Chapter Text
“My name is Athos and I’m an alcoholic.”
He spoke with a sardonic drawl that made it sound as if he might be taking the piss, but his bleak gaze told a different story. Porthos suspected that any contempt the bloke felt was directed firmly inward.
Taken aback by the genuine warmth in the chorus of greetings that followed his introduction, it took a moment for the man to recover and continue, but he did so with stubborn defiance.
“It has been…” He darted a quick glance at the clock on the wall. “Fifty-two minutes since my last drink.”
It seemed like he was determined to prove he was undeserving of any kindness, even from a group of people well-placed to empathise with his situation and understand what was going through his mind.
Aramis, from his seat at the head of the rough circle, showed no surprise, but Porthos knew him well enough to recognise the shadow of concerned dismay that passed across his eyes.
“You had a drink before you came here?” There was no accusation in Aramis’s question, merely a curiosity to discover why he would do something so self-defeating. Porthos remained silent, letting Aramis guide the conversation.
“Yes.”
“But I assume you want to find a way to overcome your reliance on alcohol?”
“I have no immediate desire to do so, no.”
Rather than irritating him, Athos’s laconic, almost surly responses made Porthos’s heart ache. It had to be the emotionless detachment with which they were delivered; Athos clearly considered himself a lost cause. He had been attending these group meetings for two weeks, and this was the first time he had spoken.
Aramis, showing the dogged but compassionate tenacity that Porthos was so familiar with, wasn’t about to let him retreat now he had taken a step forward.
“Then what is it you hope to gain from these meetings?”
A brief pause, whether to consider his answer or decide whether or not to reply at all Porthos couldn’t be sure.
“A means to return to work.”
Aramis held his gaze, knew that sometimes it was best just to wait.
“By rights, I should have been dismissed, but my superior made me take extended leave instead. Promised that if I attended these meetings he would keep my job open for me.”
“Don’t you think he meant that you also stop drinking?”
“Of course. But that part is not so easy.”
“That’s what we’re here for.” Aramis spread his arms to indicate not only himself but everyone present. “To give you whatever support you need.”
“I don’t think talking to a roomful of strangers will make the slightest difference.”
“You’d be surprised.” It was a young woman who spoke, and Porthos nodded in agreement. If anyone could attest to the value of the group sessions, it was those who had previously benefited from them.
Athos gave a dubious grunt. “None of you can change the past.”
“No,” Aramis admitted gently, “but we can find ways to move forward, into the future.”
Porthos felt the man beside him bristle, had a horrible feeling he was about to scoff at Aramis’s words, dismiss them as the kind of insubstantial assertion you might read in a bad self-help manual. But Athos instead met the counsellor’s eyes in a challenge. “Why should I be allowed to move forward when there are those who have had that right torn from them?”
“There’s someone in particular you’re thinking of?”
Anger flared briefly behind those sea-green eyes, a fury at having allowed himself to fall into what he perceived to be a trap. But, just as quickly, it vanished, leaving that stark, empty expression that was by now so painfully familiar. Athos dropped his gaze, his hair falling into his eyes. It was shaggy in a way that suggested a sensible cut had been allowed to grow out unchecked which, along with the scruff of beard along his jaw and mismatched clothing, suggested a deep-seated apathy at odds with his formal, measured speech.
His reply, when it came, was directed to the community hall’s laminate flooring.
“My brother. He died.” Flat, devoid of emotion. “It was my fault.”
Without knowing the details, Aramis couldn’t argue that claim, but the very fact that Athos believed it to be true was telling enough.
“So you turned to alcohol to forget? To punish yourself? To make sure you don’t have a future either?” Not a criticism, but gentle enquiry.
“Yes.” This time, the hollow, monosyllabic response laid bare his soul. Porthos wanted to both shake him and hug him, but he stemmed the urge for such a physical reaction. He didn’t need a psychology degree to know it would be entirely unwelcome.
Leaning forward, Aramis rested his elbows on his knees and waited until he had regained Athos’s attention. Porthos admired that unwavering patience.
“Ultimately, it’s your choice. But you’re here, so I know there’s a part of you that wants to fight, not give up.”
Was there a flicker of cautious acceptance on that otherwise inscrutable face? Perhaps Aramis had managed to penetrate that stubborn melancholy. Only time would tell.
* * * *
“You’re quiet.”
It took a moment for Porthos to realise Aramis had spoken.
“Hmn?”
Aramis’s small smile of understanding told Porthos he had correctly guessed what was occupying his mind. That uncanny knack for mindreading was an attribute Porthos was silently grateful for.
“Still thinking about him, aren’t you?”
Porthos dropped the last few chairs onto the stack, the noisy clatter of their metal legs loud in the now empty hall, and leant against them with a sigh.
“It’s like he’s already given up on ’imself.”
“No. He’s a fighter.” Aramis spoke with a conviction it was difficult to contest. Being able to read what lay beneath the surface was what made him so good at his job. His irrepressible optimism helped, and Porthos knew it was rarely misplaced. “He just needs to realise there’s something worth fighting for. Luckily for him, that’s what we’re here for.”
Porthos suspected Athos was currently lamenting his good fortune. The bloke would have looked less uncomfortable had he been strapped to a rack facing an hour and a half of torture.
“He ain’t exactly makin’ it easy. He barely speaks.”
“Not regretting agreeing to be his sponsor already, are you?”
“No.” The response came immediately, surprising Porthos with the strength of its veracity. “I like a challenge, me.”
There was something about Athos that made Porthos determined to do whatever he could to help him win the battle ahead. It wouldn’t be an easy ask, of that he was certain. Athos clearly wasn’t the type to voluntarily reveal his soul to even his closest friends, let alone a complete stranger. But having taken the first step that evening, perhaps he would now see that he had nothing to gain from keeping everything bottled up.
That was what Porthos planned to convince him of, and he didn’t give up easily. Aramis knew that, was well acquainted with his stubborn persistence, and had deemed him the best man for the job. Porthos might not have been as confident of his own abilities, but he was damn well going to try.
“Come on.” Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and flashed the bright grin that never failed to cheer Porthos up. “Let’s grab a takeaway and you can thrash me at something on the PlayStation.”
“FIFA?”
Aramis gave a pained groan. “I thought you said you like a challenge.”
“Yeah.” Porthos didn’t bother trying to conceal his mischievous smile. “And sometimes I just like kicking your arse at FIFA.”