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And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their beloved, they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonour, and emulating one another in honour; and when fighting at each other's side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not choose rather to be seen by all mankind than by his beloved, either when abandoning his post or throwing away his arms? He would be ready to die a thousand deaths rather than endure this. Or who would desert his beloved or fail him in the hour of danger?
Plato, Symposium
(trans. Benjamin Jowett)
So, sown in little clumps about the world,
The fair, the faithful and the uncondemned
Broke out spontaneously all over time,
Setting against the random facts of death
A ground and possibility of order,
Against defeat the certainty of love.
And never, like its own, condemned the world
Or hated time, but sang until their death:
"O Thou who lovest, set its love in order."
W. H. Auden, Kairos and Logos
He is eleven when his mother dies. She works at home; one day a headache forces her from her drawing board. She lies down on the sofa in her studio, and does not rise again. He is waiting for her to come get him from soccer practice, and he waits until he is the last one sitting on the steps outside the school, until the coach asks him if he wants to come inside and call. She has been late before, caught up in her work, but never this late.
He has at last decided to go in and call when his father arrives. His father is in his sun-faded red pickup truck, but he isn’t driving. Mr. Stanton from down the hill is driving. His father is on the passenger side, and when Charles runs up to the door, he sees that his father is crying.
His parents had planned the trip to the Mediterranean for months, and Alexandre says there is no reason not to go. The psychologist, who Charles has seen once each week in the three months since his mother took a nap and did not wake, says that the change of scenery will be helpful. It will break up the routine into which they both have fallen: the gray, featureless days and nights of mourning.
Charles is surprised to find that he likes Italy. He remembers the stories his mother told him, and draws in his sketchbook the great buildings in Rome, the Coliseum and the Pantheon, Bramante's Tempietto and the dome at St. Peter’s. He is excited to go on to Greece, to sketch yet more ruins and temples. In Athens he nearly has to be dragged from the Parthenon, his imagination on fire, his pencil lingering with adoration over every column and capital.
Their tour stops in a village west of Thebes called Chaeronea, the birthplace of Plutarch, the site of many great battles. Here at this spot, the guide tells them, leading them to a monument topped with a proud lion, the Thebans and Athenians fell to Philip of Macedonia. Charles tries to draw the monument, tries to listen to the guide, but he is hot and dizzy in the summer sun. He reaches for his father’s arm, misses and stumbles; he falls to his knees and vomits on the bright green grass before everything goes black.
The heat beat down on the battlefield and made the stink of butchery all the worse. The grass had been trampled into mire by the feet of hundreds of men and horses, the same way the alliance had been trampled by the Macedonian phalanx. Their ranks had broken so quickly. Dardanos had seen Aramis fall, his throat gaping at the end of a Macedonian lance; he saw Porthos charge the horseman. He thinks he screamed. Beside him Athos ran through another Macedonian hoplite, unaware of their brothers dying just paces away.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They weren’t supposed to be separated.
He was fighting his way toward the others when he heard Athos cry out, when he turned too late to parry the spear that pierced his lover through the side. Another of their company killed the one who’d thrown it as Dardanos dropped beside Athos.
The spear was deep in Athos’ gut, and the blood was bubbling on Athos’ lips. Where are they? he asked.
They have fallen, Dardanos said, pulling his helmet off, then easing Athos’ away as well. They have all fallen, Athos, the day is lost, we are all lost.
Never lost, beloved, Athos said, pressing dirty fingers to Dardanos’ mouth. Take me to them. I would die beside my brothers.
Around them the battle was ending, the Macedonians were pulling back, but not in defeat. On his knees, Dardanos dragged Athos to the others, past the corpses of men they had danced and drank with only a day before. Dardanos slipped in the mud and dropped Athos, and Athos screamed, but so many men were screaming that one more made no difference.
Porthos was draped over Aramis’ body, a broken lance protruding from his back. Athos named them and blessed them, bloody words dripping from his lips, as Dardanos brought him to rest beside them.
It is finished, Athos said, weeping quietly. Lie beside me, beloved. Dardanos nodded, and gathered his lover in his arms.
How much later was it, when a spear-handle prodded him in the side? Dardanos looked up. Athos’s eyes were closed, but his breath still labored under Dardanos’ cheek.
Alive? said a voice in the ugly Macedon accent. Hands caught Dardanos under his arms, pulling him away from his lover, his brothers. He screamed and he fought; he was hit in the face, in the stomach, until he went to his knees once more. They bound his hands, jerked him back to his feet.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They weren’t supposed to be separated.
D’Artagnan wakes with a scream.
"You look like shit," Connie says, standing in front of d'Artagnan with her arms crossed. "Did you sleep at all last night?"
"Of course I didn't," he says around the pencil hanging like a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He adjusts a line on the screen, his right hand moving across his tablet while he traces his sketch with his left. He spits the pencil out. "I sit for my first ARE division in ten days."
Connie watches him until he thinks the top of his head is going to burst into flames, until he's just barely resisting the urge to squirm like a schoolboy. Then she plucks the stylus from his hand, and stuffs it in her pocket. "We're going for coffee," she tells him over his protests. "No, I don't care about your deadline, I set your deadline and I know you can spare the time, so shut up and move."
In the Starbucks up the street from the firm, Connie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment when he orders a triple Americano. She leads him to a quiet table, her own vanilla soy latte in hand, and motions him into a chair. He sits. It’s hard to disobey Connie, even as much as he backtalks her.
“When you started working for me, you were a tiny baby intern with a tragic haircut,” she says, wrapping her fingers around her cup. “I suppose I still feel protective, even though you’ve finally grown into your hair.” Connie shakes her head when he opens his mouth. “No, listen, I’ve been watching you for almost four years. It’s not drugs, it’s not drinking, it’s not men, I don’t know what it is, your work never suffers, but you do. Every few months, you go through this… cycle. You walk around looking like you just crawled out of the grave, your temper gets worse, and that’s a feat—“
“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan says, rubbing his eyes. “Is this–? Am I in trouble?”
“No, you idiot.” Connie smile is fond. “I thought you could use someone to talk to.”
He lets the espresso burn his tongue while he thinks of what to say, of how to say it. He shrugs, and settles for the truth. “When I was a kid. After my mom died, we took this trip to Greece and Italy. It was her idea, you know, between her work and my grandfather, that’s how I got into architecture… You know all that. So she died, and. Dad and I went anyway. I was a kid, and there was this one battle site and it freaked me out, you know? I had a big imagination, and the tour guide was talking about this battle and I got really upset imagining it.”
D’Artagnan glances up at Connie; she’s listening, nodding, nothing but open sympathy in her eyes.
“That’s it, really. I’ve been having this recurring nightmare ever since. I mean, it doesn’t take a shrink to figure out that I just… displaced the trauma, like, it was so soon after Mom died and this tour guide is talking about a massacre, and all the bodies under the field…” He shudders, and takes another drink. “So I never remember more than little flashes. It's so real, it's so vivid when it's happening but when I try to reconstruct it afterward, it fades so fast. It last for about a week and then it’s gone until the next time.” He shrugs again. “That’s it. That’s the whole story.”
“That’s it,” Connie echoes. “Just bad dreams.”
He offers an apologetic smile. “Just bad dreams.”
Athos had sent the slaves out of the andron after they poured the wine, and told them not to return til morning. Porthos had waited barely a breath after the footsteps faded away outside before drawing Aramis into his arms, hand on his chin as they kissed. Dardanos stretched on the couch where he lay, arching catlike in hopes of catching his lover's eye. Any of his lovers.
There is no shame in it, Athos had sworn to him the first time, and many times after. We serve each other, equally, lover and beloved and brother.
It was Aramis who came to him, who broke free of Porthos' arms, skinning off his tunic before settling astride Dardanos' hips. Aramis catching Dardanos' wrists, holding him to the cushions.
Oil? Porthos offered with a laugh, and Aramis shook his head.
Wine.
Athos fed Dardanos wine with his own lips, and Aramis licked the taste from them both. Porthos laughed again, arms encircling Athos from behind, his beard bringing up redness on the other man's paler shoulder. He bit the spot, and Athos turned his head to kiss him. Dardanos felt his cock swell against Aramis' belly, and Aramis leant down for another kiss, more fierce. A hand strayed across Dardanos' chest, down to cup his cock; he knew not whose, and no longer cared.
D'Artagnan moans into his pillow, his body shaking as he wakes, his fingers tightening on empty air. The images, the feelings, so immediate, are already dissolving.
He thinks, swinging his feet to floor, thighs still trembling, that he might have preferred the nightmare.
He is watching a 3D projection slowly rotate on his computer screen when Connie taps him on the arm; he starts and only just avoids spilling his coffee all over his sketches. She hisses between her teeth when he looks up at her.
"D'Artagnan." She shakes her head. "You've were staring at that same model the last time I walked by. Twenty minutes ago."
He doesn't bother denying it. He's not even sure it's for his own project. He shrugs instead, and takes a deep swallow of his coffee. It's stone cold, black and bitter.
"Maybe it's time to see a doctor?" Connie says in a gentle voice.
"I have. Before, I mean." D'Artagnan yawns, then again. He props his chin on his hand. "I've tried therapy, drugs, hypnosis... The hypnosis actually made it worse. So did the Ambien, and the therapists just told me what I already knew, when they weren't telling me I was completely crazy."
"Go home." Connie puts her hand on his cheek. "Eat something, maybe try a nap?"
"It's just a stress reaction," he insists, pressing his hands to his desk. "There's just–"
"Go home," she repeats, and this time it's less maternal; that's her founder and CEO voice. "You are useless to me like this. Take tomorrow too. I don't want to see you till Monday."
Another jaw-breaking yawn answers for him. He nods in defeat; he packs his things and goes.
At home he chugs a Red Bull and takes a cold shower; he puts his running clothes and makes a long circuit out of the neighborhood, down Beachwood, up through Benson Canyon and back. It’s only about eight miles but it’s all hills. Maybe there's a line he can cross, a point where he's too tired to dream.
Athos’s eyes were closed, but his breath still labored under Dardanos’ cheek.
Alive? said a voice in the ugly Macedon accent. Hands caught Dardanos under his arms, pulling him away from his lover, his brothers. He screamed and he fought; he was hit in the face, in the stomach, until he went to his knees once more. They bound his hands, jerked him back to his feet.
Better they just killed him, he thought, throwing himself toward the others again, crying out their names. The men holding him pulled him back hard enough that he felt something in his shoulder tear; the pain was searing but it didn't matter.
No. No, you cannot do this.
Shut your mouth, slave, the Macedonian growled, cuffing Dardanos on the head and making his ears ring.
Please. Please let me die with my brothers. Please!
The blare of Super Bass from d'Artagnan's phone shocks him awake; he struggles to sit up, flailing at nothing. The couch is deep and soft, and it takes him several seconds to finally make it upright; by then, the phone has stopped ringing, and the voicemail alert is chiming.
He picks it up, sighs and digs the heel of his free hand into each eye before calling back.
Nina Rokach is six years older than d'Artagnan, and he's known her his entire life; their mothers had been close friends. It’s the only reason he doesn’t immediately hang up when she answers the phone with, “I hope you didn’t fucking forget again, Charles.”
“I fucking forgot so fucking hard, I don’t even know what I fucking forgot.” He flops back onto the couch. His heart is still hammering with fear, but the details of the nightmare are just out of reach. Soldiers? Maybe? And blood, so much blood, and–
“–at two on Saturday.” Nina pauses. “You’re not even listening to me right now, are you?”
D’Artagnan sighs. "I’ve got a lot going on. And I haven’t been feeling well."
Nina is quiet a moment, and he hopes he hasn’t pissed her off too much. She’s been working her ass off trying to find a buyer for the house, and he hasn’t exactly been helpful, but he doesn’t want to work with some stranger, either. It’s hard enough as it is.
“Are you absolutely sure you want to sell?” Nina asks finally, her tone changing from brassy to gentle. It’s not the first time she’s asked.
“It’s the right thing to do,” d’Artagnan says, also not for the first time. “I can’t afford the upkeep or the taxes—"
“Between your mom’s trust and what you got for your dad's share of the company—“
“—and it’s too big for just me—"
“Charles. You’ve turned down every offer I’ve brought you.”
“I’ve asked you not to call me that. And because none of them were… right.”
“Calling someone I used to babysit by his last name is weird. D’Artagnan.” At least that makes her sound amused, instead of sympathetic. He can’t stand her sympathy.
“Nina.” He hauls himself up off the couch, and wanders into the kitchen. There’s a half bottle of Gatorade on the island; he cracks it open and takes a long drink. Even room temperature it tastes amazing, and he’s suddenly aware of how long it’s been since he ate.
“One more time, then. The open house is 2 to 5 on Saturday. I need you out of the way by 1:30, okay?"
He plasters on a smile that he doesn’t feel, and that she can’t see. “Okay. Absolutely.”
Coffee, another cold shower, and he puts the TV on while he reads Buzzfeed till his eyes start to cross. More coffee, and he watches two hours of Family Feud, and another two hours of some dating show with Jerry Springer. It’s just after 2:30 am when the jitters really hit; he turns off the TV and goes out into the back yard for some air. He spends several minutes weighing the pros and cons of jumping into the pool, and then laughs.
“Christ,” he says out loud. He thinks it’s something like a good sign, though — at least he’s not so far gone that he can’t spot a terrible idea. Nina would haul him out of the water and kill him all over again if she showed up on Saturday to find him floating in the fucking pool.
It’s cooled off a bit, and the breeze raises goosebumps on his arms. He settles in a chair, looking out over the city, watching the lights sparkle and waiting for morning.
Please, he cries, and behind him Porthos chuckles.
So eager, Porthos says, slapping Dardanos’ hip hard enough to sting. When that only makes Dardanos arch and beg again, Porthos leans down, dropping a kiss on the back of Dardanos’ neck. So hungry, he whispers, pushing his cock again into the slick, humid space between Dardanos’ thighs.
It feels good, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. He growls into the cushions, tries to pull away only to be caught by Porthos’ strong, wide hands on his hips. Shh, easy, Porthos murmurs.
Give our beloved what he desires, Athos orders from where he lies beside Aramis, both of them sweating and spent. The fault lies with us, for spoiling him so.
Spoiled, yes, that is what other men would say. Ruined, used like a whore. Dardanos braces his elbows and moans when Porthos moves, this time pressing slowly into Dardanos’ body. It’s so much, it’s so good, to be this achingly full. Athos says nothing so beautiful can be shameful, nothing so pleasurable can make them lesser men, or lesser warriors. Athos says their love is perfect, and none but the gods may judge.
His cock jerks heavily as Porthos fucks him, pleasure racing through his limbs. He’s so close, so close to completion. Harder, he gasps. More.
D’Artagnan wakes in the chilly dawn, with an ache in his neck and a mess on his belly. The horizon to the west is deep blue and gold, the first fingers of light reaching over his shoulders from the east. He reaches for the dream, but there’s nothing, no memory except the intensity of pleasure, and the shock of losing it to waking.
He covers his face with his hands and lets the tears come, hot and bitter. He wishes he knew what he was crying for.
The older woman at the pharmacy counter in the Rite Aid doesn’t exactly recoil when she sees him, but her smile is more than a little forced. When she takes his empty Ambien bottle, though, her expression softens into sympathy.
“Mr… Dartigan?"
“D’Artagnan."
“D’Artagnan. It’s good timing, this prescription is going to expire in a few days.” She scans the label, and taps keys on her terminal.
“I don’t need it that often,” he says, shrugging.
She looks up at him over her glasses. “Don’t take this the wrong way, honey, but you look like you really need it now.”
He huffs, a rusty laugh. “You have no idea.”
She doesn’t ask him if he plans to wait for the refill, just points him to the chairs.
He forces himself through something resembling a normal day, propped up with coffee and Red Bull. No point in going to the office, Connie would just throw him out again, and he’s not convinced he could actually drive to Glendale without wrecking. Going to the drugstore and back had been scary enough.
It’s never been this bad, never been this intense or gone on for this long. A week was the worst and longest, right after his dad died last year, and it didn’t take a shrink to figure out why. There’s no reason this time, unless it’s selling the house, unless Nina is right and it’s too soon, it’s the wrong decision.
But what about the other dreams? He stares at his ARE review book, words blurring on the page into meaningless squiggles. What about the overwhelming pleasure, waking up shaking and sticky and alone, feeling the same harrowing sense of loss that the nightmares brought? It’s too easy to say that it’s just been a while, that he hasn’t dated since his dad got sick. Even as a teenager, newly out and too desperately uncool to catch any guy’s eye, his brain never did this to him.
He pushes his book away and gets up for another cup of coffee.
He takes the pill around 8pm, too tired to wait any longer. The last time he tried, it worked, after a fashion — the nightmares were about a hundred times more vivid, but he’d sleep longer before they hit, and that’s about the best he thinks he can hope for. Something stronger might put him under enough that he wouldn’t dream at all, but it terrifies him to think it might backfire, that he might not only dream, but he might get trapped there, unable to wake.
He curls in bed and plays Free Cell on his phone until the fog creeps in, warm lassitude settling in his limbs. He imagines his mother’s hand on his cheek, the soft smell of her perfume drifting over him as she leans to kiss his forehead. Good night, my baby, she would whisper. Sweet dreams.
Porthos was draped over Aramis’ body, a broken lance protruding from his back. Athos named them and blessed them, bloody words dripping from his lips, as Dardanos brought him to rest beside them.
It is finished, Athos said, weeping quietly. Lie beside me, beloved. Dardanos nodded, and gathered his lover in his arms.
The August sun beat down on Dardanos’ back, and he could not tell if the wetness between them was blood or sweat or both. Athos' heartbeat was sluggish, his hands where he clutched at Dardanos were growing cool.
I will not leave you, my love, he promised.
Do you think we would let you? Athos rasped, the light in his eyes bright again for a moment, even as the blood on his lips grew dark. Dardanos pressed his face to Athos’ breast.
I will not leave you, he repeated.
How much later was it, when a spear-handle prodded him in the side? Dardanos looked up. Athos’s eyes were closed, his body unmoving, but his breath still labored under Dardanos’ cheek.
Alive? said a voice in the ugly Macedon accent. Hands caught Dardanos under his arms, pulling him away from his lover, his brothers. He cursed them and fought, but they overcame him; he was hit in the face, in the stomach, until he went to his knees once more. They bound his hands, jerked him back to his feet.
Better they just killed him, he thought, throwing himself toward the others again, crying out their names. The men holding him pulled him back hard enough that he felt something in his shoulder tear; the pain was searing but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but his promise.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were not supposed to be separated.
I will find you, he swore. Did Athos hear? Did his eyes open, just a fraction?
Shut your mouth, slave, the Macedonian growled, cuffing Dardanos on the head and making his ears ring.
It took two of them to drag Dardanos to the far side of the field, where the other prisoners were being held, but once they shoved him to the ground, the surviving Thebans were left with only a minimal guard. His bonds were poorly tied; it was the work of only moments to wriggle free.
Dardanos was a warrior of the Sacred Band; even unarmed and injured he brought down four of the Macedonian dogs before a sword came singing toward him.
I will find you.
His hand goes to his throat as he wakes, expecting to feel the hot spill of blood there and taking a long, deep breath when his fingers meet nothing but his own cool flesh. Grief lies heavy over him, but instead of fear he feels resigned, he feels… settled.
D’Artagnan fumbles his phone from under his pillow. Not quite four am. He’s slept almost seven hours.
His pulse is thumping hard, but not fast. He rolls onto his side and slowly closes his eyes, trying to will himself to remember more than that last moment, that almost joyful embrace of death.
He doesn’t sleep again.
Nina meets him in the driveway, looking harried and beautiful. She pushes her sunglasses up on her head and stares at him a moment, then clucks her tongue as she takes his arm.
“Are you sick? Why didn’t you say you were sick?”
“I’m not sick.” He pulls his arm away, and adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “It’s just insomnia.”
“You’ve lost weight.” Nina frowns. “You didn’t exactly have any to spare.”
“I am fine,” he repeats, taking another step toward his car. “I’ll be at Beachwood Cafe studying. I’ll have a slice of pie.”
“Have two slices,” Nina says, looking from him to the house. “Did you clean?”
He rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Yes, I fucking cleaned. All except the dildos in the dishwasher, I didn’t have time to—“
“Get out of my sight.” Nina points at him. “I‘ll have everybody out by five.”
He blows her a kiss as he backs out of the drive.
When he pulls back up to the house at ten after five, there’s a battered-looking Mercedes SUV still parked next to Nina’s little yellow Porsche, and he groans in irritation. For a moment he considers going back out, and texting her to let him know when they’re gone, but then he decides, fuck it. It’s still his house, for now anyway, and the event is over. He grabs his bag and heads inside.
Nina has been at it with her stupid realtor tricks again; the house smells like orange and cinnamon, which is at least better than the cloying vanilla scent she used the last time she showed the place. He makes sure the door slams behind him, and hears a pause in the voices coming from the kitchen. He waits a beat, kicking off his shoes, and then Nina emerges, her expression apologetic.
“They are very interested,” she says in a low voice, sinking her nails into his arm. “Be nice, and I’ll get rid of them.”
The two men in the kitchen are holding hands, one of them looking besottedly at the stove, the other looking out the garden doors. There’s a third man in the garden, d’Artagnan realizes with a bit of a start. Maybe a buyer’s agent? He’s squatting in front of a manzanita bush, poking at the dirt.
“What’s—?” he asks, tilting his head toward the garden.
“Oh, that’s Aramis,” says one of the couple, the big dark-skinned man who’d been eyeballing the range. As if that explains everything.
“He’s with us,” the other man says. Slightly shorter, white, vaguely familiar. His accent is English, crisp enough to hold a crease.
“Charles d’Artagnan,” Nina says, stepping in with her most charming smile. “The owner. This is Porthos du Vallon.” She indicates the big man, who offers his free hand; d’Artagnan takes it, and receives an oddly gentle shake in return. “And Olivier d’Athos.”
“Just Athos, please,” murmurs the Englishman, taking his hand from Porthos’ to shake d’Artagnan’s. His is the grip that d’Artagnan had expected from Porthos.
“Just d’Artagnan,” he answers with a faint smile.
“Yes, you have that in common,” Nina says, her amusement just this side of dismissive. “These gentlemen are—“
“This kitchen is amazing,” Porthos enthuses over her. “Nina said it was last updated two years ago?”
D’Artagnan nods, feeling his heart clench. “My father. He was an enthusiastic amateur chef; he’d planned to spend his retirement throwing dinner parties… Um.”
Awkward silence then, and d’Artagnan rubs his mouth. This is not going well. It never goes well.
The man they called Aramis saves the moment when he bangs in through the back doors, beaming. “This property! It’s almost as perfect as the house, and you already know how I feel about the— hello!”
There’s something about his energy that has d’Artagnan smiling back. He slides his hands into his pockets, turning toward the newcomer. ”Hello. Aramis?”
“Aramis,” he confirms, eyes twinkling as he walks directly up into d’Artagnan’s space. “It’s a pleasure.”
There’s a suppressed laugh from somewhere behind him, but he finds he doesn’t care. “Likewise,” d’Artagnan says. There’s a wild moment when he thinks Aramis might kiss his hand instead of shaking it.
“I was telling the others,” Aramis says, leaning sideways against the counter and folding his hands. “How special this place is. A Charles Moretti house! They come up for sale so rarely.”
An architect? Or just an enthusiast? It doesn’t matter; d’Artagnan's smile grows wider. “It’s not in the listing information, but this. This was actually built for his daughter. My mother.”
Aramis’ face lights up even more. “You’re Charles Moretti’s grandson? Elena Moretti’s son? Oh, that’s wonderful. My sister and I had all of her books, we loved them. Her kids have them now. It’s such a treat to meet you.”
“Thanks. It is. It is a wonderful house. And my dad did all the landscaping himself.” D’Artagnan looks back out at the manzanita, thick with pink blossoms. “That’s how my parents met, actually. My mother was useless with plants, unless it was painting them… She hired my dad to fix up the gardens."
“We do love the gardens,” Athos says, squeezing Porthos’ hand. “It really is an incredible place, how can you bear to sell it?”
The smile freezes on d’Artagnan’s face. “Well,” he falters. “I. I’m sorry. Excuse me.”
Nina knocks on his bedroom door five minutes later, and sticks her head in a second after. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says quietly. “All clear now. That shouldn’t have happened.”
“It’s okay,” he says, wiping his face with his hands. “Just caught off guard.”
“I’ll lock up behind me,” Nina says, and he loves her so much right then. "Get some sleep.”
To d'Artagnan's surprise, that’s exactly what happens. He falls asleep on the couch, halfway through his pizza and beer dinner, and wakes near midnight, more than five hours later. He shuffles into his bedroom, shrugs out of his clothes, and is asleep again almost before his head hits the pillows.
He doesn’t dream.
He wakes at almost nine am on Sunday, feeling like he’s travelled through time.
It’s a little before four when the doorbell rings, shaking him out of his studying. He’s taken a twelve-mile run, washed his car, cleaned the pool, and made his way through four chapters of ARE review. He feels amazing. He doesn’t even mind answering the door to tell another set of tourists that no, they cannot get to the Hollywood sign through his yard — that’s the only reason anyone ever rings the bell on a weekend afternoon. If they bother ringing at all, and don’t just jump the fence. It doesn’t matter. Thirteen hours of sleep; he loves the whole world.
“Hi,” Aramis says when d’Artagnan opens the door to see the three men from the open house, pressed shoulder to shoulder with apologetic grins on their faces.
“We hoped we could see—“ Athos starts, and is interrupted by Porthos.
“Yesterday, we didn’t mean to upset you—“
“We brought wine,” Aramis announces, holding up two bottles. “Apology wine.”
D’Artagnan hides his smile with his hand. “Okay,” he says, waving at them. “Okay, come on in.”
In the kitchen he takes down four glasses and gives them a quick rinse; he’s pretty sure they haven’t been used since his father’s wake. The others are talking over each other, repeating their apologies, Aramis telling Porthos that yes, the wine is going to be fine.
“Why don’t you open it?” d’Artagnan offers, taking out a corkscrew and handing it over. “It’s got a foil cutter—yeah, right there.”
Aramis makes short work of the cork, and hands the bottle back to d’Artagnan to pour. He smiles again as he does, shaking his head. “You know, people hoping to buy this place have tried all kinds of gifts—“ He makes air quotes with his free hand. “—to get me to consider their offers. Courtside Lakers tickets, Wagyu beef… But nobody has ever tried twenty bucks worth of Fat Bastard before.”
Porthos slaps Aramis on the arm, and Aramis jumps. “I told you we should’ve gotten something nicer,” he says with a glower.
Athos accepts the glass that d’Artagnan holds out to him, his eyes dancing. “I refused to take a side,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” d’Artagnan says, handing the other two glasses, unable to keep from laughing. “I am so much more a ten-dollar wine guy than I am a Wagyu kind of guy. Do you want to sit outside?”
“I told you,” Aramis mocks Porthos, and Porthos just rolls his eyes.
“They are incorrigible,” Athos says, making an after you gesture to d’Artagnan. “But Porthos hasn’t strangled him yet, so I suppose we’ll let him stay.”
“How long have you been together? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Athos’ smile softens into something intimate and secret. “On and off, forever,” he says, eyes flicking to the other two behind them, still bickering good-naturedly.
There’s something d’Artagnan is missing, he’s sure of it, but it doesn’t seem to matter once they’re out in the warm afternoon. Porthos joins Athos, sliding a possessive arm around his hips, and Aramis gives d’Artagnan a little smirk over the top of his glass.
They arrange the four chairs to look out over the city, toward the sun sinking through the haze on the horizon. The conversation flows easily with the wine. Athos is in the music business, and Porthos is a cop; between them they seem to have an inexhaustible supply of hilarious and bizarre stories. Aramis identifies himself as a gentleman of leisure.
“Just following my heart, at the moment,” he says, tapping his fingers on his chest. “It seems to be working out all right.”
“Mostly following it to my refrigerator,” Porthos drawls. Athos laughs, a bright clear ringing that transforms his face. D’Artagnan can’t stop grinning.
They make fairly short work of both of the bottles, and d’Artagnan feels lighter than he can remember in years, maybe in his whole life. All three of them keep looking at him like he’s a puzzle they’d be delighted to solve, and Aramis is flirting openly, shamelessly. Maybe that’s what makes him do it. The wine and the laughter and feeling like the weight of the past couple weeks, no, the past several months, has lifted enough that he can just live, that he can let go and enjoy this.
“Another bottle?” he offers as the sun is setting, and the shadows are growing long over the garden. “I don’t want to keep you if—“
“No, we’d be delighted,” Aramis says quickly. “Do you want a hand?”
“Absolutely,” d’Artagnan says, grinning at him, his stomach pulling tight. He might be blushing, it might be the wine. It’s hard to tell.
“Porthos,” Athos orders, waving toward the chiminea. “Light the fire thing.”
“Your wish, my lord,” Porthos teases.
They leave the back doors open when they go inside. D’Artagnan can hear Porthos laughing, and Athos’ voice, lower now. The stone tiles of the floor are cold under his bare feet as he stands in front of the wine rack, pulling out bottles, trying to decide.
“Thank you, for this. For having us,” Aramis says, and he is standing so close, d'Artagnan can see the silver hairs in his beard, the pale scar on his forehead. D’Artagnan swallows.
“Thank you, for coming back.” He takes out a bottle that he’s sure he’s never seen before, staring at the label. “It’s. I’m having a nice time.”
“It’s all very… familiar, isn’t it?” Aramis says, and he looks up for a moment, over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, toward the door. “It doesn’t seem like it should feel so familiar, but.” A frown creases his brow, then smoothes away with his smile.
“Yeah,” d’Artagnan breathes. He can feel the warmth of Aramis’ breath. “It’s. I don’t, um, this is kind of.”
Familiar.
It’s barely a kiss, the smallest press of lip to lip, but his knees give way just the same. It’s all there. It’s all there.
This is Dardanos, Athos said, his warm strong hand on Dardanos’ neck. Here, this is Porthos, and Aramis.
He had heard of Porthos the Cyrenean, of course, the great fighter; and Aramis was a Theban, like Athos, a young man of renown. Dardanos had been picked for his courage and skill, for all that he was young, for all that his mother had been a slave. He lifted his chin, and greeted the men who would be his brothers.
None of that, Athos said, letting his hand run down Dardanos’ back. I will not have you bristling at each other like dogs. We serve each other, equally, lover and beloved and brother.
I do not understand, Dardanos said, and Athos gently kissed his mouth.
We will show you, he said. You are one of us, now.
He hears glass breaking in the distance, Porthos swearing, and Aramis is cupping his face, forcing d’Artagnan to meet his eyes through the panic.
“It’s real,” Aramis says, insistent. “It’s real, it’s okay, just breathe, Dard— shit, I don’t even know what to call you, d’Artagnan? Just. Breathe. It’s real.”
“It’s real,” d’Artagnan croaks, grabbing at Aramis’ wrists. “All. How?”
“The gods,” Athos says from the doorway, and now d’Artagnan can hear the weight of millennia in his voice. “A boon? A curse? Who knows why the gods do what they do?”
“I tried,” he says, voice cracking. He can feel the tears burn down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, I tried, I didn't want to leave you, I never meant to leave you—“
“No,” Athos says, pulling d’Artagnan into his arms. “No, beloved. We never meant to lose you.”
He lies next to Athos on the couch, tucked warmly into Athos’ side, listening to the gentle rhythms of their voices. Time blurs; it is his living room in Los Angeles, it is now; it is the andron in Athos’ house in Thebes, it is now. Athos strokes his hair, and from the opposite couch, Porthos gives him a hot look over a cup of wine. It is now.
“I wonder,” Aramis says softly. “If this means it’s over. If since we found him, since we are truly together again…?”
“You still have to get a job,” Athos says, and Porthos snickers.
“It’s a fair question.”
“It doesn’t need an answer tonight.” Athos trails his fingertips down the side of d’Artagnan’s neck, and d’Artagnan butts his face into Athos’ chest, grumbling in protest. “Sorry, darling, I forgot you were ticklish there.”
He sighs, shifts and settles with his head on Athos’ thigh. “I don’t need an answer,” he says after a moment. “Not tonight, not ever, it doesn’t matter. I just. I want to go to sleep and know that when I wake up, this won’t be another nightmare, this won’t be another dream I can’t recall. I don’t want to wake up and lose it all over again.”
“Do you think we would let you?” Athos says. “Go to sleep.”
It is a matter of faith, he supposes. He can remember so clearly the time when that faith was a perfect, newborn thing, bright as a star. Now it is scarred and faded, even though it feels like only days have passed, even though he can feel all the years of this life, even though he can feel like a gaping wound the absence of all the lifetimes lost.
“Shove down,” Porthos is saying, and Athos moves, transferring d’Artagnan into Porthos’ keeping. He’s left stretched out between Porthos’ legs, his head on Porthos’ chest; Athos sits back against the other arm of the couch, all three of their legs tangled together. Aramis moves to sit on the ottoman, pushing it close and leaning in to rest his head on Athos’ shoulder.
“Right,” Porthos says when they’re all arranged. “Now close your eyes, and I’m going to tell you about how Athos, he talks a good one this time, but he’s usually the hardest to convince. Even when he believes us. This one time we were in… where was it, Aramis?”
“How should I know? Come on, you’ve got to give me more than that.”
“Tell him about Paris,” Athos says sleepily. “I liked Paris. He was there, he just doesn’t remember.”
Porthos gives d’Artagnan a little squeeze. “Paris. That was a good one."
“Okay.” D’Artagnan closes his eyes, and someone takes his hand. “Okay. Tell me about Paris.”