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There is no instance Athos can name that started all this. He remembers the day ‘all this’ started for real, sure, that he remembers with perfect clarity, but for the life of him he can’t figure out how they got there.
Athos doesn’t even have words to describe what ‘all this’ entails. He barely knows how to paraphrase it, and in his head he’s taken to calling it ‘practice’, even though the term is wildly inaccurate.
The thing is that somehow, at some point, his and Aramis’ friendship has taken a strange turn, and that’s about how far he allows his thoughts to go on that matter. He’ll allow his thoughts to go exactly this far and no further.
It’s easier not to think about what he does, or about how much he likes doing it. He’d rather practice denial than own up to how much he craves it, and he go on denying his eagerness to continue on this new path they’re on. Not despite the needless violence involved, but very much because of it.
Athos doesn’t even want to know what all of that may say about him. He doesn’t want to know what all of this makes him.
The change was gradual, and by the time Athos had realized what had happened, there was no going back. People talk about having sudden realizations, epiphanies, right before something so fundamental changes in their lives. Athos can only say in hindsight that his was a continual slide into whatever it is he and Aramis have right now, and that he never really noticed things changing until everything had already and irrevocably changed.
There’d been signs, yes, and instances that would have foreshadowed their current dynamic, had Athos only known to take them seriously and to take them for what they were, but Athos hadn’t noticed that every single one of those moments was leading up to Athos deliberately hurting Aramis and both of them liking it, the realization that Aramis hadn’t lied to him when he’d boldly told him “I don’t mind” shaking Athos to the core. Aramis’ aroused flush and the hard length pressed to Athos’ own revealed Aramis’ assertion to be a most blatant understatement.
Athos hadn’t known he’d wanted this, or that he’d positively longed for it – not until he’d had Aramis yield so beautifully under him, so completely and so very willingly, and afterwards the cold shock of what he’d done had warred with the hot urge to do it again. And again. And then again.
He’s watching Aramis bring his breathing back under control, harsh gasps tapering off into something softer, and he monitors Aramis‘ every reaction with an intensity that equals his concentration and single-minded focus in battle. He almost feels as if he wouldn’t be able to tear his gaze away from Aramis if his own life depended on it, and he twitches at the thought, which involuntarily pushes the hand he holds to Aramis‘ ribs closer in a short burst, and the sudden weight pressing into the sore muscle causes Aramis‘ still uneven breath to hitch, and Athos thinks about the bruise forming right under his hand, huffs out harshly through his nose, and does it again, slowly this time, holding the pressure for longer.
Athos‘ hands are too warm themselves to feel how hot the areas are he’s put his attention to earlier, but he can feel the contrast in temperature when he slides his hand over the unblemished parts of Aramis’ body, where the skin is notably colder; where it hasn’t been met by Athos‘ fists. He’ll be able to appreciate the hot feel of the bruises later, he knows, when they’ve both had time to cool down. And later, still, the bruises will bloom in the most mesmerizing shades. Enticing. Inviting. Aramis will take utmost care in covering them up, of course, and tomorrow morning Aramis will move as swiftly as he always does, no wince betraying him, no favored limbs speaking of any lingering aches. It will be as if this evening never happened in the first place, but Athos will still find himself distracted from time to time, just knowing what’s hidden underneath the layers of fabric.
They need to be careful about doing this, and they are. They’re careful to hide what they’re doing from strangers and friends, they avoid doing too much damage if there’s an important or strenuous mission ahead, and they do their best to ‘practice’ in near silence when they do find the time for it.
They haven’t got much time tonight. They’ve just completed their last mission, reports included, and they’ve cut the celebrations short to make use of the little time they have before guard duty early next morning. Athos is all too willing to compromise on sleep if it means he can have this in exchange, and Aramis has his own reasons for making time for it like Athos does. Athos isn’t sure what those reasons are, he only knows Aramis gets more reckless the longer he goes without Athos’ hands leaving marks on his skin, which tells him that Aramis needs it, too.
After being on alert for so long during the torturously slow-going, sedate mission that had taken much longer than originally planned, Athos had needed it like a man dying of thirst needed water, and he intends to make it count tonight. The longer the mission had dragged on, the more restless and tense Athos had gotten. Their work had been monotone and there hadn’t been any cause for them to put their fighting skills to use until the very end of the mission, which meant there had been no outlet for the tightly contained violence thrumming through Athos’ veins, at least no other than the occasional friendly duel to keep in shape.
He’s sure this is the longest Aramis and he have gone without ‘practicing’ since they started their peculiar ritual, and Athos had been able to feel it taking its toll on his composure. His temper had gotten increasingly shorter and it had taken all his energy to rein it in. He’d been more quiet, more indrawn, focused on keeping in control, on keeping calm, on not letting his mind wander to mull over things long past. Focusing on not remembering hadn’t worked as well as it should have. If his friends had noticed his mood and the way it had deteriorated the longer the mission had gone on, they’d never mentioned it. They’re very perceptive, especially Porthos, but Athos is fairly sure they’ve been putting his behavior down to Athos having to cut down on his drinking during missions. They’re not entirely wrong in that, Athos admits. He does crave the bottle and is worse off without the way it helps him forget, sometimes, eventually, when he’s had enough. He knows he needs it, but he’s also confident he could stop drinking if need be, and if he really put his mind to it.
Aramis, though, he wouldn’t even know how to quit. The way Aramis makes him forget allows his mind to keep its full clarity. Aramis makes Athos forget by letting him focus his every attention on one task, one person, instead of blurring his mind until he blacks out. It’s like bathing in light, instead of drowning in murky water. It’s a much nicer way of allowing himself to forget for a while, Athos thinks, even though he’s not sure if it’s that much healthier a habit. He does know it must be just as addictive, if going so long without it makes him brim with suppressed energy, leaves him feeling as if he’s about ready to explode, leaves him prickling, wanting, yearning.
Athos didn’t have to say anything to Aramis after the captain had released them this evening. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed at all. He never did. Everything had happened naturally, automatically, right from the beginning, and it still did. Aramis was just there, all the time; there for the taking; anticipating Athos‘ needs when Athos hadn’t even been aware of them himself, and all the while being so very, very obliging.
They‘d gone with the others for a drink to celebrate a job well done, and before Athos could make further plans for the evening or even think about a way he could get Aramis alone, in private, Aramis had emptied the rest of his mug in a few swallows, stood up with a flourish and a friendly pat to Porthos‘ shoulder, and had announced his intention to retire for the night. There had been neither a word directed personally to Athos, nor a meaningful glance shot his way, but Athos had caught Aramis‘ intentions anyway.
When Athos had gotten back to his room after taking his time finishing his own drink before leaving their friends, Aramis was sitting at the head-end of Athos‘ cot, illuminated by the low shine of a candle. Athos had closed to door, but hadn’t walked in any further. Aramis had already divested himself of his belts and buckles and most of his garments and had glanced up at Athos in nothing but his smallclothes and his linen shirt, a smile playing in the corners of his mouth. The strings on his shirt had still been neatly tied in a lopsided bow, the linen of the shirt had looked soft and worn, warm in the candlelight, had made Aramis appear welcoming despite his slightly tense perch on the bed, and his posture had made it seem as if Aramis hadn’t been completely sure how his presence in Athos’ room would be received.
Seeing Aramis in his room, waiting for Athos and welcoming him into Athos’ own room had resounded perfectly right in Athos’ mind.
Athos had glanced at Aramis’ carefully placed garments next to the bed, had noticed the boots next to them, had seen Aramis curl up his toes against the cold ground, the only naked part of Aramis, and had thought that this state of undress shouldn’t have made Aramis look as vulnerable as he did, but the curled toes in particular had added to that effect. The softness and vulnerability probably shouldn’t have made Athos‘ skin buzz with the need to push just to see how far Aramis would let him; to hold Aramis down with more force than was needed; to take everything Aramis kept offering.
He had crossed the room as if magnetized by Aramis, had come to an abrupt halt in front of him, held himself back at the very last minute, hands already half reaching out and yet stopping, even though it had physically pained him to hold back at that moment, so close to what he’d been needing for so long.
It had taken all he had to stop, to not take what had been clearly offered, but he’d had to hold back for so long, and he was afraid he’d be too rough in his eagerness, had been worried that maybe he had forgotten how to regulate himself, because there was the acceptable kind of violence and then there was something else, something darker altogether, something too vicious, and it had been so long, would Athos even know when to – but then Aramis had murmured „Athos“, had inclined his head a fraction, had beckoned „it’s alright, you know. It’s fine. You can let go, now. You can have this“, and Athos had given in, had let loose what he’d held in so tightly, had allowed himself to have it, to take it.
The way Athos takes is all about handing out. Athos taking is Athos giving: dealing precise blows and soft words and putting gentle pressure to forming bruises, pressure he slowly builds up and up and up, until there’s nothing gentle about that pressure anymore, until he makes the sudden release of it hurt so much more than applying the pressure had hurt in the first place.
Athos taking is making Aramis take whatever hand Athos deals, only when he does think about it in the heat of the moment, Athos isn’t really the one making Aramis take it at all, because Aramis is taking it all by himself, proven by the fact that Athos doesn’t even have to hold him down to keep him in place. And yet Athos still does it from time to time, his hands clamping down hard enough to leave smudged bruises all over Aramis, hard enough to prevent Aramis from getting away should he suddenly change his mind, should he suddenly want to stop.
But Aramis shows no signs of wanting out. Not right now, not ever. He’s letting Athos do as he likes. He accepts every part of Athos and keeps asking for more, pupils blown wide and hands clenched in the sheets, chest heaving, half bathed in light, half hidden in the shadows, and Athos wishes he could do this in broad daylight, so he could see everything and not miss any detail, and he wishes he had more candles; wishes he could illuminate the room with a thousand of them, so he could catalogue every shiver, every movement, so he could have a vivid visual matching ever sigh, every choked-off sound.
Athos sits up from where he was leaning over Aramis. “Almost done”, he says, because he is. He had come when he was paying special attention to Aramis’ ribs, when he’d been nursing the now forming bruise he had placed there just moments before, and when Athos’ actions had made Aramis try to hide his face, had made tears spring to his eyes and leak out, and Athos had watched, had taken in the sight as intently as he could, forming a memory to remember for later, for always, and he had pressed himself against Aramis and had pressed down with his hand even harder, had dug in his fingers in at Aramis choked-off cry and felt the way Aramis trembled to hold still all along his front. He’d ridden out the minute tremors and leaned down to kiss the tears from the corners of Aramis’ eyes.
But Athos is not completely finished, yet.
Athos doesn’t quite understand why he needs to lay his own bruises over the ones that weren’t his doing, but he must; so he moves on to the bruises the long desired fight at the end of last mission has left on Aramis, shifts his position for a better angle and puts calming strokes down Aramis’ side with one hand while he bears down on the other, placed right on the fist-sized bruise on the inside of Aramis’ thigh. Aramis’ breath stutters out when Athos leans on him and starts building up pressure.
He reaches down to loosely curl one hand around Athos' wrist and bares his throat when he tilts his head up and gasps. Athos keeps steadily adding pressure, and eventually Aramis releases his other hand’s tight grip on the covers to have it cover his mouth instead, to stifle the noises, and he leaves the fabric bunched up and crumpled, leaves his own mark on Athos’ sheets as Athos leaves his on Aramis’ skin.
Neither of them complains even once.