost them both,” Marethari says. “Yet, we have gained another. Stay a while with us, rest. I would like to hear of all that happened to her after she was forced to leave us.” She holds out the necklace for him. He almost takes a step back, stops himself.

“My Warden, ah, I promised her to bring it to you. I think, perhaps, she meant for you to have it,” he says. Marethari chuckles not unkindly, shakes her head. She takes his hand by force, presses the necklace to him, and folds his fingers over it. She keeps his hand there, clasped in hers.

“No, da’len. She did not. She meant for you to find some comfort in family. You do not need to be alone to mourn her.”

[strwberrytae]

Karma | 01

✦ characters: warlock!yoongi x witch!reader ft. warlock!taehyung ✦ summary: you never wanted to be a part of a coven but sometimes you crave to be a part of one. they seem too structured and formal for your liking, so being a Solitary Witch seemed more appealing. a Solitary Witch is a witch that practices magic alone, without a coven. that and the last coven you were a part of kicked you out due to your refusal to practice the darker magic that they were so drawn to. this meant losing your friends and a boyfriend that you loved you deeply. but after meeting a Solitary Warlock, you found yourself wanting to be a part of something again - maybe a coven or maybe something more. ✦ genre/words: witchcraft. mild violence. death. drama. light flirting. | 5.3k → chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 → [mini series in progress] ✦ moodboard made by me ✦

What exactly does it mean to be a witch? You ask yourself that very question everyday. It has a different meaning to everyone. Hence why there’s 10 different types - that you know of. It’s only been a year since you left your coven. To be honest, it’s been very peaceful. The life of a Solitary Witch is sometimes frowned upon. What is a Solitary Witch, one may ask. Essentially, it’s a witch that chooses to practice magic without being a part of a coven - solo magic if you will. Some witches feel that you need a coven for protection and guidance. Your coven was leading you down a dark path, so you chose to leave rather than betray them by joining another coven. They didn’t take that choice very well either. 

Leaving your coven meant losing your friends and a boyfriend you loved very much. They were your family for years and then...something shifted. Su-mi, the leader of your coven, started presenting new spells and incantations to practice. Small things here and there like making someone get a flat tire on the way to work, a pipe bursting in a neighbor’s apartment just because they always gave you a dirty look, but then it got bigger. The other witches wanted to get revenge on those that have wronged them - cursing exes, bosses, the barista who got a coffee order wrong. Things were getting out of control and when you spoke up about how wrong it was, they laughed at you. One day in particular pushed you over the edge.

“Tae, I still don’t think this is a good idea,” you said as you nervously watched one of your witch sisters lying on an altar. It was midnight, witches hour, and your coven was going to sacrifice your witch sister, Ara, for a ritual. Candles and torches decorated the sacred ground to illuminate the dark area. Ara looked over at you from the altar with a cute smile.

“Relax Y/N. It’s only temporary. There’s a spell to bring me back. I’ll only be gone for a minute.” You raised your eyebrow at how nonchalant she was being about the situation.

“Ara, that’s necromancy! Once you’re dead, you’re dead. What happens if we bring you back and your soul gets stuck in limbo or something? Or what if you pass because it’s too late?” Your boyfriend, Taehyung, stood in front of you and placed his hands on your shoulders; leaning down slightly to meet your worried eyes.

“It’s okay, baby. We know what we’re doing. Don’t you trust us? We wouldn’t let anything happen to her, okay?” His deep voice and kind eyes were so soothing. You felt your doubts slowly fading but something didn’t feel right. Death was not something to play with and this was crossing into a realm of dark magic that made your stomach churn. What happened to innocent little spells to give someone good luck or cure someone who was sick, things that helped the greater good? Now we’re doing spells that require a sacrifice so your coven can heighten their powers to become stronger? Nothing good comes from magic that results in personal gain.

You took a deep breath and nodded your head slowly. Tae smiled at you and cupped your cheeks to press a gentle kiss on your lips. He lightly brushed your hair behind your ear after pulling away.

“That’s my girl. Now, did you bring the knife?” Reluctantly, you pulled the antique athame, ceremonial blade, from your bag. It was your job to find it for your coven’s use and although it was an easy task for you, it was easier than handing it over to your boyfriend. Behind him near the altar stood Su-mi, with a proud smile on her face. A part of you felt that smile was more deviant than anything else. Su-mi extended her hand towards Taehyung to get him to walk towards the altar. Your boyfriend was the strongest warlock in the coven. Naturally, she always chose him to do the dirty work, and you hated it.

Taehyung walked to the altar as you stayed back. Your brothers and sisters gathered to form a circle around the altar. They held hands together and began the incantation. One of your brothers turned around, always the sweet one who would realize that you were still left behind.

“Y/N, join us,” Jimin said kindly. All you could do was look between them and Ara lying on the table as Taehyung stood beside her with the knife in position above his head. Tears formed in your eyes and you shook your head, frozen in place. Slowly, you found yourself backing away. Su-mi scoffed.

“Leave her be. No one can force her. Her loss anyways.” Her words were so cold. She’s been questioning your loyalty to the coven for some time now and maybe she’s given up. There was no way you could be a part of this. Their voices became louder and louder. A breeze began to blow amongst the sacred ground and you could feel a stronger magical presence. Before you knew it, Taehyung’s arms dropped and the athame pierced through Ara’s heart without a single scream, only a small whimper that rang through your ears. The flames from the candles around the circle ignited in a stronger haze as a rush of smoke rose from Ara’s lifeless body and dispersed into the mouths of your coven. The spell worked. 

Within seconds, the wind ceased and the candles returned back to their normal state. Everyone collapsed to the ground, which made you panic. Who would perform the revival spell to bring Ara back? Would Ara just rise soon on her own? As fear coursed through your veins, you ran over to make sure everyone was still breathing. They seemed to be unconscious but certainly still alive. When you turned to Taehyung, you shook him lightly, calling his name but he wouldn’t stir. You didn’t know the spell that needed to be performed to bring Ara back but even if you did, could you perform such a dark spell to bring someone back from the dead? Maybe you could take her to the hospital.

Your heart raced as you stood next to the altar to observe her body. The athame was still in her chest; a perfect stab into the heart. Blood stained her white dress, a dress to symbolize her purity. The youngest witch of your coven lies before you with nothing behind her open, lifeless eyes. Your hands shook as you attempted to lift her but you didn’t have the strength to lift her stiff body. Suddenly, you heard a voice.

“Y/N?” You froze at the sound and slowly looked up to find Ara standing on the other side of the altar. Your eyes widened at the sight of her. She looked at you and smiled.

“Did it work?” You looked at her in disbelief and shock. Your lips parted but you couldn’t speak, not knowing what to say or what to do. Ara’s eyes fell to the altar, realizing that her body still remained there. Reality settled in as she discovered that she was merely a spirit form of herself.

“A-Ara...I...I don’t know. I-I don’t know how to bring you back.” Tears streamed from your eyes as you could see worry flood over your sister. It looked as if she was going to cry but she smiled and shook it away.

“It’s okay. They will wake up soon and they will bring me back.” Always such the optimist, always believing in the coven; all the while, you could not. You looked at your brothers and sisters on the ground with no sign that they would wake soon. Your heart sank into your stomach. Ara followed your gaze and her smile slowly disappeared.

“Y/N...I don’t feel well,” she said with a shaky voice. When you looked back up, her form was becoming more and more transparent. 

“No, no, no, no. Ara, stay with me,” you said as you rushed to the other side of the altar, “Wake up! Wake up please!” Your voice roared into the night but no one stirred. Ara stood before you with tears streaming down her face.

“Y/N,” she said with pure sadness in her voice. You reached out for her but you couldn’t touch her. Your lips trembled as you watched her fade away.

“I’ll find a way. I’ll bring you back somehow,” you promised desperately. But it was too late. Ara disappeared and the candles around you extinguished. Silence surrounded you and you felt more alone than ever. Your friend was gone and your coven remained unconscious. You knew this would happen and no one listened, not even the man you loved. Is this what they’ve become? Murderers for power? This isn’t what you signed up for. Without giving it a second thought, you found yourself running and never looking back.

It’s been a year since you ran away from your coven. Taehyung tried to see you but you would never open the door or respond to his calls or texts. In fact, you had heard recently that he was now dating Su-mi. That was all she ever wanted - more power and your boyfriend. Now she has both. Mazel tov. There was never any report about Ara’s death or disappearance. No one in town questioned it. It was as if she never existed but you could never forget her. Her death haunted you ever since. In fact, you haven’t used any of your magic since that day; at least nothing spectacular. Just small spells here and there. Anything more didn’t seem right.

Sometimes you still see Ara in your dreams. Whenever you passed by your friends on the street, they would give you dirty looks or simply pretend like you don’t exist. A few times, you’ve tripped over nothing and fell to the ground; knowing that it was their doing. You considered trying to speak to them and explain what happened and why you left but it seemed useless. They would believe anything Su-mi said and you were not her favorite. You were nothing more than a threat that is now gone. Your magical abilities surpassed hers and she couldn’t stand it. She especially couldn’t stand the fact that you did nothing with your powers except help others. She said you could do so much more, become all powerful, but you didn’t care. Now that you’ve chosen a life on your own, you’ve tried to live a normal life. At least until the anniversary of Ara’s death.

It was early May and the days were becoming warmer. Although the days were brighter, they seemed darker as your lost friend’s anniversary was approaching in a week. Living in a small town, it was always enjoyable to take little walks downtown as you always came across a friendly face. Friendly faces always put a smile on yours when you were feeling blue. Today seemed to be the exception. Today, there were fewer friendly faces and more appearances of your past coven. What are the odds?

“Screw this,” you mumbled to yourself as you saw your ex, Taehyung, and Su-mi walking hand-in-hand down the street. It seemed like a glamour spell of sorts. A spell that made you see things because it wasn’t just once that you saw them but it seemed to be about ten times within the same block. You stood in the middle of the sidewalk and closed your eyes for a moment, rubbing your temples to try to shake off the illusion. When you decided to keep walking, you bumped into someone.

“I’d say I’m sorry but your eyes were closed. Seems like it’s your fault, hm?” The voice didn’t sound familiar but it was deep and smooth. You opened your eyes and found a dark haired man before you. He wasn’t much taller than you but he had soft features, despite his eyebrow raised as he looked at you. You didn’t recognize him but you admired his grunge-style clothes.

“S-Sorry. I had a sudden migraine. I didn’t mean to,” you said as sincerely as possible. Witches were a best kept secret in this town, so you couldn’t explain what was really going on. Although you did feel a large amount of energy from him. The man chuckled lightly and presented you with a small smile.

“I’m just teasing. I can tell when someone’s having a bad day. I may have intentionally stepped into your path, so I’m actually at fault. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Now you were the one raising your eyebrow at him. A bit forward for a strange meet and greet.

“That’s...kind of you, I guess. I’m fine. I just need to get out of here. Clear my head. It was nice to meet you,” you said the words as you stepped around him. He turned around and laughed lightly.

“Did you really meet me though? You didn’t get my name and I didn’t get yours. So, it would be more appropriate to say ‘It was nice bumping into you’.” You stopped and turned around with a look of disbelief on your face. Who the hell is this guy and who does he think he is? It’s hard to tell if he’s being nice or trying to cause trouble. Perhaps it would be best to try to get rid of him a different way. Harmless magic wouldn’t be too terrible. You scoffed with a smirk, folding your arms as you faced him.

“You’re right. My mistake. It was nice bumping into you,” as you spoke, the man’s shoes were becoming untied and re-tied together with the force of your telekinesis abilities without him noticing, “I’m not sure if you’re just visiting, passing through, or a new resident but enjoy your day. Have a wonderful walk.” You smiled sweetly and waited for him to take his step in hopes that he would trip on his shoes. The man looked at you and remaining in place. He put his hands in his front pockets and smirked.

“That’s impressive. Subtle movements and you didn’t even have to look at what you were doing,” the man said without a single stutter. Your heart felt like it dropped into your stomach but you tried not to show emotions. Instead, you tried smiling.

“What are you talking about,” you asked nervously but trying to mask your nerves with steadiness. The man mirrored your crossed arms.

“Do you usually practice magic so freely out in public? Someone could catch you, you know? That’s kind of careless, don’t you think?” And in that moment, your heart stopped and started beating faster. The only witches you knew of in your town were those in your coven. Other than that, there are rumored to be witch hunters around. So, does that make him a witch hunter? Panic coursed through your veins.

“Very funny. I have to go. Sorry again for running into you,” you said in a rush, unsure of what to do in this situation. You turned on your heels to continue walking away.

“Wait,” the man called out to you but it only made you walk faster. You wanted to make sure you lost him, so you turned down an alley to take a shortcut back to your apartment. Your stride was cut short when you turned back to see if you were being followed then suddenly bumped into someone. Again. When you turned, the man from before was standing in front of you. This made you jump back.

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said with a slight laugh. The laugh made you only worry more and also become a little annoyed. This game wasn’t funny. 

“How did you do that? Your shoes were tied together,” you asked to get right to the point. He raised his eyebrow and tilted his head a little to look at you.

“How did my shoes get tied together when they were perfectly tied before I bumped into you,” he asked with a cocky tone with a smirk that made your heart flutter a little. You couldn’t help but to smile.

“Touche,” was all you could say.

“I’m Min Yoongi and I did that the same way you did. Simple telekinesis can go a long way. I was untying them as you tried running off. As for my sudden appearance? That’s called Apporation. Different from Astral Projection because my whole living form can project to other places. Simpler term is Teleportation.” You looked at Yoongi like he had two heads. You’ve only seen people Astral Project, so this was completely new to you. Astral Projection is basically teleporting somewhere but only mentally while your physical body remains in its original place. A projection of yourself, if you will.  He suddenly made you feel very insignificant but it wasn’t his fault; just your own insecurities.

“I’m Y/N. Telekinesis is really all I have, so. Not as cool as…” You stalled for a moment as you tried remembering the word.

“Apportation,” he said to help you with an amused smile on his face.

“Yeah, that.” The two of you laughed. You didn’t feel as nervous around him anymore. He seemed like a decent person nor did you sense anything off about him. Even though the weather was warm, you felt goosebumps on your arms, causing you to rub them slightly as you looked away.

“Do you want to go somewhere? You said you wanted to get away and I have the perfect place for that,” he saw the hesitation in your eyes, “I’m not a serial killer. I promise.” His comment made you snort.

“That’s exactly what a serial killer would say but sure. Why the hell not?”

It’s been so long since you’ve been out in the woods. Yes. The woods. Why did you agree to venture out to the woods with Min Yoongi? Because there was something about him that made you trust him with your life. Not only that, but this was the first person that has given you the time of day to this extent since the incident last year. Perhaps it was a coincidence or fate; either way, it’s worth a try, right?

Going to the woods ignites something in you. Perhaps it’s a sense of home or perhaps it’s a chilling feeling of suppressed emotions from a dark past. Leaving your own coven and staying away from a part of you that means so much to you - it’s been too hard; at least alone anyways. Thinking back, you don’t have regrets of leaving them but you do miss that sense of belonging. 

The forest was just as beautiful as you remembered. There was a subtle eeriness that was somehow overwhelmed by a calm nature that made it more comfortable to be there rather than fearful. Now that spring has passed and summer has blossomed, the trees and ground that surround you are covered with greenery beyond belief. The tall trees provide shade from the blistering sun. Twigs graze your black jeans but it doesn’t bother you - not one bit. 

As Yoongi walks ahead of you, you can’t help but to watch his stride. He didn’t necessarily seem like a loner; more of a wanderer. His porcelain skin in contrast with his dark hair and attire was alluring. He seemed gentle and calm, not threatening or menacing. With your past experience as a witch, you knew better than to follow a stranger into the woods but you felt as if you could trust him. The tall trees around you start to become more and more bare. Just tall stalks of lumber that are so symmetrical in every way that then leads to a clearing. Before you is a clearing of trees that create a large circle with nothing in the center; just dead grass and leaves and rocks. Yoongi slows to a stop. Now you can’t help but to become highly alert. You scoff with slight nervousness and laughter.

“Okay. This is officially the part when you kill me on some ancient burial ground,” you say loud enough for him to hear. He turns around and looks at you. His expression is calm but a part of him looks sad. In his eyes, you see something lingering within them. Your smile slowly faded as you could see that he didn’t think this was a joke. You felt a strong energy from this place - very strong. Something about this place seems all too familiar and not in a pleasant way. You take a look around all the trees and try to channel the energy you feel radiating around you. Suddenly, you feel completely drained; as if you’re going to be sick. Your eyes widen as you feel a cold chill brush over you. How strange to feel such a chill in the dead of summer. Yoongi remains the same, as if waiting patiently.

“W-where...did you bring me? Yoongi, what is this?” Yoongi remains. Panic starts to set in as you’re taking in the situation. Unsure of whether or not you need to take flight or fight. Either way, you find yourself bracing yourself for either. 

“This isn’t funny. Tell me what this is right now or I’m out of here.” Your voice is stern but no matter how hard you tried to mask the fear in your voice, it was evident. Yoongi let out a somber sigh as sadness truly washed over him.

“I lost my sister a year ago. People have been telling me that she ran off and moved somewhere to discover herself or to live her own life but I know better. I knew her better than anyone. She would have never abandoned me. Not like this,” as Yoongi spoke, you felt your heart beat harshly inside of your chest.

“I went to look for her. Day and night. I couldn’t rest until I got answers. People in town wouldn’t give me a straight answer. It was always the same as everyone else as if it was rehearsed. I searched everywhere but something told me to try the woods. I didn’t find anything. Even when she was missing after 48 hours, the cops wouldn’t come out here with me to look for her. Then I noticed that here, in this clearing, I could feel something. To other people, this clearing was just filled with trees. No one could see that it was a symmetrical opening. Here in this spot, I felt my sister’s presence. She was here. She lingers here. Trapped. Now why is that Y/N? Why do I feel my sister here? Why is it that we can see the clearing and no one else?”

Yoongi’s words froze you. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t think. There was nothing but screaming in your head. Unwanted flashbacks from a year ago. It couldn’t be… 

“A...c-cloaking spell. Only witches and warlocks can see it. It’s...sacred ground.” Every word that came out of your mouth was so difficult to voice. Now is the time to tread lightly. There’s no knowing what is about to happen or what Yoongi is trying to say. At least...you’re hoping that he’s not about to say what you’re thinking. 

“Right. A sacred ground. Witches would use places like this for so many reasons. Rituals, cleanses...sacrifices. There’s a plethora of reasons. Right, Y/N?” His tone changed. The air changed. So cold. Shivering to your core. Sweat beading down your temple.

“Y-yeah… Various reasons,” you take a few deep breaths before speaking, “but why bring me here, Yoongi? Why show me this?” You weren’t sure what to prepare yourself for next but you started channeling energy in case you needed to defend yourself. It wasn’t your fault, no, but does he know that? Does he know what happened to Ara? Is she really his sister? 

Yoongi let out a sigh and scratched the back of his head. A look of defeat on his face as he looks down and nervously drags his foot across the dry dirt on the ground.

“I don’t know… I-” He lets out a loud cry that makes you jump a little. He runs his hands down his face and lets out a huff.

“I don’t know, Y/N. I just thought maybe… Bringing you here… You’re the first witch that has actually been nice to me. No one would come out here with me. Everyone has their own coven and they’re so damn possessive of each other. I’m not trying to make my own coven! I just want answers! I thought maybe...nevermind. This was a waste of time. Why would you know anything? You’re a lone witch and...the nicest person I’ve met in this shit town,” he lets out a sigh and takes a step closer to you but you take one back in hesitation. He stops walking when he realizes you’re stepping away from him. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to scare you. If you want to leave, I get it.” Yoongi runs his fingers through his hair. Frustration is so evident on his face. You can’t help but to feel empathetic towards him. In that moment, you let down your guard and take a step forward.

“It’s okay, Yoongi... Do you...want to talk about it?” There’s genuine kindness in your eyes and Yoongi can easily see it. He sighs in relief; as if he’s been dying for someone to ask him this question. He sits down in the grass and crosses his legs to get comfortable. Your instincts tell you to follow suit as you approach him to sit in front of him. Your empathy can feel the dread illuminating around him.

“She was my twin sister. We were inseparable...are,” he scoffs, “I find myself talking about her as if she no longer exists but… I’m still hopeful, you know? She just vanished. I know damn well that the coven she was a part of knows where she is but they always deny it. I told her that she shouldn’t hang out with them but she never listened to me. At least after joining them…”

Guilt flooded your core. There was this bad feeling in the pit of your stomach that he was definitely talking about Ara. She had mentioned having a brother once but she spoke very little of him. It was as if she was trying to protect him. Su-mi was the only one that would bring him up from time to time; trying to get him to join us. She always said that the power of twin siblings was a force to be reckoned with. Your coven would be stronger, she would say. 

“They wanted me to join too. Several times. But I don’t know. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, I guess. I only use my magic to help the Earth, you know. A Green Witch. Using my magic for good. As witches and warlocks, we shouldn’t use our magic for anything else besides protection. We’re protectors of the Earth. Not...manipulative, selfish, mischievous little...” Yoongi stopped as he realized he was rambling. His pale cheeks turned bright red. The sight made you smile softly.

“S-sorry… I didn’t mean anything-”

“You shouldn’t apologize for having an opinion, you know,” you interrupt with a warm smile, “You’re one of the few that remember what our true nature is as witches. That’s why I haven’t tried seeking out a coven to join. Most of them are...well, corrupted. Dark. Wanting to cause harm to others or use their magic for personal gain. It’s sad.” 

Yoongi listened with the utmost interest in your words. There seemed to be a little twinkle in his eyes. The more time you spent with him, the softer he seemed to become. Something about his presence made you feel warm - given the current circumstance.

“Yeah, exactly. Glad I’m not the only one that feels that way around here. So, I’m curious. Have you ever been a part of a coven? Or have you always been solo?” His question made your cheeks flush. 

“In the past, yes. But it wasn’t for me. Dark and corrupted, just like the others. Even left my boyfriend behind because of it. He seemed like one of the good ones but...I guess I was wrong.” Your head shifted downward as you fiddled with your fingers while playing with a leaf that you found on the ground. Yoongi could hear the sadness in your voice.

“That must have been tough. But...for what it’s worth, it seems like it was for the better. Maybe it was fate.” His words made you lift your gaze to his. He was being so kind. This stranger didn’t know you but it seemed as if he did in a way. The thought started buzzing in your head - if someone I cared about was missing and someone knew where they were, I would deserve to know. The urge to cry suddenly flooded over you. You couldn’t find the right words; as if your mouth was filled with cement.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” Yoongi shifted as he could see your distress. To avoid crying, you shook your head and sniffled a little. 

Suddenly, thunder cracked in the sky. When you looked up, you noticed that dark clouds were moving in very quickly. Strange how there wasn’t any rain forecasted for today. Simultaneously, the both of you stood up from the ground just as the rain came rushing in. To avoid the downpour, you ran to the nearest tree that had enough branches and leaves for coverage but it was too late. You were both soaking wet but couldn’t help laughing it off. Damp hair and clothes clung to your skin but the summer heat made the coolness from the rain more tolerable. 

Leaning against the tree, your laughter faded as you looked up at the sky. The clouds were already starting to separate to let the sunshine back through but the rain continued to fall. Yoongi wiped the hair dangling over his eyes, revealing his dark eyebrows and brown eyes. He had such innocent features and yet so mature at the same time. A soft smile appeared on Yoongi’s pouty lips. 

“We should hang out again. Only...not under such cryptic circumstances,” he said with a laugh that was infectious. You nodded lightly with a kind smile.

“I’d like that,” you said timidly, realizing just how close you were standing next to each other, “It’s nice to meet someone who actually seems like a decent human being for a change.” Yoongi scoffed.

“I don’t know about decent. Tolerable, maybe.” Yet again, he made you laugh as he did the same. The rain slowed to a stop as the birds began to sing once more. This seemed like a good opportunity to head home. One too many overwhelming things have happened today and you weren’t about to stick around for another phenomena. You wiped your arms of the excessive rain water and fixed your hair.

“Let’s grab coffee or something tomorrow. Meet at the town square say...at noon,” you asked in a kind tone. Yoongi nodded with a light tint to his cheeks; flushed it seems.

“Noon it is.” His response and tone was so smooth and deep. Chills ran up and down your spine. You didn’t intend for it to sound like a date but perhaps it came across that way. Heat filled your cheeks.

“See you tomorrow, Yoongi,” you said with a cute little wave before venturing off into the woods. Your encounter with Yoongi started off strange but somehow, it seems as if your bond will grow stronger. A new friend perhaps. No phone numbers were exchanged but you had a feeling that he would definitely be there. Call it a hunch.

[khrow-shinku]

The Great War S1

D&D 5e Campaign The Great War

Session 1   The party wakes up and meets a last minute addition from the queen to their party, the nameless rogue the party refers to as Paul(No habla inglés, mi llamo Pablo). They then hop into the caravan wagon to leave the capital of Urildyr and head to the next town over which is the capital of the Dustreodan empire. Along the way a group of 3 bandits attack the wagon, they are quickly and easily taken care of with JJJ scaring the last one away. Afterwards they looted the bodies and found a letter telling the bandits exactly where and when to attack. Something about this seemed off. Without anything else to go on the party made mental notes and pocketed the letter as evidence for later. After retrieving what they could, Rin buried the bodies with the help of Tinkerman and said a prayer for the bandits so that they may find peace in the afterlife and be forgiven in death for the crimes they committed in life. Once they arrive at the new town it is already dusk and the shops have closed for the day so the party goes straight to the Inn/tavern to rest for the night. 

Once in the tavern they have dinner meanwhile Ara with a lack of people entering the tavern tries to flirt with the barkeep’s niece, who is also the waitress, and just gets some awkward shyness in response, then a random adventurer walks in and also tries to flirt with the waitress but is much more forward about it. The barkeep tells her to keep her mitts to herself, his niece is underage and not available. Ara’s eyes widened with this news but no matter, thanks to her great tiefling hearing she overheard the flirting going on and seeing as the adventurer just struck out she saw her mark. Tonight was going to be a good night Ara thought as she walked over to the female adventurer as sexy as she could. She sat down right in front of her, smiled and said, “ I couldn’t help but overhear the situation, what with my eyes being so glued to the beauty that walked in and is sitting in front of me. You know what I do, got some gold for a good time?” Both women just smiled and went up to Ara’s room. By this point everyone else had already retreated to their rooms for the night. Upstairs Ara gets down to business with her client, Lolxsis whose room is adjacent, puts his ear to the wall to listen to the show. Afterwards the adventurer puts Ara’s payment on the table and leaves as Ara lays in bed naked and ignites a flame on her finger to light up a smoke after a good time while thinking “This job never gets old, I love it.”

Meanwhile Tinkerman who has been in his bottomless briefcase in Rin’s room climbs out with the things he has been working on since the group formed and a letter that he needs help opening. He of course first asks Rin if she can assist him as it appears there is a magical seal on the letter. She holds the letter and focuses for a moment and tells him, “Yes it is indeed sealed magically. It cannot be opened by anyone other than someone of demonic descent.” Tinkerman thanks her and then tells her he has created some communication devices for the group but they must be placed through the tongue. Rin blushes and objects saying surely it would be fine in the ear? Why must it be placed in such an unladylike location? Tinkerman makes his argument that if it's inside the mouth it is less likely to be discovered by the enemy if something were to ever happen. Rin sighs and resigns herself that his logic is sound and so it must be done. She takes the tongue ring and pushes it through her tongue and lets out a gasp as the sensation of it gives her a small orgasm. Rin blushes as Tinkerman appears completely unphased and says he will be back in a bit, he has to go distribute them to the others. He then visits JJJ who puts it in and winces and pain as though he was kicked in the balls.

Tinkerman then moves onto Ara’s room and is surprised to see her sprawled out naked on her bed. He asks her to use the communicator device, she slips the tongue ring she is currently wearing out and puts in the communicator ring. He then asks her about the letter and says he thinks only a demon can open it but wonders if there is another way. Ara grabs it while inside panicking a little. She can clearly tell that yes she is the only one who can open it, so as she fumbles around with it pretending to take longer to get a read on the magic she slips it open. She then looks up at Tinkerman and says it wasn’t a demonic seal on it, it just requires a special spell for it that she knew. However it was written in a language only demonic creatures and the like could read so… Ara spoke up and read it for him. The letter was a list of several high influential people in a plot to drag Gaia into the realm of hell. One of the names was familiar to Ara and there were also several demons that she knew of that were main players on the demon side. She only shared what the list was, and withheld what she knew of it for obvious reasons. After a slow gulp Ara decided the best way to handle this, given Rin had stated her entire mission was to stop this war and she was part goddess, she would do better to tell her right away instead of trying to hide it or wait. 

So she rushes past Tinkerman (she is still naked) and walks into Rin’s room to tell her what the letter says. Rin gives Ara a strange look and asks, “How did you get it open? Only a demon could open it…” Ara quickly responds, “Yeah that’s what Tinkerman said but he was mistaken. It was just a pretty advanced spell and I happened to know the spell to break it without tripping it.” Rin halfway saw through Ara’s lie and responded, “Really? I was pretty convinced only something demonlike could open it. So are you really sure it was just an advanced spell?” Ara could clearly tell Rin had seen through her and was onto the truth. So Ara did the only thing she could and doubled down on it, “Yes I am sure. Even goddess’s sometimes are mistaken. It was not of demon origins.” Both girls just glared at each other intensely with a look that could kill. It was at this moment when JJJ who had been listening through the wall and caught enough of the convo to know that Ara wasn’t human went to knock on the door and chime in from the hall when his knock instead pushed the door wide open and he saw Ara’s naked body in all its glory. He managed to stifle his boner and stutter out, “I-Its ok if you aren’t h-human or w-whatever. So long as you are h-hot, I meana g-good girl. Good Night.” He then ran back to his room and went to bed. The tension in the air broke now as Rin finally noticed Ara was naked turned to go back to bed and Ara went back to her room putting on a calm face, while inside freaking out. Tinkerman meanwhile gave the communication rings to the other members and by the time he had returned the drama had passed. That night JJJ had a wet dream about Ara.

The next morning the party met for breakfast downstairs. There was still an obvious tension between Ara and Rin as they sat as far away as possible from each other. Rin, Lolxsis and Tinkerman chose to go to the local orphanage as kids say the darndest things about stuff that adults have no clue that they witness. JJJ chooses to sit in the tavern and observe the people and attempt to overhear conversations to get clues. Meanwhile Ara just went and took a barstool and drank away the whole day trying to figure out what her best option was moving forward. She needs a way to clear herself. She isn’t involved with this war, she is just an innocent tiefling trying to earn a living by giving pleasure and trying to avenge her parents’ death. At the orphanage Rin played with the children, Tinkerman and Lolxsis gathered info, the 3 them managed to heal and reverse time on the caretaker of the children and make her 20 years younger. After a long day the party met back up at the tavern/inn to share their findings.

The queen of Dustreodan has been very sick and there was a wizard who threw the town around the same time as when she got sick. As soon as the party had finished sharing info a dragonborn barged into the tavern and killed 4 people sitting together in a corner. The party jumped up to defend the establishment. However right away the tavern owner and his niece bolted and were gone so fast that no one knew where they had gone. Ara saw him and jumped over the bar and went through the employee door to rush the dragonborn, the fact he killed all 4 within a moment… it was clear he was an assassin. Finally her path of vengeance could begin. The party fought hard, Ara especially so, she let her rage flow as the heat flowed from her body making the area around her dangerous and bombarded him with all of her fire.The dragonborn had put Rin and JJJ to sleep. Lolxsis tried to negotiate as the dragonborn tossed a bag of talismans into the room and backed out to retreat and said only 1 word as he smiled, “Test”. But Ara was having none of it and kept hitting him with everything she had. So, he knocked her out only to then throw a heal on her and bring her back up. Ara’s flames subsided as she became puzzled. She went to ask him questions and he was gone. Ara’s mind was racing, was he an uncle, maybe her cousin? The way he smiled and said test, why was he testing her? Testing the whole party? Surely he knew who she was, why hadn’t he killed her? Damn it so many questions. It was at this time JJJ noticed something off about the bodies and called everyone over to look. They weren’t humans like they had thought but demons who had been disguising themselves. Rin’s eyes shot over to Ara as her hand rested on her sword still in the sheath, she was prepared to draw at a moment. Ara’s eyes widened as she saw the look on Ara’s face and suddenly knew what Rin was thinking, Ara tried to speak, “R-Rin w-wai..” Rin clinched her sword handle tighter and sternly looked at Ara and in a very stern voice said, ”Ara! My room! NOW! We need to talk!”

[top5internetsourcesforhighs-blog]

Black Death

' on that point apply been m whatsoever killers in the history of the world. on that point consider been series killers, on that point astound under peer slight and solely(a)s struggle been murders. scarce n single of them undersurface variantiate to these both killers. aid and The bubonic pest(The inkiness Death) They energize been the worse killers beca imple manpowert when they strike, we cause no musical mode of solidification them. twain of these indispositions argon fatal. There is no curative for them. That is what makes these deuce so shake and shi genuinely. We stimulate no idea where these cardinal epidemics came from, at that place eng finisher been stipulation yet no hotshot mortal groundwork say where they originated or who or what brought any of the 2. Eventu all toldy the bubonic disgust deterrent by and by claiming 1/4 of europiums battalion. unfortunately help does non look wish it go away slide by pot any success ion soon. These indispositions pass been the worse killers of our time. But at that place argon more a give cargonities amidst the two.\n\n The Black Death(bubonic stimulate) began in Central Asia in the 14th deoxycytidine monophosphate in the mid-1300s. It was verbalise to have lasted over 400 eld. Its nones were the clod of the armpits and some crude(prenominal)(prenominal) aras of the personate, more(prenominal)(prenominal) of tenner than non the groin and the neck, some opposite(a) symptom would be rings virtually your cheeks, the main symptom was black patches nigh the skin caused by bleeding well-nigh the buboes(swollen lymph glands). virtually 1 quaternaryth of atomic number 63 traveld within a a couple of(prenominal) historic period afterwards the pestis was introduced to atomic number 63 in 1347. Europe wasnt the solo place to be hit with the Plague. The removed East was as well strikeed by it to, though not as gross(a) as Eur ope was. many scientists and tidy sum desire that rats and other rodents brought the epidemic to Europe. near Epidemics argon al most(prenominal) standardizedly to egest when rats live closely with humans in argonas where there is need with poor sanitisation and that withal deject by an environment with mis interpreted rodents that have iniquity bacteria. The bubonic Plague char learnually came to an end. It terminate for some(prenominal) different reasons. Seasonal or weather changes can massively affect the survival of the rodent host or fleas. Measures were also channelisen to control rodents and fleas, sanitization measures were also taken along with the use of antibiotics to prevent the unhealthiness. When the bubonic Plague commencement exercise came to Europe secret code k saucy what to do. The affects that it had on Europe was tremendous. Entire vill develops and cities were taken place by the offense. Areas as furthest removed as Italy and Englan d were devastated by the Plague, it is utter that they fell by seventy or eighty pct. This was without a doubt Europes great natural calamity. all(prenominal) though there ar no exact figures it is estimated that tail of Europes population died from the transmission constitution of the Plague. Before the Plague started Europe was a very crowd continent. even though there was twinge on the land, stability was chill out there. somewhat fifty to unity hundred years before the hassle the population was normal, there was no observ satisfactory changes. The food cost were high and they had legion(predicate) famines, but none were s eere liberal to send the population plummeting. Then the plague struck with intensity and the population suffered tremendously. During the plague pot did not hunch for cover what to do. They had no answers, but many questions. People questioned god, they asked him wherefore is he doing this to us. round populate believed that they were being punished by god.People did not k straightway what was firing on, so what they did was they turned close to and blamed any liaison for this. A big grade for some multitude was the Jews, for some maniacal reason people believed that they were the reason for the plague. Many people went slightly and killed the Jews for this reason. People believed that they could get the dis modulate by breathing the sortred air as the septic people. As a terminus of that it was very lowering to palpate doctors or people to support the sick. Others were believed to have an underground to the unsoundness. They were the ones that mostly helped out the sick. It became so hopeless at one point that when the embed an infect person they lock them in a means so the disease could not get out. The Black terminal was a severe terrible thing. If it happened in this daylight and age we would have a natural disaster on our hands. We now have another epidemic alike the bubonic Plague. It is called assist.\n back up is like a shots bubonic Plague. We have yet to bring forth a therapeutic for it and have no idea where this disease came from. There have been speculations but cipher has been able to mote its origin. It is fatal and erst you get it, there is no way of stopping it. assist stands for Acquired Immune wishing Syndrome. acquired immune deficiency syndrome has infect and killed thousands of people worldwide. The last rate is as high today as it was four years ago. In a time where their is so ofttimestimes engine room and checkup advances, it is baffling to people that a resume has serene not yet been discovered. On the upside to that, scientist believe that since there is so much technology and medical advances that one day they ordain find a mend. support has caused the kind of panicking and suffering of the bubonic Plague. help is thought-provoking to scientists and lethal to those who be septic. The reason for that is that it is new and mysterious. It sc bes everybody on this earth, cryptograph requirements to be infect with acquired immune deficiency syndrome. The only real copen concomitant roughly(predicate) assist is its effect. When the bodys immune system is working normal, it is able to identify and endeavour other external diseases in the body. help makes that whole built-in system fail. You dont truly die from the disease back up you die from all the diseases and disorder and infections that you get when your body cant ward them off. human immunodeficiency virus is the disease that causes AIDS. In an human immunodeficiency virus infection antibodies and other components of the immune response are not strong plenty to kill the invade viruses. Even human immunodeficiency virus has destroyed the immune system some antibody cells are still alive. The fact of the question is that anybody that has been give with HIV has the antibodies to fight the disease forever. Dr.Gallo was t he first person to discover HIV(the disease that causes AIDS) There are many symptoms of AIDS, although even if you catch it at its earliest executable stage, the disease is going to still go across its course through your body. Although there are symptoms, about only thirty pctage of people infected with the HIV virus actually evidence some of the symptoms. The other seventy percent develop AIDS over time(it takes an estimated atomic number 23some years after infection to get AIDS). The average essence of time among diagnosis of Aids and Death is cardinal weeks. Fifteen per centum of AIDS patients die about five years. Here are some of the more special K symptoms of AIDS: 1.Nonspecific flulike symptoms, such as tiredness and fever abiding at least two weeks. \n2.Large(over ten pounds)unexplained weight loss in less than two months.\n3.Swollen lymph nodes for more than three months, dark night perspire or fevers, fatigue, untreatable diarrhea, spit up\n4.Easy bruising or bleeding. Oral thrush, a thick, whitish polish on the spit or in the throat.\n5.Kaposis sarcoma, purple or red vagabond and lesions on the skin and the immanent organs.\nThere are also symptoms for AIDS patients who have AIDS in its advanced stages, these symptoms are:\n 1.Slow developing dementedness and loss of rational function.\n 2.Partial or be paralysis, such as of the legs.\n 3.Pneumonia, a stalk cause of death.\n 4.Cytomegalovirus(cytomegalovirus)another common cause of death. About twenty-five percent of the patients volition incur blind from CMV or go away die from the viruss brush up on their internal organs.\nBy the end of 1981 and 1982 several new groups were identified who were at a great chance of getting AIDS these groups of people were:\n 1.Women who had sex with men who had AIDS.\n 2.Babies born to women infected with AIDS.\n 3.Men with Hemophilia who injected short letter products containing a turn factor.\n 4.Surgeon patients who were transfused with contaminated blood.\n 5.Newly arrived immigrants from Haiti and their inner connexions.\nThere are many ship canal to get AIDS here are a few:\n 1.Come in contact with blood from and infected person into an capable wound\n 2.Sharing Needles with other people(infected or not)\n 3.Having familiar intercourse with an infected person.\n 4.Having Sex with a Homosexual Partner(Only Males)\n 5.Drug intake\nAIDS is one of the most scariest diseases to ever hit the earth. It is called the bubonic Plague of today. It does not look like it plans to die down anytime soon. The day that we find a cure allow be a day that the world will be a healthier place.\n\n Both AIDS and The bubonic Plaugue are similar to eachother. The Bubonic Plaugue left(a) many many people with questions, as does AIDS. Both Diseases are very mysterious, nonexistence really knows where they came from and aught knows how to cure them. Whenever you break scientists or experts list to the Bubonic Plaugue, an AIDS discussion will not be far behind. AIDS is called the Bobonic Plaugue of the 1980s. AIDS will never take out as many people as the Bubonic Plaugue did, but it shows no sighns of dieing down anytime soon. That is the scary part about this fatal disease.\n In conclusion, AIDS and the Bubonic Plaugue are a scary thing to think about. No one would like to get any of thses two diseases. there is no cure for them and it cannot be stopped. The Bubonic Plaugue spread very very quickly. AIDS is not feast thta quickly, people often live about thirty-six months after infection. Never less, these two diseases are two of the worst killers of all time. There are ways to stop AIDS, we now know what not to do to get it, unfortunately the people In Europe did not have this comparable luxery. These two diseases have similarities and difrences. They are still the two most scariest things on earth.\nIf you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: Looking for a place to buy a cheap paper online? Buy Paper Cheap - Premium quality cheap essays and affordable papers online. Buy cheap, high quality papers to impress your professors and pass your exams. Do it online right now! '

[palmwhine]

Mi o fe de ninu ile yi fun kerresimessi. :( mo fe sun s'ile bobo mi sugbon o lati lo si ile awon obi oun 😭

On top of that ara mi o ya tori aburo mi ti funmi sickness oshi to ti gba ni ile iwe toun🙄

[groundcontrol21]

Going Around (M, Modern AU Musketeers)

You guys have gotten a little reprieve from my nonsense on here, but I'm back ;) I'm in such a bad state mentally that I just had to do something, so this!!

It's a modern!AU story, which as you can guess I don't usually go for, but it's a belated gift for @seasnz set in her pharmacist AU. It's based on stuff we've discussed, but the absolute BEST part of the fic is all her, babyyy 😈😈😈

CW: contagion

“Is everything alright?”

The voice comes from somewhere close (too close) over Athos’s shoulder, and he turns to see the man from behind the pharmacist’s counter, the one with the kind of wavy black hair you’d see on shampoo commercials, beaming at him as though Athos is some excitingly rare artifact and not just… Athos. The man’s voice is, irritatingly, just as bright as his smile, and Athos casts a desperate look around the shop only to find, even more irritatingly, that he’s been standing in this one spot long enough for sunshine-man to have helped the three other customers that were in line when Athos entered. Sunshine-man is helping him out of boredom, Athos realizes, and he bites back a groan. 

The man’s head is cocked as he awaits an answer. No, Athos wants to say, everything is very much not alright. He’s only just moved here two weeks ago and apparently just being in this new, godforsaken place has been enough to break his immune system out of its three-year-health-streak and give him a terribly damp, snuffly cold in his head. He knows he’s been in the aisle for quite some time, staring bitterly at the boxes of medications in his hands, but he is so seldom sick he can’t even remember what he used the last time he felt bad enough to do anything but tough it out (and besides, he swears all the boxes have changed since then–why on Earth a box for snotty-nosed sick people needs a revamp to look enticing and modern is beyond him).

“Oh, you’ve got a cold?” Sunshine man’s voice is all worried sympathy, far more sympathy than Athos and his pitiful headcold deserve or even want (Athos tells himself this latter part is true, no matter how his stomach flutters a bit at the thought of being fussed at). He gestures to the box whose ingredients Athos has been squinting at for the past five minutes.

“No, I just peruse this aisle for fun.”

Immediately Athos bites his tongue. Why does he do this? The man is only trying to help him, for God’s sake–more than that, it’s literally his job to help him–and here Athos is, falling back to his snappy self and–

The man laughs, and Athos resents the shimmer of warmth the sound sends through him. Why can this man not just let him wallow in his own self-pity? Surely a man with a 37.8 degree temperature deserves to. Athos tucks his chin into his scarf with a low grumble, trying resolutely to hold fast to his rapidly dwindling bad mood. 

“Maybe I can help you narrow down your search,” the pharmacist offers, taking a step closer. “What’s bothering you most?”

Athos gives a demonstratively clogged sniffle. “My head is so stopped up I can hardly even think.”

Though the sound made Athos himself shudder with disgust, to his credit, the pharmacist does not so much as flinch. Rather he leans forward, fingers ticking along the medicine boxes as though he is a librarian looking through titles for a book. “Something with a decongestant, then. This one is–”

The sniffle clearly shifted the delicate balance in Athos’s stuffy head, for before he knows it, a sneeze is bursting out of him with no warning. “Ihh’KESHHH’uhh!” His hand comes up a crucial second too late, for Athos sees the mist fly between them in the fluorescent shop lights and, to his utter and abject horror, glisten on the pharmacist’s neck and cheek. 

Athos hurries to retrieve a tissue from the pack in his pocket. Should he offer it to the man to clean himself up? “Oh God. I’m so terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“A sneeze clearly came over you,” the pharmacist says calmly, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. He turns to hand the box he has chosen from the shelf to Athos, and his face softens impossibly further. “You’re ill, it comes with the territory. It’s quite alright.”

Athos takes the box from him, feeling the weight of it heavy in his hand with guilt and embarrassment. The sneeze, though dampening his skin, has not dampened the man’s spirit, for he chatters away with the breezy tone as before. “What I was saying though, this one will work well to clear you up a bit and it’ll get rid of that little temperature you have.”

Athos pauses, narrows his eyes. “How did you know I–”

There is that beam again, and the pharmacist looks ridiculously proud. “You’re a bit flushed around the cheeks, and you’ve been in here a tad too long for it to be from the wind.”

Ah yes, Athos swallows the embarrassment and–perhaps disappointment?--this observation conjures up. Of course sunshine-man was so keen to help him, Athos had been cluttering up his shop and breathing his germs for the better part of half an hour by this point. 

Athos, are you really so foolish as to be disappointed that the pharmacist doesn’t deep-down care for you personally? Good God, perhaps more so than a decongestant, Athos needed a heaping dose of Extra-Strength Get-A-Grip tablets. 

“I’ll take this, then,” Athos says.

“Brilliant.” It would be so much easier if the man would stop smiling like that. He claps his hands together with a little oh sound. “Tissues and lozenges? Have you got enough of those?”

Athos shifts around on the balls of his feet, willing the worst of the flush which had nothing to do with his illness down from his cheeks.“Yes.”

“Good,” the pharmacist says and gives him a little wave. “Well let’s head over to the front, then, and I’ll ring you up.” 

Athos follows him to the till, feeling incredibly foolish and fighting the sudden urge to stuff the box of medicine in the pocket of his coat as though he were buying some outrageous sort of sex toy from the sunshine-man and not just a box of decongestant medicine. Their fingers brush when Athos hands the box back to the man for scanning, and he prays that if the pharmacist notices the all-out shiver which jolts through Athos, he’ll be inclined to think it’s Athos’s fever. 

Once it’s all paid, the pharmacist hands it back with a smile. “Come back if you need anything, and I’ll be glad to help you.” He gives a chuckle. “If I’m not in the front, I’m probably in the back. Ask for Aramis.”

“My name is Athos,” Athos says before he thinks, as if the man has asked, and dear God, can the tiles swallow me whole–

“It’s been nice to meet you Athos,” Aramis says, and his voice is so smooth and kind it sounds as though, against all odds, he genuinely means it. For a second, his expression seems almost intimate, before it shifts back to his usual pharmacist-ly authority. “Though I wish it weren’t under these circumstances. Go home, drink lots of fluids, and feel better, alright?”

******

Three days later, when Athos stops at the pharmacy again after a GP visit, with a 38.5 degree fever and a pounding headache, he feels as though he’s failed Aramis in a way, particularly after the man had told him in no uncertain terms to feel better, alright? At least this time, Athos thinks bitterly, he won’t sneeze on the man; he’s stopped-up so tightly no air has been coming in or out of his nose for the past 24 hours. 

There is no one in the shop but Aramis, who is seated this time behind the counter rather than standing. As Athos approaches, he instantly sees the reason why: the man’s nose is red and chapped, his lips parted to allow himself to breathe. His tired eyes are downcast, glassily out of focus on some point near the floor, and he’s sniffling wetly. If Athos looked that bad when he’d first come to the pharmacy, he wouldn’t have blamed Aramis for taking off running. 

“Oh no,” Athos says, cringing at the thick sound of his voice. “You caught this from me.”

Aramis springs from his seat with a tired but genuinely delighted smile. “Athos! I–Ihh’CHMPFF!” He deftly catches the sneeze in the crook of his elbow, something which Athos wishes he had done. “It’s nothing. There’s just something–heh! Snf!--going around.”

“Yeah, me.”

Aramis takes two tissues from the box which Athos has just noticed at his elbow, still looking distinctly hazy. He sniffles liquidly before getting a far-off look in his eyes. He looks up, squints at the overhead lights, breathing slowly and deliberately. Then, his breath hitches and he comes crashing down into the tissues. “Hih’TSHIEW!! Hihhh’TSCHHH!” 

Aramis gives his nose a soft, polite blow into the tissues before crumpling them up and tucking them in the pocket of his trousers. He squirts a liberal amount of hand sanitizer on his palm, and for a brief moment as he rubs it in, Athos gets the insane urge to chastise him at the hygiene of it all before he remembers he is the one who brought this all down on Aramis by sneezing in the man’s face. 

Aramis snuffles, then fixes him with a bleary smile. “What can I do for you?”

Athos clears his throat, the dragging ache reminding him distinctly of his own misery. “I’ve got a prescription.”

Aramis nods and disappears a moment to the prescription shelves. When he returns, he is holding Athos’s prescription and paperwork in one hand and tucking the collar of his shirt up over his nose with the other.

“Heh’RSHHH’uhh! Ehh’KSHHH! Hehh’ihhh’HIKSHHHH!” He pauses, just long enough to open his eyes to gauge where he is placing the bag on the counter, before his eyes squeeze shut again and he tugs the shirt up further. “Hahhh’KSHOO!”

For a moment, Athos had felt a bit jealous, for he’d have given anything for the sweet release of a sneeze to loosen the pressure built up in his head, but now that feeling was all but replaced by pity and guilt, for the man sounded awful and it was all Athos’s fault.

“You had to have caught this from me,” Athos croaks miserably. “I sneezed directly on you.”

Aramis picks up the paperwork, scans the prescription information with a rueful smile. “Well, if I did, it looks like I have a–snf! Snf!-- A sinus infectiod to–heh’KSHHOO! Ugh… Christ!” He gives his head a shake and presses his thumbs into the corner of his eyes to wipe away the bleary tears which have gathered there. Athos’s heart turns. “Snf! To look forward to.”

Aramis wipes his drippy nose with the balled up tissues from his pocket, either too tired or forgetful to use the hand sanitizer this time. He goes over the potential side effects and interactions of the antibiotics with Athos, sniffling and clearing his throat the entire way through.

As soon as he finishes, he murmurs a little, “Excuse me,” and crumples into his elbow with a raspy fit of coughing. Mid-fit, a man in a white coat, a bit older than Athos or Aramis, materializes from somewhere beyond the prescription shelves, shaking his head and clucking his tongue.

“Help that gentleman,” the man says, “and then go home, Aramis.” He picks up the tissue box and shoves it into Aramis’s chest; the man grasps it with a little oof. “God’s sake, you sound about three times worse than when I last saw you an hour ago.”

“Your point is taken, Treville,” Aramis says hoarsely. He smiles, all bright and cheeky like a little boy, and Athos’s stomach does a flip. “You don’t have to insult my wonderful voice, too.”

[groundcontrol21]

Ohhh. It's so hard to pick! I love all of these! But I think I'm going to go with Dec 14th: an "unfortunate"gift. 😉😉

It's no longer December 14th, but here is December 14th's prompt, made extra long to compensate for the wait :) Merry Christmas to the wonderful and patient @sniction-fiction, and to the rest of those who celebrate.

In the distance, and above the frigid howl of the wind, the bells of Saint Sulpice chimed a quarter past the hour. D’Artagnan looked to his friends who were gathered at the table with him, still awaiting the fourth friend whose idea it had been to gather at Athos’s apartment before the Christmas feast and exchange gifts. Porthos had taken to tapping the table with his knuckles. Athos was draining the dregs from his third cup of wine. 

Porthos frowned, sparing a glance out the wintry window. “He’s fifteen minutes late.”

“The weather probably delayed him this morning,” Athos said drily, pouring himself more wine. “Where was it this year, Tours?”

“Amiens.” Porthos shook his head. “I think. Or maybe Angers. I can hardly keep track of his ladies.”

“It’s a wonder he can.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’d need a roster to help me remember.”

“I think Aramis could use one,” Porthos laughed. “Free up a bit of space in that little head of his.” Porthos tapped at his own skull for emphasis, before turning and wagging that same finger with gusto at the young Gascon. “Hey, maybe that should be your present to him next year. A neat little accounting book, where he can keep a list of his mistresses. Names in one column, gifts they give him in the other.”

Athos hummed in bemused approval, and D’Artagnan snorted. “Is it really that bad?”

Athos and Porthos shared a long, knowing look, before Athos cleared his throat. “I think his record is the year he came home from the newly widowed Lady D’Bouconvilier’s country estate with another horse to carry all his gifts.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes went as wide as saucers and Porthos laughed. “Or when he came home from Rouen with a big bottle of Persian perfume swaddled to his chest–I thought he’d come home with a son!”

D’Artagnan guffawed and listened with rapt intent as Porthos and Athos took turns relaying the details of Aramis’s other Christmas tradition besides the Mass: the week prior to the holiday he spent making a tour of his wealthiest paramours from the year. From the sounds of it, Aramis had hardly bought himself anything in his life; item after item which D’Artagnan had seen the man possess turned out to be gifts, from the saddle on his horse to the knife he used to trim his beard. Porthos was just about to tell the story behind a pair of braes when the door handle turned at last and Aramis slipped inside, shivering in his overcoat and clutching a satchel.

“Well, speak of the Devil, here he comes,” Porthos cried. “What was the gift from the mistress this year, eh?”

Aramis closed the door behind him wordlessly. He dropped the satchel from his shoulder so abruptly that it collided with the floor with a resounding thump that had a note of precarious breakability. For a moment, it seemed as though he had not heard the question directed at him, but the real reason for his silence became apparent when, in one swift and well-honed gesture, he whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face. “Heh’ETCHHH!” 

Aramis lowered the handkerchief just enough to give his reply. “A cold,” he croaked bitterly, though of course such a resounding sneeze had been answer enough in its own right. “She claimed to be well but… Heh’Heh’KSHHHH!” The handkerchief was back in place, his speech muffled into the folds. “Clearly that was–EHhh’KMPSSHH! Ugh, God.” 

With a miserable sniffle and a wipe, Aramis tucked the handkerchief back away. He dragged a chair back from the table a bit, until its back was flush with the wall, and plopped unceremoniously into it. He slumped, tipping his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a long blink. He waved his hand. “Don’t come too close, this isn’t one of the gifts I want to give to you.”

“Rotten gift,” Porthos said, brow furrowed, voice full of gruff sympathy. “Did she give you anything else?”

Aramis blinked his eyes back open. “A lovely tortoiseshell hair comb but–Snf!” He rubbed at his rapidly reddening nose with the back of his knuckles, his nostrils glistening and twitching. “This is the gift which is most memorable. Ihhh’KRSHHHH’uhh!” Aramis dipped forward into his cupped hands, lingering in such a position for a silent, sniffling moment before straightening again. He rubbed at his throat.

 “Ow,” he pronounced clearly. “And which I’m least grateful for.”

Athos poured him a cupful of wine, and Aramis took it gratefully, downing it all in one go with a pronounced wince and a cough. They spoke a bit with Aramis about his travels, asking after the food (lovely), the ride (easy), the weather (horrid), before Aramis shook his head with an airy cough. 

“But I’ve wasted enough time with my tardiness!” he cried, and retrieved his satchel. “Let us not waste any more with such idle chatter. Let us exchange our gifts, now four of us instead of three.”

D’Artagnan smiled, feeling his own bag at the floor between his feet. “Who should go first?”

Athos inclined his head as he set down his cup. “How about Aramis, since he’s already received a gift?”

Aramis flashed a smirk at him. “Funny.” His voice was so occluded he could not help a rather unseemly throat clearing and snuffle combination, but still Aramis brought the satchel to his lap and begin to sift through its contents. His downward gaze created a veritable flood out of his already runny nose, and he sniffled on each breath as he considered what was in the satchel carefully, deliberation over whose gift to give first written clearly across his twitching features. 

At last, he reached decisively into the pouch, but had to abort the action almost as soon as he had done it, for a massive sneeze came over him. The hand came up to hurriedly cup over his nose. “Hh’TSCHHH!“ Hehh’ISHshhh! Oh, excuse me,” he said, voice all congestion, as he pinched and wiped away at his nose. He looked down at his fingers, and blushed. “Could I trouble one of you for a handkerchief? This cold is all in my nose.”

His friends had seen the mess upon his hands as clearly as he, and so D’Artagnan, perhaps just as eager as Aramis to be rid of such a sight, was up and offering his own handkerchief to the man in an instant. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Aramis said, and cleaned up his hand as much as his face. 

“Please, keep it,” D’Artagnan said forcefully as he took his seat again. “Merry Christmas.”

Aramis gave a grateful nod as he buried his nose into it and gave a blow so soggy and forceful that D’Artagnan winced. “Well, since our Gascon has so generously given me a gift already,” Aramis said with a smile, giving the handkerchief a demonstrative wave. “I will start with him.”

He reached into the satchel, pulled out a pair of black leather gloves lined with fur, and leaned forward to pass them to D’Artagnan. “To preserve the warmth of your fragile, Gascon hands against the cruelty of the Paris wind.”

D’Artagnan gaped a bit as he took the gift from his friend, and his mouth dropped open further as he tugged the snug leather over his fingers. He flexed and clenched his fist, examining his gloved hand from all angles. “They fit perfectly, Aramis,” he said in a hushed voice. “How did you know–”

Aramis grinned cheekily. “How soon you forget just how many times I had to reposition those very hands on a musket.”

D’Artagnan blushed crimson at the reminder of his green incompetence. “Thank you,” he said after another long moment spent gazing at the leather. “This is truly a thoughtful gift, my friend.”

“Now I better not hear you complaining of the cold ever again,” Porthos said, cupping his hands over his mouth and blowing into them obnoxiously loudly, a mimic of D’Artagnan’s chosen method of warming and passive-aggressive complaint whenever the wind had the slightest nip to it. D’Artagnan removed one of the gloves and swatted Porthos on the shoulder with it. 

“Careful!” Aramis admonished playfully. “Perhaps you won’t be so quick to violence against your friend once you see what I’ve gotten him.”

This time, Aramis produced a small knife in a delicately patterned wooden casing from the satchel, and held it in an outstretched arm. “Take it, Porthos, I have to–” The precarious waver in Aramis’s breath left no ambiguity to his meaning, and so Porthos quickly snatched the item from him. Aramis snapped forward, tucking his chin to his chest and involuntarily squeezing the satchel close. “HETCHHH!” 

He dug out the handkerchief again and held it hovering just inches away from his quivering, dripping nose as his breath hitched in preparation for another. “Ihhh… Oh…Snf!” Aramis teetered a moment on the precipice. His eyes, glazed and misty, looked nowhere in particular as they fluttered shut once more. “IHHH’KSHHH’uhhh!”

Porthos unsheathed the knife from its casing, and turned it over in his hands, recognizing at once that it was a woodworking knife. It felt instantly more comfortable in his grasp as he mimicked a whittling motion than did his dagger. 

“It’s beautiful,” Porthos murmured. “Thank you, mon ami.”

“So that you no longer have to sully the blade of your dagger when boredom strikes on a mission.” As he spoke, Aramis rubbed his nose with the handkerchief, making slow and squelchy circles, trying to draw out the remaining tickle. “Hehhh’ISHHH’oo!” The sneeze which he had coaxed forth was harsh and wet, leaving moisture behind not only beneath his nose but also his eyes. Aramis huffed an annoyed laugh and scrubbed at his eyes and his nose a couple times with the handkerchief. “Ugh, I’mb leaking.”

The three friends shared a look while the fourth cleaned himself up, but nothing more was said on the matter. Aramis let the handkerchief fall into a sad, sodden bundle on his lap while he retrieved the last item from his satchel. The glass bottle had been the source of the clatter when the bag had hit the floor earlier, but fortunately the wine was undamaged.

“And for Athos.” 

Athos took the bottle reverently, his eyes widening as he realized its contents cost about ten times the amount he usually spent on his vice. “Aramis, this is… expensive.”

Aramis smiled, even as his nose dripped. “Your skills of appraisal are astute as always.”

Athos shook his head. “No, Aramis, I mean it, this is–”

“Heh’KSHHHH’oo! Ehhh’HISHHH!” Aramis gave a clogged laugh as he squeezed his nose between two folds of the handkerchief to wipe it. “See? Snf! Even my nose has no patience for your foolish protestations.”

“Then, I see no other option but to open it and share it with friends.”

Athos uncorked the bottle and poured from it into each of their cups, mistakenly dribbling a bit on the table near where D’Artagnan’s gloves lay. Horrified at their proximity to destruction, D’Artagnan snatched the gloves away and squawked at Athos, who rallied with a calm, choice set of words of his own. Porthos laughed as they squibbled and Aramis, for his part, merely slumped a bit in his chair, unnoticed. 

Porthos opened his mouth to quip something at Aramis, only to find the man had leaned his head back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut and pinching at the bridge of his nose. When Aramis seemed about to stay that way indefinitely, Porthos scooted his chair around the table, closer to his friend. Aramis gave no indication he had heard the move. Porthos frowned and nudged him with an elbow. “Hey, are you feeling alright?” 

Aramis lowered his hand and blinked, a bit heavy and startled as though he’d forgotten where he was. “Yes, I’ve…” He blew out a sigh, and even that sounded stopped to the brim with congestion. “I’ve just got this terrible headache.”

Porthos’s frown deepened. “Just now?”

Aramis’s gaze flicked from friend to friend, as they were all watching him intently now. He sighed again, finishing with a tickly cough. “All day,” he admitted quietly. “It’s only been getting worse.”

“Why don’t you go lie down?” Athos said, voice as gentle as it was firm. “We will fetch you before Reveillon.”

Between the tenderness in his ordinarily stoic friend’s voice and the incessant pounding in his own head, there was little room for resistance to such a sound suggestion, and so Aramis rose gingerly, feeling his muscles sore from the cold, his cold, and all the riding he had done. He gathered his satchel on his shoulder and began to shuffle toward the door, when Athos’s voice stopped him. 

“Where are you going?”

Aramis fixed him with a bewildered expression. “To go lie down?”

Athos huffed, as close to a laugh as anything he ever did. “Surely your brain is not so addled with cold that you don’t remember my bedchamber is that way?” He pointed in the opposite direction. 

Aramis blinked as Athos’s intention broke through the mist in his brain. “Your bed… Athos, no.” He sniffled and coughed. “Not with a cold like this.”

“Well,” Athos said, reclining disinterestedly in his chair, “if you prefer to trudge all the way back to your apartments in the biting wind, I shan’t stop you.”

Aramis chewed at his chapped lip. “Still, I hate the thought that I could pass this along… I hate the thought of giving you such an unfortunate gift. Any of you.”

“We’ve all gotten our fair share of unfortunate gifts.” Porthos chuckled, shaking his head. “Remember when Athos gave me a book before I could read?”

Athos’s cheeks blushed the faintest of pinks, but his eyes narrowed at Porthos. “Remember when you gave Aramis what you were convinced was lavender oil, but which made his hands red and blistered and itchy for weeks?”

D’Artagnan shrugged and added, “My cousin gave me a collar for a dog I didn’t even have.”

Aramis gave a congested, but happy-sounding laugh, and coughed wetly into the handkerchief. He smiled tenderly at his friends, who were laughing too, but before he could add to the conversation, a sneeze stole his breath, sending him hitching into the sodden handkerchief. “Hhhh’ehhh’EHHDSKHH!”

“Go lie down, my friend,” Athos said, and Aramis nodded through his snuffling. He raised his hand and the handkerchief it held in a haphazard farewell before crumpling back into it as he shuffled away to Athos’s bedchamber. “Heh’RSHHH!”

The trio who remained turned their gifts over in their hands, discussing them all in subdued marvel. When enough time had passed that the three friends were sure the fourth had fallen asleep, they assembled a tray to leave on his bedside table for when he woke. Sure enough, the congested snores which filled the bedchamber advertised that they had been correct in their assessment, and so they shuffled quietly in, depositing their gifts beside their sleeping friend, bundled beneath the bedcovers. They had left him two handkerchiefs–Athos’s and Porthos’s sacrificed to the cause now just as surely as D’Artagnan’s–as well as a mug of tea and some mint paste Athos had found in his cupboard. They were unconventional gifts for Christmas, to be sure, and likely not exactly what Aramis envisioned himself in want of, but that was no matter. There would be time for more exchanging of gifts when Aramis was well again. 

[groundcontrol21]

Best Laid Plans (M, Musketeers)

It’s my birthday 🎉 and I'm back(-ish)! It’s honestly a miracle that I made it here to 22, so to celebrate I gave one of my homies a birthday and another a cold... Also consider this my strange way of giving back to all the people here who helped me reach another birthday, I love you all

Spring had come, bringing with it warmer sunshine and, of course, the need to plan a suitable celebration for Porthos’s birthday. As he did every year, Aramis spearheaded the planning, all but refusing any help from Athos or D’Artagnan to take some of the stress off him because it needed to be perfect. In the weeks leading up to the date, Aramis devised lists of wines for Athos to fetch, visited widow after widow to procure funds, passed days at the market spending those funds on food and a worthy gift for Porthos. Even Athos could not deny Aramis had outdone himself this year. It was halfway expected, then, that when the day of the festivities came, Athos found the mastermind behind them tucked away in a corner, behind a wooden pole, sneezing viciously enough to bring down half the garrison.

“You’ve chosen the perfect day to catch a cold, haven’t you?”

Aramis regarded him through bleary, half-lidded eyes, keeping the handkerchief plastered to his nose as he gave a shuddering inhale which rocked through his entire body, before exploding with another sneeze. “Heh’CHMPFFFF!” 

Athos pressed his fingers against his friend’s forehead, sighing when he found it radiating a sickly heat. “Go back to bed, Aramis,” he said firmly. “The entire event is planned to completion thanks to you. It need only begin.”

Aramis stuffed the balled up cloth back into his sleeve and gave a snort of indignation. The poor man was so congested that the action made his nose drip, a fact which Athos did his best not to focus on. “I will not miss Porthos’s birthday!”

The desire, familiar at this point, to throttle and coddle Aramis in equal measure, overtook Athos in a wave. “Do you think Porthos will abide you making yourself more ill on his behalf?”

Aramis’s speech took on a breathy quality, his eyelids beginning to flutter, but valiantly (or stupidly), he forged ahead. “He–he doesn’t have to know I’b ill–Heh’KSSHH!”

Athos clucked his tongue as Aramis fished out his handkerchief again to tend to his unruly nose. “And how exactly are you planning to keep Porthos from noticing when you keep doing that?”

“I won’t sneeze,” Aramis said resolutely. “You’ll find I have very good control over—”

Athos merely looked on mildly as a sneeze overtook Aramis mid sentence, rattling the man so thoroughly he had to throw his arm out against a pole to keep his balance. “Ihh’RSHHHH! Snf! Snf!” He blinked a couple times in the aftermath, glassy-eyed like a startled animal, and shook his head. 

“So I’ll muffle them. That much I can—IHH’TSCHHH!” 

Athos continued to stare at his friend wordlessly, as the sound of the explosion veritably echoed throughout half of Paris. 

“Ugh, damn you,” Aramis growled into his handkerchief, as though it were Athos who personally implanted the cold within his head. He mopped at his drippy nose. “I’ll think of something.”

*****************

The something that Aramis thought of was apparently to hover at the walls, sick and sneezing, while the rest of the garrison revelled, and hope for the best. It was a testament to how much fun, to put it politely, that Porthos and D’Artagnan had already had at a tavern prior to joining the Musketeers’ celebration that Porthos allowed himself to be swept up in the games and the gambling without noticing Aramis’s absence too keenly. He accepted Athos’s assertion that he was chatting with one of the new recruits, and didn’t even seem to notice that Aramis was, in fact, huddled alone with his drink.

Athos took his own cup and sought out the man. The light from the garrison torches was weak, but it was more than enough to illuminate how wretched the marksman looked. He slumped against the wall, cradling his drink to his chest with an absent, open-mouthed expression, as though he didn’t quite realize he was meant to be drinking from his cup. As Athos approached, he could hear the stuffed-up puffs of air tumble in and out from his chapped lips. 

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked lowly, to avoid startling the man. 

Aramis’s only response was to release the most waterlogged sneeze that Athos had ever heard into his crumpled handkerchief. “Hihhh’TSCHHH’uhh! Snf!” Keeping the handkerchief over his nose and mouth, he ran through a series of miserable noises that could have been coughs, sniffles, blows, or some combination of the three.

The sound had Athos reaching immediately for the man’s forehead, and he physically cringed when he felt the clammy heat roiling off it. He rolled his eyes and hissed. “Jesus Christ, Aramis.”

Aramis turned his eyes slowly on him, heavy and half-lidded as though drunk. “I’ll manage.” He was trembling with poorly concealed shivers.

Athos could hardly understand the man’s voice, so pitched and wrecked it was with soreness and congestion. “You are lucky Porthos arrived here already too drunk to notice you,” he said sharply. “You look horrid.”

Aramis cracked a poor imitation of his usual sunny smile, but it only looked wan and drawn against the pallor of his skin, the feverish flush of his cheeks. “Flattery will–” he began only for his voice to crack and plunge him into a fit of scraping, chesty coughs. He splayed his palm flat over his breast as he hacked, and Athos could not help but reach out a hand to steady him.

“Spare me the ordeal of listening to you, and just be quiet for once, would you?” The hand he placed on Aramis’s shoulder belied the bite to Athos’s words. He waited until the coughs subsided, until Aramis had slaked the worst of his sore throat with a bit from his waterskin, before holding out his own pristine handkerchief to Aramis. White, like a peace offering. 

“And take this. I can tell you’ll need it.” 

Aramis recognized the cloth for what it was, and gave Athos a grateful nod. For all of a moment Athos regarded his friend, pity swirling in his chest, but then Aramis emptied what sounded like half the Seine into Athos’s handkerchief and Athos resisted the urge to gag.

“Are you certain this is merely a cold?”

Aramis said nothing, but Athos could tell he was hiding behind the handkerchief in lieu of answering. He kicked Aramis’s ankle gently. “Aramis?”

But instead of answering Athos’s question (which was answer enough), Aramis merely tucked away the handkerchief and regarded Athos desperately, his eyes bright. “Please don’t tell Porthos,” he pleaded, almost whining. “Let him enjoy this night.”

Athos heaved a long sigh, long enough for Aramis to hear every note of dissatisfaction and chastisement within it, lest the man think Athos at all endorsed this foolishness. “I won’t tell him–”

Aramis breathed out, “Thank you.”

“--but I won’t hide this from him either.”

************

Aramis supposed that was about as good of a promise as he would get out of Athos, and so he resolved to take all the hiding onto himself. It was easier than expected to merely slink off to the side, sit down and huddle on a stoop, and watch absently as his fellow Musketeers cheered and drank and gambled. Aramis leaned his head against a railing, the noise of it all doing nothing to dispel the ache. 

Even this, though, slouching tucked away in a corner, was sapping more energy from Aramis than he cared to admit. There was no way to deny the feverish shivers which coursed through him, leaving his muscles sore and achy. He had abandoned all attempts to breathe through his nose hours ago, and each cursedly frequent sneeze not only grated his raw throat but doubled the bounding through his congested head. He was really quite sick, Aramis could tell, and he knew he’d be spending the next few days laid up in bed in recompense for his being upright now. But he didn’t mind; all he had to do was make it through this night, for Porthos, and then he could rest and lie down beneath a bundle of blankets and give into the way his body ached at the mere thought of standing for another minute–

“Aramis?”

“Porthos!” Aramis cried, jolting upright at the approach of his friend. He did not trust himself to stand without swaying or worse, but he did his best to rearrange his posture into something straighter and more befitting of a healthy man. Cursing inwardly, he stuffed his (or rather, Athos’s) handkerchief into his pocket and hoped Porthos hadn’t seen it. 

“What’s wrong?” Porthos said worriedly, stooping to take a seat beside Aramis. His movements were slightly sluggish with drink, but every inch of him radiated concern all the same. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Ain’t like you not to be out and about.”

Aramis did his best to smile as usual. “I’m just a bit–” His voice crackled and a few coughs, far more sick-sounding than he’d have liked, escaped before he could swallow them down. “--tired, is all,” he forced himself to finish, to his undoing, for perhaps if he had stopped speaking the few coughs would not have turned into a fit. As it was, though, the effort of speaking grated against his raw throat and left him coughing and coughing, and all Aramis could pray was that Porthos was too drunk to notice their sickly rasp. 

Aramis had no such luck, for he had scarcely caught his breath again when he was blinking at the cool feel of Porthos’s palm against his forehead. “You’re sick,”Porthos said, frowning. His hand moved to the side of Aramis’s neck, near his jaw, fingers pressing against the sore, swollen glands there, and his frown deepened. Aramis fought to keep his eyes from slipping closed at the warmth of his brother’s touch. 

“Aramis, why didn’t you tell me?”

Porthos sounded devastated, his voice so stricken, so weighed down with guilt it dragged, and Aramis could scarcely bear such a thing. “Because it’s nothing, really!” he said hurriedly, for it looked as though Porthos might cry. But Aramis’s body betrayed him with a sudden, sharp inhale. “Heh’KSHHHHH! Hhh’TSHIEWW! Snf! Ihh’HITSHHH!” 

He brushed a finger beneath his nose. “Just a touch of a cold,” he said soggily, steadfastly resisting the urge to reacquaint himself with the handkerchief though he desperately needed to. Porthos watched him, face twitching with brewing skepticism and anger. Aramis attempted to reassure him. “I’ll be alright with a bit of sleep.”

Porthos exhaled noisily. “So why don’t you go try to get some?” He reached out again and traced his thumb gently across the circles, dark as bruises, beneath Aramis’s eyes. “You look exhausted.” 

Aramis was beyond exhausted, and the soft touch of his brother was more soothing on his swollen, aching head than any medicine could be, and yet still Aramis did his best to keep his eyes from drifting shut, to prevent himself from leaning into those comforting fingers too much. 

Then Porthos whispered, “Please?” and Aramis could hold out no longer. 

“Alright, dear friend,” he sighed, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment, feeling himself slump against Porthos. “You make a convincing case.”

At this, Porthos helped Aramis to his feet; or rather, the two Musketeers helped each other, for while Aramis swayed from fatigue and fever, Porthos was equally unsteady with drink. Even so, he clasped Aramis’s shoulder firmly and vowed, “I’ll come check on you in a bit.” 

But as Aramis turned to go, he saw the way Porthos stumbled briefly back toward the main celebration before righting himself. 

“You’re half-drunk already!” Aramis called, swallowing down a cough. “Please, Porthos. Don’t worry yourself over me.” Porthos opened his mouth to retort but Aramis shook his head. “Just enjoy your celebration. Show D’Artagnan the finer points of how a Musketeer readies a melon to eat.”

He tapped his pistol to show Porthos his meaning, and the man smiled, even as his brow was still ruffled with skepticism. Once more, Aramis bid him farewell and headed back to his room, hoping that a few rounds of inebriated target shooting with the young Gascon would take Porthos’s mind off Aramis for the rest of the night. He deserved nothing less, after all.

*******************

Aramis was tucked up at his table, a blanket round his shoulders and a washcloth covering his head like a tent, keeping in the steam from the bowl he had filled with boiling water and a few sprigs of mint. He had lost track of just how long he had spent there, absolutely spent and dripping from his harsh and desperate fits of sneezing, but relishing in his slightly increased capacity for breathing, when he heard his door click open and shut.

“Oh, Aramis. You’re really sick, aren’t you?”

“Porthos?” Dazedly, Aramis lifted his head from the bowl, lifting the corners of the washcloth to peer at his friend, who hovered in the doorway. “I thought I told you–Ihh’KSHHHH’uhhh!” 

Aramis sniffled liquidly, feeling a mess run from his nose to his chin. The steam was still doing its job, no doubt. “Heh’KSHHHH!” He fumbled to retrieve the handkerchief from the table and mop himself up with it. 

Porthos made a wounded noise. “And I thought I told you to get some sleep.” The floorboards creaked and groaned, until Aramis looked up again to find Porthos’s face mere inches from his. The steam had loosened things up just enough that Aramis could smell a bit of the alcohol on the man’s breath. Porthos looked at the bowl as though it had hurt him personally. “And yet here you are, so sick that you brought out the steam and you didn’t even tell me.”

“Porthos, it’s alright,” Aramis said, setting aside the handkerchief to clasp his brother’s hand. “I’m just a bit too congested to sleep, is all.” He put on a smile and gestured for Porthos to sit. “Tell me, how is the party? Did D’Artagnan have his melon lesson?” 

At this, Porthos grinned widely, and Aramis felt himself relax, even as he felt the heavy, aching congestion returning. Porthos filled Aramis in on what he had missed, sparing no detail of D’Artagnan’s melon-shooting under Porthos’s drunken tutelage, from Athos’s deep disproval to the clump of fruity flesh that he had taken to the face courtesy of D’Artagnan. All the while, the tickle in Aramis’s nose grew, such that, eventually, not even his habitual sniffles could ward it off.

“Hhhh’RSHHH’ooo! Hhh’TSCHHH! Hehh…Ihhh’ISHHH’uhh! Heh’ZDSHHH’uhh! Oh… Snf!” Aramis snuffled into the handkerchief, feeling an outright return to abject misery now that the sneezes had come back full-force. “Sorry,” he croaked. He waved at Porthos. “Carry on.” But no sooner than he spoke his last word did his breath hitch again and launch him forward into his fist. “Ihh’KISHHH!” The sneeze snagged in his throat and left him coughing breathlessly. 

Once the fit had eased, Aramis looked over to where Porthos had been sitting across from him at the table, only to find the spot vacated. “Porthos?” he called hoarsely. 

Porthos’s voice came from somewhere behind the maze of open cupboards where he was hidden. Aramis could hear him rifle around through his herbs and cups. “I’m getting you tea.”

“Thank you.”

The large pot of water Aramis had boiled for his steam treatment was still sitting warm on the hearth, and so Porthos merely scooped some of it into a mug and mixed leaves and herbs and a bit of honey into it. His movements were a bit discombobulated and sluggish from drink, but he did not so much as slosh the tea when he brought it back to Aramis, setting it down gently in front of him. Aramis took a ginger sip and relished the feel of it against his throat; Porthos had not been too drunk to forget Aramis’s favorite sore-throat blend either.

The warmth of the tea made his nose run anew, and Aramis gave a blow into Athos’s handkerchief, which was now every bit as spent as his. He winced at the rough feel of it against his skin, raw and chapped from the day’s copious use. 

“I’m sorry I ruined your birthday, Porthos,” he said quietly, miserably. His gaze was at the floor, at the tips of his friend’s boots. 

Porthos’s fingers came to rest at Aramis’s chin, tipping his head up to face him. “None of that,” Porthos said tenderly. “Absolutely none of that.”

“But you should be–”

“Right where I am, with my brother who gave me the best birthday celebration.” Porthos stroked the hair from Aramis’s temple, and pressed a brief kiss to his warm skin. “Poor Aramis,” he said. “So sick and worried.” He tapped the tea mug. “Drink up, and then let’s both get to sleep, alright? I need you well enough to take my side against Athos in the Great Melon Debate.”

Aramis gave a hoarse chuckle. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be well enough for that.”

[groundcontrol21]

Hello! If you haven't yet gotten five requests, may I please request December 18th with maybe... d'Art? Ara/mis as backup char, of course. =) Thank you in advance!

Happy December 18th! Of course I had to incorporate them both in there, bc I can't leave my favorite marksman alone, now can I? Hope you enjoy! This skews a bit book-verse-y in terms of speech and whatnot. CW: contagion (not intentional)

“Heh’TSCHOOO!” 

With a series of grumbles and groans, D’Artagnan rubbed at his dripping nose with his handkerchief. He had long since stopped bothering to tuck it back in his doublet, preferring instead to keep the cloth balled up in his fist for ease of access. And such ease was certainly needed, he noted with a bitter cough, for it seemed his horse could scarcely take two steps forward without some symptom of this wretched ailment making itself known. He shivered, bundling as deeply as he could into the fur tucked around his shoulders.

Ahead of him, Athos slowed his mount and gazed back. “Is Aramis’s cloak not helping?”

The fur grazed his cheek and his sensitive nose as D’Artagnan ducked deeper into the cloak in an attempt to keep himself warm. “It is–heh’KSHOOO!-- helping as much as anything can help a man with a headcold so bad. Ihh’KSHHH!” He sniffled lamentably. The fur-lined cloak chased away the worst of his shivers, but that was a pitiable solace to D’Artagnan whose very face felt stuffed full of mud. “I’m beginning to think I’ll never be well again.”

“Peace, D’Artagnan, you have been ill for two days,” Athos said. Even so, his brow still furrowed when D’Artagnan descended into a raspy fit of coughs (the Gascon had intended for those coughs to be a rebuke of Athos’s wanton disregard for his ill state, but his sore throat took precedence). “Still, we will stop at the next village we come upon for rest and shelter.”

They rode in silence for a while save for D’Artagnan, who held fast to Aramis’s cloak with each sneeze lest it come undone. In time, Porthos rode up alongside him and leaned close, his tone conspiratorial. “You’re a lucky lad, you know. It’s not just anyone whom Aramis will lend a present from an admirer.”

In spite of himself and his misery, D’Artagnan could not help but raise an eyebrow. “An admirer?”

“Of the feminine sort,” Porthos said with a knowing grin before his countenance soured. “He wouldn’t even lend the cloak to me when I was drenched in a downpour! Said I’d ruin it.”

“I’m not deaf, mon ami,” Aramis called. The man was shivering desperately in his saddle; giving D’Artagnan the cloak had left him with naught more than his thin blue cape as defense against the misty wind. “I didn’t lend you my cloak because you had just come inside to sit in front of the fire to dry yourself. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Psh! Details!” Porthos scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe I should get sick just for a chance to wear it. It does look so comfortable and warm.”

“Hhh’RSHHH!” D’Artagnan mopped at his nose with his handkerchief sullenly. “Come any closer and you just might.”

******

They reached a town with an inn, which gratefully had a room with a hearth that was big enough for the four of them to share. Wasting no time, the three friends tucked D’Artagnan into bed, spreading Aramis’s cloak atop the blankets for a final layer of warmth. The comfort of lying down was so blissful after a miserable day of riding that D’Artagnan fell asleep immediately. Athos and Porthos departed in search of an apothecary where they might buy some more herbs to soothe the young man’s symptoms, leaving behind Aramis not only to keep watch and stoke the fire, but also to warm up himself, for he was shivering almost as badly as the ill Gascon. 

Some time later, D’Artagnan awoke to see his friend alone, hunched upon himself as he sat in front of the hearth and prodded at the flames with a poker. D’Artagnan blinked heavily, clearing his occluded throat, and called out to him, “Aramis?”

But though Aramis turned his face to him, it was plainly clear to D’Artagnan that the man could not truly focus on him, nor could he answer, because in that moment his features were overcome with the misty reverie of an oncoming sneeze. He dropped the poker hastily back into its holder, his hands scrambling to his face. “Hhh’KSHHH’uhh! Heh’ISHHH’uhh! Hehhhh’ISHHH!”

“Pardieu, are you alright?” D’Artagnan asked, though the sheer volume and ferocity of his friend’s sneezes brooked only one answer to the question–at least, only one answer which was honest.

A blush rose, creeping up from out beneath Aramis’s collar and into his cheeks. “I think I might–heh…Ehhh’KSHHH!--be coming down with what you have.”

D’Artagnan frowned.

“Fret not,” Aramis said. “It’s to be expected. We have been spending every moment in each other’s presence these past days, riding, eating, sleeping.”

D’Artagnan was sure riding in the cold and damp without a cloak surely did not help matters either. A spark of guilt fluttered in D’Artagnan’s chest as he considered himself, tucked up cosily in bed with the cloak still draped over him. Not so much guilt he would consider parting with the fur-lined warmth, but… An idea came to D’Artagnan’s foggy mind and he sat up, bundling the cloak in his arms and shuffling over to take a seat on the floor beside Aramis. 

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis asked blearily as D’Artagnan set to draping the cloak across both their shoulders. Aramis gave a full-body shiver at the sudden influx of warmth and, seemingly unconsciously, tucked himself closer to D’Artagnan. He sighed gratefully, and D’Artagnan couldn’t help a small smile. 

“It’s your cloak after all.”

“You should…Eh’KESHHH’uhh!” Aramis produced a handkerchief from his doublet and snuffled into it. His nose was already pink, and D’Artagnan wondered just how often he’d blown it while D’Artagnan had been dozing. “You should be in bed.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the hoarse-voiced attempt at mother henning. “By that logic, then, so should you.”

“Ahh,” Aramis sighed, a touch pleading, “but it is so much warmer close to the fire.”

D’Artagnan laughed. “My thoughts exactly.”

And so they arranged themselves so that each was as comfortable and as warm as possible, ending with Aramis slumped against D’Artagnan, head pillowed against his shoulder, and D’Artagnan leaning his own forehead against Aramis’s. And such was how Porthos and Athos found the two men upon their return, huddled into their fur-cocoon, their congested snores a soft harmony against the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

[groundcontrol21]

The Handkerchief(s) of Aramis (M)

In the 1978 musical movie adaptation of The Three Musketeers, Aramis complains about going to England and says (and I quote) “It’s damp in London, and I only have twelve handkerchiefs.” Naturally I went insane (see this post for evidence).  Unfortunately, given the events of the book and therefore the movie, Aramis never makes it to London to put these handkerchiefs to use. So here I am, changing the plot around a bit to remedy that :) 

Title taken from the actual title of one of the chapters in the book that punched me directly in the k!nk.  

******

Waving the bundle of letters he had just received from Captain Treville, D’Artagnan swaggered into the stable yards where Aramis and Porthos were, reclining against the wall and munching on apples that belonged to the horses. Athos was absent from the scene, though it was just as well; he was recovering from a slight infection to his shoulder wound, and as such, the road was not the place for him. 

“I must go to London to deliver these letters to the Captain’s brother-in-law,” D’Artagnan told the two. Upon seeing their eyebrows raise appraisingly, D’Artagnan added. “Congratulations on his graduation from the academy, nothing interesting.” 

He unhooked his horse from its post, narrowing his eyes when his two friends were slow to do the same. “I trust you two will accompany me?”

“London?” Aramis clicked his tongue and shook his head, letting the apple fall to the ground. “It’s damp in London, and I only have twelve handkerchiefs on my person.”

“Twelve?” D’Artagnan repeated incredulously with a shake of his own head. “We’ll only be gone a week. I should say that number would more than hold you over.”

“Not quite so, Gascon,” Porthos added. “Our Aramis has all the constitution of a delicate flower. Get him a bit too wet and he’ll be out of sorts for weeks.”

This was all news to D’Artagnan, for Aramis seemed far from frail and sickly. The man wielded a sword with prowess and could shoot a fly from the hair of a horse; in fact, D’Artagnan suspected that, after himself, Aramis was the fittest of their coterie. Doubtful, he looked to the man in question for confirmation, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for his two friends to begin laughing at him. 

But Aramis just nodded sadly. “Alas, I cannot even venture too far into Normandy in the autumn.”

“Put him in Bretagne in December, and he’ll come down with pneumonia.”

Aramis pretended to faint against his horse, his dainty hand covering his eyes as he swooned. “Oh Porthos, don’t remind me!”

D’Artagnan tapped his foot impatiently, still unable to shake his initial suspicion that the two men were having him on, or at the very least, trying to malinger. “So will you accompany me or not?”

“Of course,” Aramis said decisively, before swinging himself into the saddle with a flourish. “I am only warning you that your handkerchief may need to be sacrificed for my efforts.” He clamped a hand to his heart, looking suddenly stricken. “Tell me at least, D’Artagnan, that there are no women who await us in London. I could not bear the thought of any fine English ladies seeing me so indisposed.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes as he mounted his own horse, hearing Porthos do the same behind him. “There are no women unless you count Treville’s brother-in-law among them.”

Aramis surveyed D’Artagnan critically. “Is he a bachelor?”

D’Artagnan blinked. “I believe so?”

Aramis considered the answer for a moment, face inscrutable, before nodding, apparently satisfied. “Very well, then.” He kicked his horse forward and raised his hat in the air. “To London!”

Porthos followed suit. “To London!”

D’Artagnan urged his own horse to a gallop and followed after the two Musketeers, still feeling distinctly like he was caught in the middle of some elaborate joke. He gave himself a shake and resolved to deal with it later; for now he would focus on the road that lead them outside Paris and beyond, into the countryside and later to the sea. 

********

“Eh’KESHHH’uhh! Ach, this damn rain. Snf! ITCHIEW!” Aramis massaged at his head with a pale hand, the rings on his fingers glinting as the movement made them catch the candlelight in the tavern. The first wrenching sneeze, after riding just half a day in the misty English air, could have been a joke, but the seeming thousands that followed certainly were not. They reached London as Aramis was doing naught more than alternating between shivering and sneezing, and Porthos had given up his own riding cloak to drape around the man’s shoulders. 

It had been drizzling, even raining, since they set foot on the island, much to the chagrin of the poor, suffering Aramis, for they had no choice but to ride on. They three could waste an entire month waiting for the London sun to shine. Papers delivered, they turned back at once, eager to get Aramis back home and to bed, but the foul weather had turned even fouler, and now they were hunkered down in an inn some miles still inland from the port that would take them back to Boulogne, awaiting a break in the downpour. D’Artagnan leaned his head on his hand, listening to the sounds around him: the low hum of the other travelers who were presently seeking solace from the storm, the fierce lashing of the rain against the window panes, Aramis’s completely waterlogged sniffling. 

Porthos returned to the table with a mug and slid it across the table. “Here’s another hot wine for you, Aramis.”

With a grateful inclination of the head, Aramis pulled the mug closer. “Th-heh-thank you, Por–Heh’KSHIEW! Por–heh’ih’HISHH’ooo!” He buried his nose in the folds of his handkerchief, shutting his eyes as he paused a moment, as though too tired to do anything but wait for gravity to drain it and do the work for him. “Ugh, snf!” He blinked rapidly and lowered the handkerchief. “Porthos.”

D’Artagnan’s cheeks colored; it was, for all intents and purposes, his fault that Aramis was feeling this terrible in the first place. He tried to hide his disgusted wince as Aramis emptied what must have been every liquid in his body into the handkerchief. He forced what he hoped was a sympathetic slant to his visage. “How are you feeling?”

“HESHH’uhhh!” The cloth did not move from his nose as he spoke; Aramis merely regarded D’Artagnan with bleary, tired eyes over the top of it. “Snf! Need you even ask?”

D’Artagnan reasoned he deserved such a snappy reply to what had been a rather foolish question. It was plain to see how Aramis was faring, from the way he buried his head in his hands with a soft moan whenever he glimpsed a reprieve from his nose, to the way his voice was low and thick with congestion. That was, of course, to say nothing of the wet sneezes and drippy sniffles that assaulted him with a dogged regularity, leaving his nose a terribly sore and chapped mess. 

D’Artagnan turned his attention to the water splashing against the windowpane with a muttered curse. “If only this rain would let up a bit, we could continue on our way back to Paris.” Aramis coughed and Porthos rubbed his shoulders. D’Artagnan felt himself soften. “At least get you to France where you can be ill in a place with a civilized language.” 

On account of one of Porthos’s old mistresses being a cloth merchant’s wife from Dover, he was the only one of them with any knowledge of English, however rudimentary. Between fragments and hand signals (and Aramis’s quite noticeable ailment which transcended both language and culture), he was able to get Aramis a few things to ease his symptoms, but the going had not been easy. Porthos had nearly got the three of them kicked out when he slammed his fist on a counter hard enough to crack it in his frustration at the innkeeper’s inability to understand his request for “wine with miel… you know, from bzz bzz” and the associated insect-related gesticulations. 

Aramis scoffed, the sound scraping at his throat. “A bit! Ahh’TSHIEW! Snf! Oh… Hihhh’TSHHH!” He mopped his nose miserably. “If it lets up only a bit then I am back in the a-a-ccursed–Ahhh’KSHIEW!--accursed damp that got me in this–snf–situation in the first place! HESHHIEWW! Ehh’KSHHH’uhh! HEPTSHIEW! Oh…” He pinched at the bridge of his nose, his eyes fluttering shut, though he kept the sodden handkerchief close at hand. “Better this way, as I am at least warm and d-dry–Ihh’SHHH!”

Aramis folded the cloth a few different ways, turning it this way and that in search of a dry patch, before dropping it to his lap with a scowl. “Pff, it is no use, this one is completely–Eh’KSHH’oo!”

“Take another,” Porthos said kindly, tapping the satchel in which the cloths were kept.

“Ahh’KSHHH’uhh!” He caught the sneeze in a cupped hand, his other outstretched and waiting for Porthos to place a fresh one within it. “Four days yet, at least, from–snf!--from Paris, and I am already on number…Eh…Snf! Hehhhh… eleven. Snf! HITSHIEW!!” He blew his nose again, muffling a moan into the folds of the cloth at the simple pleasure of its dryness.  

Once finished, he fixed the Gascon with a watery approximation of his usual cheeky grin. “We did warn you, D’Artagnan.”

Porthos merely shrugged and nodded in agreement as Aramis continued sniffling and snuffling into his penultimate handkerchief. For his part, D’Artagnan was slightly chagrined that he had not taken the warning seriously, for all that now stood between the one handkerchief he owned being well and truly sacrificed was the twelfth handkerchief of Aramis and that of Porthos. 

“Heh’TCHOO!”

And at the current rate, D’Artagnan knew the two articles would not be able to withstand the siege for long. This time, he could not altogether hold back his wince as Aramis made prodigious use of the handkerchief to clear his nose, for all D’Artagnan could imagine was his one lone handkerchief in its place. No matter how many washes it was subjected to, given the sheer ferocity of Aramis’s cold, D’Artagnan would never, ever be able to accept the defiled piece of cloth back should Aramis attempt to return it. So he resigned himself, as he listened to Aramis sneeze and sneeze, to buying himself a new handkerchief immediately upon their arrival back in Paris and, if money allowed, perhaps a couple more to fortify Aramis to avoid this sort of situation should they ever be required to go back to England in the future.

[groundcontrol21]

Ensconced (M, Musketeers)

It’s been, what, a week without an A/ramis fic from me? Figured it was time again, so I gave the poor man the flu. In light of what was a hard week for me, I whipped this up as a lil gift for myself. Pure self-indulgence, and inspired quite heavily by conversations with the lovely @sniction-fiction

****************

A cool wind rattles against the shutters and Aramis feels as though he is outdoors in it, despite the fire crackling distantly in the hearth and the swath of blankets he hugs to his chest like a talisman. He shivers so hard his teeth chatter; every inch of him so utterly frigid it is as though nothing stands between him and the crisp winter air.

“Heh’NGSHH! Ihh’KSHHH!”

He sniffles as hard as he can, but even that feels like the most monumental of efforts. In any case, it isn’t enough; his nose is streaming down his lip, down the blanket, and he has no energy left within his muscles to even consider casting around for a handkerchief long since lost in the bedclothes. He coughs, fire scraping across his throat, and shivers again, so hard it is almost a convulsion. He is so cold he could cry, and perhaps he does, a couple tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes at the thought of a lovely pair of hot bricks, warmed in the roaring hearth in the garrison’s kitchens, pressed at his sides, chasing away the chill at last. 

“HEH’SHHHH!”

He is far too ill to move. Maybe if he keeps shivering this hard he will warm himself up eventually. He burrows deeper into the blankets, desperate to leech whatever minuscule pocket of heat he can find, but he finds none. He whimpers, his head swimming in a fever-cloud, and he is so far gone into the mist that he swears he feels a hand stroke through his hair and rub briefly at his shoulder.

He drifts again, perhaps to sleep, feeling the thrum of his fever in his veins. Something blessedly warm and solid slithers beneath the blankets, against his stomach and his back, and again Aramis feels those hands adjusting the cloth-wrapped bricks, his blankets. Muzzily, he blinks awake. 

“P-Porthos?” His eyes, barely open wide enough to register the bleary form of his friend, snap shut once more and he buries his nose in the blanket. “Ihhh’KSHHIEW! Heh’NKSHH!” 

“I’m back,” Porthos says, and his voice is soft like spring sunshine. “Athos told me you were sick.” He rests his fingers against Aramis’s hot cheek, and his thumb rubs back and forth beneath his eye. He frowns, even as Aramis sighs at the blissful contact. “Didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

“Heh’TSHHHH! Hhhh’RSHHH’uhh! IKKSHHH!” The force of the sneezes wrench him forward, into the spot of blanket that is already painfully damp from before, and Aramis doesn’t know whether he has missed Porthos’s hand in the chaos. 

“Bless you,” Porthos says, voice still so soft, and then he is reaching beneath the blankets, cupping Aramis’s jaw, feeling the swollen soreness of his neck. “You sound miserable.”

All Aramis can do is nod and curl further in on himself, wishing he could press the bricks so close they would become part of him. Perhaps then the icy ache in his bones would dissipate. He gives another jolting shiver.

“Are the bricks helping?”

Aramis can’t answer. He coughs until no part of his face is dry, and he tastes the hot salty mixture of tears as he tries to swallow around his inflamed throat. He sniffles back what he can, and the wet tickle sets him off again into a shuddering sneeze.

“Hihhhh’ihhh’ISHHHH’uhh!”

The shivers begin anew, and Porthos makes a noise, sounding almost wounded. “Aw, shove over, then.”

The bed creaks and Aramis feels it dip under the man’s weight. Porthos has nestled himself against Aramis, halfway beneath the blankets again as he reforms the cocoon around the two of them now, before Aramis realizes what this means. He squirms, trying to push himself away, and the motion sends rolling aches through him.

“N-no,” he manages between clattering teeth, “You c-can’t.” His breath hitches again and he dives for the blanket. “Heh’ISHHIEW!” He drags the blanket over his mouth, muffling a hot, aching fit of coughs into the fabric. Anything to keep it away from Porthos. 

But Porthos is still there and even pulls him closer, snaking his arms around Aramis until his back is pressed against something both warmer and softer than a brick. “Shhh,” Porthos hums. One hand rubs gently across Aramis’s chest, and it is only because the motion dispels a bit of the ache there that Aramis realizes it had begun to hurt in the first place. 

“You let me do all the worrying now,” he says, and it’s suddenly all too easy for Aramis to allow his eyes to slip shut as the chill fades, chased away by the warmth which now ensconces him from all angles.

[groundcontrol21]

Musketeers Ficlet #... Another One

For @sniction-fiction. Hopefully this adds a little sweetness to your week :))

Porthos awakens to the moonlight filtering through the cracks of his shutters and a soft tapping at his door. He doesn’t even bother fumbling to light a candle as he stumbles in the dim light to the door and throws it open to find a hunched, bedraggled figure leaning against the doorframe as if it is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Aramis?”

“I can’t sleep, Porthos,” he whispers hoarsely and crumples inward on himself. He sounds dangerously close to tears, and Porthos takes him by the wrist, bundling him into the room, into his arms, and shutting the door to the hallway against anyone who might listen. 

“Oh, Aramis,” Porthos says, leading him to his bed, feeling the lines of the man’s body tremble against him with exhaustion. “I knew you weren’t looking right these past couple of days. How long has it been?”

With Porthos’s help, Aramis sits at the edge of the bed. “Last Tuesday, at least.”

“Last Tuesday?” Porthos hisses. “Aramis, that’s–”

“I know,” Aramis says miserably, rubbing his hands over his face. The twilit room does his complexion no favors, all sallow and drawn from endless nights spent restless and haunted. Porthos squeezes the nape of Aramis’s neck in comfort and Aramis fumbles his own hand in an attempt to pat it in thanks, searching clumsily before giving up. Porthos’s stomach gives a lurch of worry.

“You’re always welcome here, you know that.” Porthos climbs into bed beside him, takes Aramis by the shoulders, pushing him down gently so that they both recline. “Come, lie down.”

Porthos draws the blankets over them both and tucks Aramis against him, slotting his friend’s back against his own stomach and wrapping his arm across his shoulder, pulling him tight. Porthos feels the muscle’s in Aramis’s back expand as he takes in a sudden deep breath and–

“Heh’KSHHH’oo! Hihh’ISHH!”

Porthos feels the muscles go rigid, tensing and then relaxing as the man gives a shuddering exhale, sniffling. Porthos frowns. “Are you getting sick?”

Aramis does not answer, but even in the silvery moonlight Porthos swears he can see the man’s face go pink in a blush. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says firmly, almost scolding, giving the man’s shoulders a small shake.

Aramis sighs. “I might be. Heh…Ihh’KSCHHT! Snf!” Aramis extricates a hand from Porthos’s embrace to rub at his nose, then tries to extricate his whole body, pushing against Porthos’s arms. “I’m sorry, I should go–”

Porthos clucks his tongue and tightens his hold. “Not a chance.” He tugs Aramis back down until the man is where he should be, nestled against Porthos and snug beneath the bedcovers. “That’s not what I meant. I only wish you’d have come here before you made yourself sick.” 

Porthos sighs and begins tracing absentminded shapes on his friend’s back, gratified when Aramis gives an involuntary hum of pleasure. “Your body needs rest, Aramis,” Porthos says, and pulls the sniffling man in closer. “I’m here now, just try to sleep.”

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #25

Prompt #25 Acid Refux/Heartburn Alternate #2: Vapor Rub

Fandom: Musketeers

Title: A Helping Hand

Summary: Aramis has a bad cough, and needs to apply the 17th century version of VapoRub. The problem is, he doesn’t have an uninjured hand with which to do so. But he does have a Porthos.

Notes: Back to what I do best 😈🤧

Porthos eased the door to his and Aramis’s shared room shut behind him and hung his cloak on its peg. “What did the good doctor say?”

Aramis was seated on his bed, legs dangling to the floor. He looked up at Porthos as he entered. “The fingers on this hand are all broken, save my thumb for all the good that will do me.” He held up his left hand to display the splinted and bandaged fingers to Porthos. True to his word, only his thumb was free of wrapping. 

“And this shoulder was dislocated,” he said, gesturing with his broken fingers to his right shoulder, which was in a sling. “And the collarbone is broken, just as we suspected.”

Porthos nodded as he dragged a chair across the floor to sit closer to Aramis’s bedside. “Of course.” Aramis’s horse had spooked at the sight of a snake just outside Paris and thrown him; it would have been a miracle if his arms hadn’t been injured given the awkward way he had landed. “Pay him money to tell us what we already know.”

“Porthos,” Aramis chided. “He did an expert job binding my fingers.” His breath hitched and he turned at his shoulder. “Hihh’TSHH!”

“And that? Flu?”

Aramis shook his head, even as his cheeks were flushed feverish pink. “Bad cold, he thinks.”

“Mmm, now why don’t I believe that?”

“Heh’TCHH’uhh! Ahh… Snf!” He shook his head slightly, a bit like a dog trying to clear off fleas. “There’s not much to be done for it either way. Just needs to run its course.” Porthos tried to read the set of his jaw to see whether Aramis agreed with Porthos or the doctor, but his face, save for markers of illness, was inscrutable. “He left me herbs to steep for my fever and a balm to put on my chest for my cough.” 

Porthos followed Aramis’s gaze to the bedside table upon which had been left the aforementioned supplies. “Yeah, don’t need to be adding broken ribs to the mix.” As if on cue, Aramis hunched forward with the same bone-crunching coughs that had convinced them to send for a physician upon arrival to Paris long before any horses were spooked. “Christ, Aramis, that sounds bad.”

The moment he had caught enough breath to do so, Aramis fixed him with one of his terrible little smiles, the slight quirk of the lips that was meant to allay concern in the face of all evidence to the contrary. While it did work to banish Porthos’s concern, he was sure Aramis’s intention was not to replace it with abject irritation and the desire to put a fist in Aramis’s face. Which was, incidentally, precisely what it did. 

“The one thing he did fail to consider,” Aramis said, oblivious, “is that I have little way to apply it.”

Porthos had never made a reply quickly in his life. “I’ll do it.”

“Would you, Porthos?” Aramis asked, and there it was, perhaps the only expression on Aramis’s face Porthos hated to see more than that infernal little smile. It was the expression Aramis wore whenever someone offered to go the smallest bit out of their way for him, as if Porthos had offered to pilot his own armada in Aramis’s name instead of just rubbing a bit of cream on his chest while he was sick and his bloody arms were out of commission. It made Porthos want to punch him equally as much as hold him tight to his chest. “He said to apply it frequently. Every two hours.”

“Is the sky blue, Aramis? ‘Course I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, mon ami.”

“Idiot,” Porthos said, and perhaps it came out too fondly, for Aramis laughed all the while Porthos really, really meant it. He had wanted to smack the sincerity from Aramis’s thanks, were it possible. “You don’t even have to ask.” The man was an idiot if he thought all those years meant nothing, that he could not ask Porthos for help with something so simple, that he could not expect Porthos’s help without even having to voice that something was amiss. 

Porthos helped Aramis adjust so that he was reclined comfortably on his pillows, and undid the tie on his linen nightshirt, splaying open the fabric to expose the largest surface of his chest in order to apply the balm. Aramis watched him intently, dark eyes alight with gratitude and trust. Porthos looked away, busied himself with the jar of balm, twisting and twisting the cap and feeling it slip around in his hands. 

He had barely cracked open the lid when he was hit with a burning scent so strong his eyes instantly began to tear. “God, Aramis, what is in this stuff?”

“Rosemary, mint… A whole mix,” Aramis said absently, and the feverish shine in his eyes was all too apparent. “Sorry, my mind was wandering a bit while he was explaining.”

“Whatever it is, I think the whole of Paris might be able to smell you coming for the next week.” Porthos chanced raising the jar a bit closer to his nose, and he instantly regretted it. “God, it’s making my eyes water.”

“Really? I’ll have to take your word for it.” Aramis gestured to his nose with his bandaged fingers and gave two demonstrative sniffles, the sound completely waterlogged. “Can’t smell a thing.”

Porthos winced at his friend’s heavy congestion, but even so shook his head incredulously. “Consider yourself lucky.” Grimacing, Porthos plunged his fingers into the jar to retrieve a glob of the stuff, half expecting it to burn a hole through his flesh given the scent. When it felt no different to any other salve, he held his fingers up to Aramis, intending to ask the man if he thought Porthos had taken enough, but found Aramis had closed his eyes. Porthos shrugged to himself, figuring that he had taken as good a beginning amount of the balm as any.

As soon as Porthos made contact with Aramis’s chest, however, the man’s eyes flew open and he nearly jumped to the ceiling, his breath coming in rapid puffs. 

Porthos withdrew his hand immediately. “What is it?” Was the mixture burning after all?

“Nothing, ‘s just…” After a few minutes of quick, tight breaths, Aramis relaxed back into the bedclothes once more and reached for Porthos’s wrist. “Just a bit colder than I was expecting, is all.” Gingerly, he patted Porthos’s knuckles. “Continue.”

Porthos did, feeling the balm glide over the fevered sheen that clung to Aramis’s skin. He frowned. “Not so much that it’s cold, it’s that you’re hot.” With his non-greasy hand, Porthos palmed Aramis’s cheek, then his forehead, his frown deepening. 

“Tea isn’t taking effect yet, then,” Aramis said tiredly. He swallowed awkwardly around a cough, then tried to keep doing so in an attempt to stifle the mounting fit that grew in response. His throat pulsed painfully with the effort. 

When it became obvious that sheer stubbornness was not going to quell the urge, Porthos stroked a damp curl back from Aramis’s forehead. “Just cough if you need to, Aramis,” he said softly. “It’s all right.”

He leaned back, knowing at least part of the man’s reticence in not choking himself was borne of a desire not to cough on him. Finally, Aramis turned his head toward the wall and coughed, a wet and aching volley that left him a breathless heap upon finishing. Completely spent, he sucked in two weary breaths that culminated in the most exhausted sneeze Porthos had ever heard.

“Ihhh…hiiihhh…Ih’tschhooo!”

Aramis sniffled once in the aftermath, seemingly not having the energy to do much else. Porthos helped him sit up and sip some more water from his waterskin, the only vessel that Aramis, with his broken fingers, could come close to holding even with assistance. Afterward, he lay back against the pillows and motioned for Porthos to continue applying the balm.

Porthos sighed. “I wish you weren’t feeling so rotten.”

“It’s alright,” Aramis said in a hoarse little voice, and Porthos’s heart turned. Couldn’t Aramis see that it wasn’t? Couldn’t he see how Porthos would sit here rubbing medicine into his chest until Porthos’s own arms gave out, if there was a chance it made Aramis feel just the tiniest bit better? 

Porthos did his best to ignore the hot flush of emotion that accompanied these thoughts, tried to get lost in the rhythm of little circles, take more balm, little circles. He moved slowly, in all reality far more slowly than he needed to, but Porthos knew Aramis relished physical touch, most of all when he wasn’t well, and Porthos couldn’t deny himself the comfort in the intimacy either.

Suddenly, a bandaged hand came to rest upon his wrist. He looked up at Aramis, who was watching him with a flushed and frantic expression. “P–P-oohh-rthos! Snf!”

“What’s wrong?”

From the angle, Porthos could glimpse a glistening wetness beginning to slide from Aramis’s reddening nostrils. “I still can’t–snf!--smell it–snf!--but i-hihh–it’s making–snf!--m-my n-nose–Snf! Snf! Eh’HESHH!”

“Oh.”

Both the sneeze and the realization had hit Porthos in equal measure, but Porthos had been doused in a great many worse things in service of far worse ends. He made to continue applying the balm, but Aramis flapped his injured hand at him so carelessly that, had Porthos’s reflexes not been so quick, the man might have done even more damage to his poor fingers. 

“M-move! Ehhh’KSHHHOOO!” Aramis collapsed toward his chest, no doubt trying to contain the spray from the eruption therein. “Heh’TSHOOO! Ehh’KSHHH! Hehh…Ihhh..HIHHKSHHH! Snf! Hhh’SHHH’uhh!”

Porthos moved as he had been commanded, and retrieved two fresh handkerchiefs from Aramis’s store. He stood at the man’s bedside a moment while Aramis snuffled miserably, hesitating out of a fear of being too forward, but altogether willing to be the hands his friend needed in this as well. 

But Aramis gave him no such opportunity. He blinked up at Porthos with bleary eyes and held out his wounded fingers, voice raw. “Give me that.”

“It’ll hurt your hand,” Porthos said, even as he laid the cloth carefully across the bandages, unwilling to cause any more harm. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Unable to bend his fingers to grasp it, he all but slammed the handkerchief to his face, and the strangled little noise he made suggested he had done just as Porthos predicted. “Heh’ESHHHH! Heh’ESHH’uhh! Snf!” He lowered the handkerchief to his chin to let Porthos see his smile, but it was a tired and watery echo that lacked any of its usual charm.

 “I let you rub balm on my chest, but I draw the line at letting you blow my nose for me.” Clumsily, he emptied his nose in the handkerchief, hardly finishing before dipping violently forward once more. “Ehh’SHHOO! Snf! Oh…Snf! A man must have some pride,” he said stuffily as he lowered it.

“You’ve cleaned worse fluids off the rest of us,” Porthos pointed out resolutely. The sight of blood and infected wounds turned his stomach a million times more severely, and Aramis had dealt with those on Porthos’s (and Athos’s and D’Artagnan’s) behalf countless times without complaint.

“That’s different,” Aramis said hazily, his eyes drifting shut.

This was another variant of the conversation they had had a thousand times before, and this time, because Aramis was spent, his shoulder aching, his voice coarse as gravel, Porthos would bow out and let them not have it again. He placed the cover back on the jar and patted the uninjured side of Aramis’s neck, relieved to find at least that even after all that had transpired the skin felt marginally cooler. 

“Well,” Porthos asked, “how do you feel after all that?”

“Emptier,” Aramis said, huffing a sore laugh, “that much is certain.” He cracked open his eyes once more. “If we keep applying it to schedule, I think you may even be spared any snoring from me tonight.”

“If that’s the case, I take back whatever bad things I said about the doctor. Man’s a miracle worker.”

Aramis smiled, his eyes closing once more, and in minutes he was asleep, comfortable enough indeed not to snore. And Porthos was left behind wanting to shake him, because couldn’t he see that was what he was most concerned about? Aramis only snored when he was sick, and Porthos just wanted him to be well, to be comfortable, to be whole and happy. That was what kept him up at night, the care he felt for this man and the intensity with which he felt it. Not just a bit of noise from the next bed over; they were soldiers who slept on campgrounds after all.

Porthos would leave him now to rest, but in two hours precisely, he would be back to repeat the process all over again. 

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #14

Prompt #14: “I Might Be A Teeny Tiny Bit Sick, But It’s Fine”

Fandom: Three Musketeers

Title: Keeping Vigil

Summary: With his three brothers all sporting various injuries and in need of care themselves, Aramis ignores his own health as he tends to them. D’Artagnan is less than pleased to find this out, but can he do anything about it?

Notes/CW: I did not use the prompt verbatim in this, but it's practically all there (you'll see it) and it's fine. CW for mentions of and passing description of emeto-related things. Skip from "...the sound higher and more urgent this time" to "'Wait.' Aramis sighed" to skip over the paragraph.

D’Artagnan could not say how much time had actually passed, but it felt simultaneously as though he had passed a century and yet no time at all in a haze of pain and bandages and bitter-tasting tonics poured down his throat. He had half-memories of crying out and being soothed, thrashing and being stilled with a touch, but they were all distorted in a drugged fog. Now, though, he was sure he was waking more fully, blinking at unfamiliar walls and a throbbing ache in his leg that was splinted and covered in bandages. He was finally beginning to clear the worst of the drowsy, heavy feeling in his head, when he felt a convivial hand pat his shoulder, before helping him sit up to take another drink of water. 

“Congratulations,” he heard Aramis saying, “you are the first to remain fully conscious for more than an hour after their injury.”

“What’s my reward?” Even with the water, D’Artagnan’s voice still croaked from disuse, and he rubbed at his throat, trying to clear it. His leg gave a twinge.

“Consciousness.”

“Mmm,” D’Artagnan groaned as Aramis laughed, “I want a better one.”

Aramis’s brow furrowed. “Is the pain bad? I have a couple different tinctures—“

“Nothing yet.” D’Artagnan waved a hand and dragged himself up further against the headboard. “I want to extend my record.”

Aramis smiled cheekily, swiping his fingers quickly beneath his nose. “Perhaps it was a bit of an unfair game in any case, as you were heavily drugged.” His voice took on a serious note. “You were in a lot of pain.”

Thankfully, D’Artagnan could not remember much of how his leg had come to be bandaged and bound like a mummy, but the memory of his brothers falling alongside him shifted vaguely to the front of his mind with a shudder. “The others?” he asked. “Athos and Porthos?”

Aramis sniffled and gave a small cough before answering. “Porthos’s head sustained a major blow. He didn’t wake for a worryingly long period, but he’s been awake now here and there, long enough for me to check on him.” Aramis blew out a breath, and added, as if an intercession, an afterthought. “He’s getting better, slowly but surely.”

“Good.”

“And Athos, he was doing almost the best of us all, his stomach wound stitched up nicely, until a little infection set in.” He sighed shakily, the sound almost snagging on another cough. “It was… scary for a little while, but the fever is low and I’ve been draining the wound. He should heal well in time.”

“Good.”

“I’ve informed Treville that we will remain here until everyone is fit to ride back to Paris, or at least until we can manage a cart for you to ride in with that leg of yours, since I suspect that will take the longest.”

Aramis sniffled again, and D’Artagnan could maybe excuse it, could chalk it up to the herbs in some poultice or another bothering him, if his cheeks did not appear slightly flushed, if his voice was not seeming hoarser and hoarser the more they spoke and the more alert D’Artagnan became. 

D’Artagnan cocked his head. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Aramis wrinkled his nose in thought for a moment, before saying, “That you could use a bit of a shave?” 

A quick palm over his jaw told D’Artagnan this observation probably had some merit, but Aramis cleared his throat, and D’Artagnan would not let the man get away with deliberate redirection. “Anything else?”

But perhaps there was nothing deliberate about it, for Aramis crinkled his brow again, pondering deeply as though D’Artagnan had set him a riddle, even as he sniffled again and wiped at his nose. 

D’Artagnan sighed. “I mean, about you?” 

Aramis looked up at him in surprise, sniffling wetly. 

“And why you’re doing that?”

Aramis’s already pinkish cheeks blushed scarlet, and he gave another small cough. “There is a chance,” Aramis said, sighing, “that I might—potentially—be a little bit sick, but it’s fine.”

“I assume you haven’t informed the others about this hypothetical illness?”

“Of course not,” Aramis said, right according to cue. “They, much like you, have enough to trouble themselves over already.” He sniffled again and tried giving his nose another wipe, but this time it was not enough, and he shook with two tightly stifled sneezes. “Heh’KNGT! Eh’KNXT!”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes as the man produced a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his nose a blow that was simultaneously the quietest and wettest thing he had ever heard. “Have you taken anything for your theoretical congestion?”

“I brewed myself some tea earlier.” When D’Artagnan continued to look unimpressed, Aramis sighed. “I have another pot of water on the boil now, and if I have any left over after wound cleanings and no one else wakes up and needs any, I’ll breathe in some steam.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine, D’Artagnan, there’s truly no need to worry.”

When D’Artagnan assured him that he did not want another draught of pain medicine for the time being, Aramis took to the chair which sat at the front of the room, perched in a strategic location which allowed him to oversee all goings-on of the makeshift infirmary like the benevolent tyrant he was. All was silent for a little while, and D’Artagnan contented himself with listening to the deep, snore-like breaths of Porthos in the bed across from him, and watching the chest of the Athos-shaped lump in the bed at the back wall rise and fall melodically. 

Then of course, there were the sniffles and snuffles and increasingly erratic breaths from the fourth member of their brotherhood, which crescendoed at last out of his grasp and into two more hastily stifled sneezes. 

“Ihh’NKSHHT! Hhh’IXT!” He blew his nose again, so softly that had D’Artagnan not been listening for it he might not have noticed it. 

“Well, I already know you’re sick, so there’s nothing to hide,” D’Artagnan said. “No use doing that.”

“Hmm?” Aramis gave a congested hum, and regarded D’Artagnan over the folds of his handkerchief with eyes so glassy and tired it was a wonder they stayed open. He sniffled, completely blocked-up again, but tucked his handkerchief away nonetheless. 

“Holding them in like that. It can’t be comfortable.”

“I don’t want to wake anyone.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Athos! Porthos!”

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis hissed, horrified. “Stop it!”

“They’re stealing the wine! They’re stealing all the food!” D’Artagnan called, but his brothers slept away, the patterns of their breathing not so much as having changed. He turned his attention back to Aramis and fixed him with a smug look. “See? Nothing. Just let yourself sneeze, for God’s sake.”

It was Aramis’s turn to look completely put-out. Still, the next sneezes which assaulted him were not stifled, merely muffled into the fabric of his handkerchief. “Heh’shoo! Ehh’hehh’shoo! Hish’huhhh!” Somehow, the sound was still entirely shy and mouselike, and D’Artagnan still reasoned that those couldn’t be entirely unrestrained or natural. 

He let his thoughts drift for a little while, only coming back to awareness when a bit of shuffling and squirming in the bed at the wall across from him caught his attention. “Athos looks a little restless,” he noted.

D’Artagnan looked over at Aramis, and his heart broke at the sight of the man sitting in the chair, staring off into space with half-lidded eyes, his mouth parted slightly to breathe as he rubbed his nose absently with his handkerchief. D’Artagnan immediately felt guilty for having said anything at all, and this guilt multiplied tenfold when the meaning of his words finally broke through Aramis’s fog and sent the man rocketing from his seat with a handful of throaty coughs. 

His feverish eyes landed on the clock on the wall, then darted to where Athos lay, writhing slightly. “Oh, damn, it’s time for another fever reducer!”

“I’ll get it,” D’Artagnan said, and threw the blanket off from his body.

“No you won’t, D’Artagnan!” He called as he rushed to the table to prepare the dose, crushing leaves beneath his pestle, which he brandished in D’Artagnan’s direction when the man tried to swing his legs around to the floor. “Stay there, or I’ll hit you!”

A low voice from across the room mumbled, just loudly enough to hear, “Can’t hit D’Artagnan, he’s hurt.”

“Porthos!” Aramis cried, nearly upending the bowl of herbs. “I’ll be right with you. How are you feeling?”

Porthos’s reply was a long groan that, all things considered, D’Artagnan could very much identify with. The throbbing in his own leg was becoming persistently harder to ignore, but he would be absolutely damned if he mentioned this to Aramis before had treated everyone else.

He noticed the way Aramis’s hands, normally steady and sure, were anything but as he prepared the herbs to steep. There was a frenetic quality to his movements that worried D’Artagnan, and he held his breath as Aramis poured the water he had been boiling into a cup, hands shaking so badly D’Artagnan was sure the man would burn himself. 

He saw the pallor of Aramis’s skin stood in contrast to the red set high on his cheeks, and D’Artagnan could not help but say, “Maybe you should make yourself a fever-reducing draught, Aramis.”

That earned him the type of glare from Aramis that could kill lesser men surer and swifter than any sword strike or musket ball. 

“Aramis?” Porthos said dazedly. “Thought Athos had the fever.”

“He does,” Aramis said darkly, adding cool water to the cup so the mixture would be a suitable temperature for Athos to drink. “D’Artagnan’s pain draught makes him say odd things.”

“Mmm,” Porthos hummed, still sounding confused. “Hate head wounds.” D’Artagnan nodded his commiseration to the man, before belatedly realizing Porthos had closed his eyes again. 

Aramis had taken the fever tea to Athos and was helping the sedate man tip his head up enough to drink it, when Porthos groaned again, the sound higher and more urgent this time. “Gonna be sick.”

Aramis paused, the cup at Athos’s lips. “Can you…” He broke off, the sound of Porthos’s retching permeating the room and rendering the rest of his question unnecessary. “Wait.” Aramis sighed. “I guess not.”

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said miserably.

“No, it’s my fault,” Aramis rushed to assure him. “I didn’t put the bucket back after I cleaned it last.” D’Artagnan followed his gaze to the aforementioned bucket, which still sat by the hearth. “Just give me one moment.”

Aramis was still coaxing a mostly-unconscious Athos to drink his tea, and quite honestly looking a good deal worse than the man in the bed as he did so. That decided it for D’Artagnan, who swung his legs over the side of the bed. It would be hard going, but there were enough things he could grab onto between his bed, the bucket, and Porthos’s bed to steady him, and if not, D’Artagnan was sure he could hop on one leg for a bit. His balance was good enough.

He maneuvered himself to standing by using the bedframe. There was pain in his leg of course, but that pain had been there even when he was lying down, and he wasn’t even sure standing had worsened it at all. D’Artagnan grabbed for the wall a bit ahead of him and took a jump, but failed to anticipate how much the jolting impact would send shockwaves through his injured leg despite it not touching anything. He grimaced, and could not bite back his moan.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Aramis shouted.

“Getting the bucket,” he ground back through gritted teeth. He tried for another small hop, but he was sweating now, the pain almost unbearable, and black dotted his vision. 

D’Artagnan lost track of how long he stood there, breathing heavily and willing himself not to collapse, but a hand appeared, warm and steadying at his back. 

“Drink this for the pain,” Aramis said in his ear, “and I’ll help you back to bed.”

D’Artagnan accepted the cup without question and threw back the bitter liquid in one gulp. He leaned heavily on Aramis as the man half-dragged him back to his bed, all of his limbs progressively leaden and uncooperative, and fell into unconsciousness just as soon as he was lying down once more.

***************

D’Artagnan blinked sluggishly back to awareness, feeling as though he’d swum through molasses and was just trying to break the surface. His head lolled to the side as his thoughts came trudging back to him, and he saw that the floor beside Porthos’s bed had been cleaned and the bucket replaced after all. 

He sought out Aramis next, who was watching him from his chair. “You drugged me,” he mumbled, tongue still slow and heavy. 

“You were due for another round of your pain draught soon anyway. Heh’NGSHHH’uhh! Snf!” Palming his throat, Aramis winced and strained painfully to swallow in the aftermath, the motion taking far more time and energy than it should have. 

D’Artagnan took a breath and reminded himself that strangling the man would do his sore throat no favors. “You need to tell them,” he said firmly. 

Aramis laughed airily. “That I gave you a dose slightly early so you wouldn’t hobble off again and damage yourself further? I don’t think so.”

D’Artagnan’s mouth did not so much as twitch. “Aramis.”

The humor bled from Aramis’s face as he sighed, congested. “Why? I can’t think of a single reason why they need to know.”

“Because we don’t hide things from each other, Aramis,” D’Artagnan said simply. “You know that.”

“It isn’t hiding if it never comes up! It will only make things harder for me, as you’re doing right now. Each of you should only be worrying about getting better yourselves, not worrying about me as well.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for us!”

“What do you want me to say, D’Artagnan?” Aramis cried in a rare display of temper. But as quickly as it had come, it fled from him, leaving him somehow more deflated and weary than he had been before. “Yes, I’m sick. I’m tired, I’m achy, I have a fever, my head is pounding, my throat is killing me, I keep sneezing, and I can hardly see straight. But I’m not the priority right now. Someone has to care for all of you, and I can do it. So just let me.”

Aramis went to the worn journal that lay open on the table near the door. D’Artagnan knew from experience it was there he kept notes of what tinctures he had given and when, observations of wounds and swellings as the days progressed, jotted bits and pieces of passing knowledge he heard from traveling physicians. D’Artagnan craned his neck to watch as Aramis scribbled a few notes, before scrunching his nose against his wrist. 

“Heh’KNXT! Ihhh’KSHT! Snf!” Aramis shook his head briefly before writing a few more sentences and laying down his quill. He moved toward D’Artagnan’s bed, but he had hardly taken a step before he wobbled precariously, legs trembling. 

Aramis clamped a hand over his eyes and moaned softly. After a few shaky seconds, he changed course and dropped back into his chair with another moan, his face ghostly pale and cheeks flushed scarlet. He reclined his head against the wall. 

“Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, feeling his own chest grow tight with worry. “You need to lie down.”

Aramis’s hand dropped to his lap, but his eyes were still shut tight, his voice thin and tired. “I can’t exactly physically do that, now can I?”

D’Artagnan blinked. “What?”

“Look around, D’Artagnan.” His eyes cracked open.  “There are only three beds in this room.”

“So where have you been sleeping?” 

Aramis patted the chair, and though it had been the answer D’Artagnan was expecting, it did nothing to stifle his cry of horror. 

“Aramis!”

“It’s easier this way, anyway, in case one of you needs something,” he said placatingly. “Quick access.” 

D’Artagnan thought a moment, then scooted until his back was flush with the wall, and patted the newly vacated space on his mattress. “Come lie down beside me, then. It will be just like sharing a pack while we camp.”

It was Aramis’s turn to look horrified. “No,” he said with a sniffle and a rub at his nose.  “You don’t want to catch this.”

“So it is bad, then?”

“Your body is under enough stress as it is, trying to heal your leg. It doesn’t need to add anything else to the mix.”

“We’ll switch places, then. Help me to the chair, and then you take my place and lie down.” Aramis opened his mouth, but D’Artagnan cut him off before he could begin speaking. “Don’t argue. It’ll be good for me to be upright for a little bit.” When the man still looked extremely perturbed at the prospect, D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Aramis, I’ll be in a chair, not sparring.”

Aramis shook his head. “I can’t be in your bed. You still might fall ill that way.”

“Can you take an infection just by using the same bedclothes?”

“Why else do you think they burn them after a patient has died of plague?”

“We’ll ask the innkeeper for new ones,” D’Artagnan promised. “We have hours yet before nightfall, we’ll think of something.” The man still made no move to rise, and at this point, D’Artagnan was not above begging like a child. “Please, Aramis, just lie down and rest.”

Aramis hunched forward like a marionette with its strings cut. “Alright.” 

He helped D’Artagnan out of the bed again, fussing at nearly each breath D’Artagnan took. “I’m fine, Aramis,” he assured him truthfully. “The pain draught is still working well.”

With Aramis’s aid, he hobbled to the chair, and the movement this time went much more smoothly. He sank into the chair with a contented sigh, and just so Aramis could not misconstrue the exhalation as a noise of pain, he was sure to add, “It feels nice to be sitting for a change.”

Once Aramis was satisfied that D’Artagnan was not lying and would not, indeed, spontaneously break the rest of the bones in his body merely by virtue of not lying down, Aramis went to lie down himself. He made a noise, half-moan and half-sigh, that sounded so relieved as he melted into the bed and into a heap beneath the covers in one fluid motion, that D’Artagnan felt some tension from his own shoulders relax in sympathy. 

But Aramis’s relief was short lived; though he looked half asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, his body had other plans. “Heh’TSCHOO! Heh’KSHHoo! Snf! Hhh’ihh’ISHHH! Snf! Snf! AHH’KSHH’uhh!”  His sneezes, one after the other, were completely exhausted, and he coughed wetly in the aftermath, a fit which had him burrowing into the blanket as he shivered and tried to regain control of himself. He sounded absolutely miserable, and D’Artagnan wished he could rub his back, knowing how much Aramis craved physical touch as comfort. 

Aramis groaned once the fit had stopped, the sound hoarse and crackling. “Now you definitely need new bedsheets.”

“Yes, Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, doing his best to keep the note of exasperation from his voice. “We’ll sort it, don’t worry. Just sleep.”

But the instruction proved a bit supercilious, as the room filled with the congested snores the instant D’Artagnan had finished speaking. He smiled to himself, and settled into the chair for a bit of a vigil of his own.