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fredbassettTitle : A Dangerous Contract, Part 2 of 8
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville, Gallagher, Aramis, Porthos and others
Disclaimer : Not mine (apart from some OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 25,500, split into approximately equal parts.
Summary : Athos learns an assassination contract has been taken out on Treville’s life.
A/N : Written for luthorchickv2 on AO3 who kindly commented on all my Dangerous Liaison stories.
Treville came slowly awake, Athos’ head pillowed on his shoulder. He lay there, revelling in the knowledge that for once they need have no worry about the discovery of their sleeping arrangements. A whole night together was a pleasure even on a par with their occasional lovemaking.
Sunlight seeped into the cobwebbed room but for once, he had little idea of the time without the bells of Paris’ churches clanging out the passing of the hours. Athos snuggled into his side, one arm draped over Treville’s stomach. He tried hard to keep his thoughts light, not dwelling on who wanted him dead or why. That was now in the hands of his musketeers and the Irish mercenary, a man that Athos appeared to trust, and he knew that his occasionally wayward lieutenant did not give his trust easily. Milady had put an end to that.
Eventually, he pressed a kiss to Athos’ forehead and murmured, “Pleasant as this is, I need a piss.”
Athos’ laugh came easily for once. “Such delicacy.”
Treville heaved his arm off. “You’ve been weighing my bladder down long enough. It’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long. And not needing to make polite excuses is one advantage of bedding a soldier.”
Athos looked up at him, hair tousled on the sheet, his long lashes the envy of the Queen’s court. “When did you last bed a woman? I’ve never known you lie with a whore, nor have I known you court a lady.”
It was rare for his lover to ask a personal question, and Treville felt it deserved an honest answer. “Not since the death of my wife twenty-one years ago.”
Athos’ expression became guarded. “I’m sorry. That was not a question I should have asked.”
Treville leaned down and kissed the scarred lip. “There is no question you cannot ask me. I might choose not to answer, but there is no harm in the asking.” He pulled on his undergarments and breeches and walked barefoot and bare-chested into the yard. His horse whickered a greeting, while Athos’ supercilious mount swatted flies with its long tail and ignored him. After relieving himself, Treville drew up a bucket of water from the well and plunged his head into it to drive away the last vestiges of sleep. He rubbed the sweat of the previous day’s ride from his body then drew a second bucket.
Athos joined him in the yard, not having bothered to pull on any clothes, walking naked to the well, utterly unselfconscious. Treville admired the wide shoulders, narrow waist and strong thighs of a master swordsman. This was a sight far more to his taste than the effete statues so beloved of the nobility. He held up the bucket of water and raised his eyebrows in enquiry.
Athos nodded, not flinching from the cold water that poured down over his head and shoulders, plastering down his dark hair. His young lover shook himself like a dog, sending water droplets flying everywhere. “We can finish the bread and cheese we brought, then I can acquire some better food from the village.”
“Will your presence here cause tongues to wag?”
“No. The villagers are loyal. I have asked no rent from them since I left. That has allowed them to prosper when those elsewhere have suffered hardship. They pay their taxes to the King but that is all. In return, we can count on their silence in the unlikely event of questions being asked. There are two or three former soldiers among them who would fight with us should the need arise, but I think our best defence lies in secrecy. There are few who can easily connect Athos of the Musketeers with the Comte de la Fère.”
With the lithe grace of a hunting cat, Athos strolled back to the room where they had spent the night. He returned, his sweat-stained shirt hanging loose over his leather trousers. They had travelled light and would have to rely on washing their own clothes unless the ruined mansion held other home comforts.
As if divining his thoughts, Athos said, “Unless the moths have been at work, I salvaged a clothes chest that was my father’s. He was a bigger man than either of us, but his shirts will serve well enough.”
They sat on a stone bench in the shade and finished the last of their food, throwing crumbs for a pair of white doves that flew down from their roost in the stable roof. The birdsong in the air stood in welcome contrast to the constant bustle and noise of the garrison, or the often-forced gaiety of the king’s court.
While Athos rode to the village, Treville busied himself with an old broom he found in an outhouse, using it to brush down the cobwebs from their sleeping quarters and thoroughly sweep the dust from the floor. With the shutters thrown open, the musty smell would soon diminish. There was no damp in the plaster and the ceiling was sound. Then he set to work on the kitchen, which proved to be a harder labour, but soon, it too was clean enough to sit and eat in. The iron pots would need a scrub but were still serviceable and the chimney appeared to be unblocked. He’d seen a pile of cut logs in one of the barns and providing there were still axes, more wood could easily be acquired.
He confined his exploration to the buildings adjoining the stable yard, not wanting to stray further without express permission. Athos had never been forthcoming about his past life, but although he could swear like a trooper and brawl like a street ruffian, it had been obvious to Treville from their first meeting that the dark haired young man with the haunted blue eyes and refined accent was of noble birth.
Treville had taken the decision to recommend him for a commission in the Regiment based on his fine swordsmanship and obvious skill with a musket and after distinguishing himself at the bloody siege of la Rochelle, Athos, as he had named himself, had quickly risen in the ranks of the King’s Musketeers. It had taken a year for Treville to learn that he had been born Olivier de la Fère, the eldest son of an impeccable lineage. Eventually, Athos had admitted the tragedy of his marriage and the murder of his brother at the hands of the wife he had loved.
A return to a house that held so many memories had clearly not been a decision Athos had taken lightly. The last time need had driven him here, he had drunk himself almost to oblivion and nearly died at the hands of his murderous wife while around him his ancestral home burned like a torch. Treville had been relieved to see him lay aside old memories the previous night, drinking only moderately, and this morning he had seemed positively light of heart, which boded well.
By the time the sun had tracked overhead, Athos returned, followed by a young lad driving a pony and cart. Together they unloaded bread, cheese, smoked meats, vegetables and fruit, as well as a small barrel of ale and some bales of sweet-smelling hay for the horses. Athos had acquired enough food to stand a siege, Treville just hoped it wouldn’t come to that. They thanked the shy lad who’d driven the cart and slipped him a coin for his trouble. He stammered his thanks and rode away, promising to return when needed.
“The villagers will alert us to anything suspicious and none will learn of our presence from them. No roads pass through the estate and there are no other villages nearby. As only those we trust with our lives know of our whereabouts., we should be as safe here as anywhere.”
“But I cannot desert my post indefinitely.”
“His Majesty and the Queen are in safe hands. We will receive word when the threat is over, but for now, there is nothing to be served by fretting.”
“You make me sound like one of the Queen’s ladies.”
“One of the queen’s ladies wouldn’t stand here stripped to the waist and as filthy as a street urchin. Once we have filled the pantries we can go to the river. The day looks set to remain fair.”
After Athos had admired his labours in the kitchen, they ate another light meal of bread and cheese, then gathered their weapons and rode bareback over a rolling meadow to the river. The water, shaded by alder and birch, was clear and deep, tumbling over a small rocky waterfall into a wide pool. Athos promptly stripped off and slid in, swimming with strong strokes to the other side and back.
“How is it?” Treville enquired, pulling his shirt over his head and tugging off his boots, keen to be rid of the dust that had collected on his sweat-soaked body while he’d wielded the broom to such good effect.
“Fucking freezing,” Athos admitted. “When did you last swim?”
“Longer ago than I care to remember but I grew up by a river and after one of the village lads drowned, I made it my business to learn.”
He caught his breath at the cold water, but he didn’t hesitate as he kicked away from the bank, knowing that to edge in slowly was a mistake. The water was crystal clear and on reaching the middle of the pool, he ducked under and swam down to touch the sandy bottom of the pool where a shoal of small fish quickly scattered away. Treville surfaced and ran his hands through his hair, dislodging the last of the dust.
“I used to fish here as a boy,” Athos said, as they swam the length of the pool. “The brown trout are good to eat. I stowed some line and hooks in the chest last time I was here.”
The thought of fresh fish for supper took Treville straight back to his boyhood. He had spent long afternoons in the sun by the river, often returning in triumph with a brace of fat fish, earning approval from their cook.
When the chill finally drove them back into the dappled sunlight by the water’s edge, they sprawled naked on their backs and let the sun warm their bodies. Treville drifted into sleep and woke to the slow movement of Athos’ long-fingered hands on his body, looking up into lover’s face, seeing it for once wholly open and unguarded. He reached up, touching the backs of his fingers to Athos’ cheek.
Athos pressed a soft kiss to Treville’s palm. The gesture warmed his heart even more than the sun warmed his body. Their touching remained light and sensual, as they took the time to learn each other’s bodies in the full light of day, a luxury they had never previously been able to indulge.
Athos moved from scar to scar, kissing each one in turn: the long but fortunately shallow furrow a musket ball had gouged out of his side at la Rochelle; the thin white line left by a sword slash to his right thigh obtained in a cavalry skirmish and so on down the muscle-corded body.
The trail of light fingertips told Treville that his lover had reached the scar on his calf he received in his first serious battle, when only a lucky twist to one side had saved him from being hamstrung. The wound had festered and at one point there were fears for his lower leg.
“Turn over,” Athos instructed. “You have a fine arse and I have a mind to admire it in daylight.”
Obligingly, Treville rolled over, pillowing his head on his arms. Athos rubbed his shoulders, seeking out any knots in the muscles and working them loose with a deft touch. The skilled fingers worked their way gradually downwards until they reached Treville’s buttocks. Instantly, unwanted memories hit him with the force of a musket ball as the rape and torture he’d endured in the Bastille during the brief ascendency of the king’s vengeful mother, Marie de Medici, flooded back.
Treville twisted around and sat up, shaking off Athos’ questing hands, his breathing coming now in harsh pants.
“Steady!” Athos took him by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. “That’s in the past. Let it go…”
Treville drew in a shuddering breath. “I’d hoped those memories had gone.” He relaxed under Athos’ gentle touch and turned onto his stomach again. “It hasn’t taken me like that for a long time.”
“Such memories never go.” His lover’s tone was pragmatic, holding a wealth of experience that Treville had never dared delve into too far. “Let me replace them with better ones.” Athos went back to his previous slow massage, keeping his hands to Treville’s shoulders.
The next long breath was calmer as he forced the memories back into their box and slammed down the lid. It was rarely acknowledged but rape was a hazard that all captured soldiers faced. When women were scarce, victorious fighters with lax commanders would slake their hunger in other ways, and priests knew when to make themselves scare. Treville had only once needed to hang a musketeer for such a crime. The story was still told to new recruits. From that, his men knew he would not tolerate any excess that would bring shame on the regiment.
The undemanding fingers started to work their slow magic again. This time, he did not tense when Athos’ warm breath ghosted over his arse and a light finger trailed down his crest, rubbing lightly over his puckered hole.
“Leaving the saddles in the yard was a mistake,” Athos remarked. “My gun oil is in one of the bags.”
Treville laughed at the obvious disappointment in the younger man’s voice. “Then for that we will need to wait for tonight.”
A theatrical sigh greeted his words. “I have never seen the virtue in patience.” The questing finger traced the line of a scar at the top of Treville’s right thigh. “I’ve been remiss. This isn’t one I’ve noticed before.”
“Montauban, ’21. Not one of Louis’ better enterprises. I gained that in a pointless skirmish that cost the lives of ten good men. I was trying to drag one of our wounded onto a horse and a man I thought I’d taken down turned out not to have been as dead as I thought.”
Athos’ strong hand ran over Treville’s arse again and this time he did not tense.
“I was 24 when I left here, vowing never to return,” Athos remarked. “If it hadn’t been for that mission to take Bonnaire to Paris, I might never have set foot on this estate again.”
Treville kept his head pillowed on his arms, divining that Athos might fight it easier to talk to his back than his face. “Do you intend to remain as an absentee lord?”
Athos hesitated so long before replying that Treville thought his question would go unanswered. “I don’t know. When Porthos was injured and we were forced to take refuge here, I felt like a spear had been driven into my guts but later, the knowledge that she was not dead changed things. I had carried that burden for five years and was never free of it apart from when I managed to drink myself into oblivion.”
“Do you still love her?” The question left Treville’s lips before he could bite it back. The warm hands on his back stilled and Treville cursed himself for a fool. He should have let Athos tell his story in his own way. “Athos, I’m sorry, that is not a question I should have asked.”
“Remember our conversation this morning when you said there was no question I could not ask you?”
“I also said that I might choose not to answer.”
The silence stretched between them, as taut as a wire.
When Athos spoke again, his voice was barely louder than the breeze in the trees. “I choose to answer. No, I do not still love her. Maybe I never did. I loved the woman I thought I knew, not the woman she is. I was young. I mistook passion for love. Maybe the passion is still there, but the love has gone. We would destroy each other like two moths to a flame and I have seen enough of flames.”
He felt the brush of Athos’ beard between his shoulders and felt the press of lips to the back of his neck. “Come. Let me show you what remains of the house. I would value your opinion.”
They dressed in silence, the tension in the air gone like morning missed chased away by sunlight.
Athos pulled Treville into a lingering kiss and his embrace said more than words could easily express.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville, Gallagher, Aramis, Porthos and others
Disclaimer : Not mine (apart from some OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 25,500, split into approximately equal parts.
Summary : Athos learns an assassination contract has been taken out on Treville’s life.
A/N : Written for luthorchickv2 on AO3 who kindly commented on all my Dangerous Liaison stories.
Treville came slowly awake, Athos’ head pillowed on his shoulder. He lay there, revelling in the knowledge that for once they need have no worry about the discovery of their sleeping arrangements. A whole night together was a pleasure even on a par with their occasional lovemaking.
Sunlight seeped into the cobwebbed room but for once, he had little idea of the time without the bells of Paris’ churches clanging out the passing of the hours. Athos snuggled into his side, one arm draped over Treville’s stomach. He tried hard to keep his thoughts light, not dwelling on who wanted him dead or why. That was now in the hands of his musketeers and the Irish mercenary, a man that Athos appeared to trust, and he knew that his occasionally wayward lieutenant did not give his trust easily. Milady had put an end to that.
Eventually, he pressed a kiss to Athos’ forehead and murmured, “Pleasant as this is, I need a piss.”
Athos’ laugh came easily for once. “Such delicacy.”
Treville heaved his arm off. “You’ve been weighing my bladder down long enough. It’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long. And not needing to make polite excuses is one advantage of bedding a soldier.”
Athos looked up at him, hair tousled on the sheet, his long lashes the envy of the Queen’s court. “When did you last bed a woman? I’ve never known you lie with a whore, nor have I known you court a lady.”
It was rare for his lover to ask a personal question, and Treville felt it deserved an honest answer. “Not since the death of my wife twenty-one years ago.”
Athos’ expression became guarded. “I’m sorry. That was not a question I should have asked.”
Treville leaned down and kissed the scarred lip. “There is no question you cannot ask me. I might choose not to answer, but there is no harm in the asking.” He pulled on his undergarments and breeches and walked barefoot and bare-chested into the yard. His horse whickered a greeting, while Athos’ supercilious mount swatted flies with its long tail and ignored him. After relieving himself, Treville drew up a bucket of water from the well and plunged his head into it to drive away the last vestiges of sleep. He rubbed the sweat of the previous day’s ride from his body then drew a second bucket.
Athos joined him in the yard, not having bothered to pull on any clothes, walking naked to the well, utterly unselfconscious. Treville admired the wide shoulders, narrow waist and strong thighs of a master swordsman. This was a sight far more to his taste than the effete statues so beloved of the nobility. He held up the bucket of water and raised his eyebrows in enquiry.
Athos nodded, not flinching from the cold water that poured down over his head and shoulders, plastering down his dark hair. His young lover shook himself like a dog, sending water droplets flying everywhere. “We can finish the bread and cheese we brought, then I can acquire some better food from the village.”
“Will your presence here cause tongues to wag?”
“No. The villagers are loyal. I have asked no rent from them since I left. That has allowed them to prosper when those elsewhere have suffered hardship. They pay their taxes to the King but that is all. In return, we can count on their silence in the unlikely event of questions being asked. There are two or three former soldiers among them who would fight with us should the need arise, but I think our best defence lies in secrecy. There are few who can easily connect Athos of the Musketeers with the Comte de la Fère.”
With the lithe grace of a hunting cat, Athos strolled back to the room where they had spent the night. He returned, his sweat-stained shirt hanging loose over his leather trousers. They had travelled light and would have to rely on washing their own clothes unless the ruined mansion held other home comforts.
As if divining his thoughts, Athos said, “Unless the moths have been at work, I salvaged a clothes chest that was my father’s. He was a bigger man than either of us, but his shirts will serve well enough.”
They sat on a stone bench in the shade and finished the last of their food, throwing crumbs for a pair of white doves that flew down from their roost in the stable roof. The birdsong in the air stood in welcome contrast to the constant bustle and noise of the garrison, or the often-forced gaiety of the king’s court.
While Athos rode to the village, Treville busied himself with an old broom he found in an outhouse, using it to brush down the cobwebs from their sleeping quarters and thoroughly sweep the dust from the floor. With the shutters thrown open, the musty smell would soon diminish. There was no damp in the plaster and the ceiling was sound. Then he set to work on the kitchen, which proved to be a harder labour, but soon, it too was clean enough to sit and eat in. The iron pots would need a scrub but were still serviceable and the chimney appeared to be unblocked. He’d seen a pile of cut logs in one of the barns and providing there were still axes, more wood could easily be acquired.
He confined his exploration to the buildings adjoining the stable yard, not wanting to stray further without express permission. Athos had never been forthcoming about his past life, but although he could swear like a trooper and brawl like a street ruffian, it had been obvious to Treville from their first meeting that the dark haired young man with the haunted blue eyes and refined accent was of noble birth.
Treville had taken the decision to recommend him for a commission in the Regiment based on his fine swordsmanship and obvious skill with a musket and after distinguishing himself at the bloody siege of la Rochelle, Athos, as he had named himself, had quickly risen in the ranks of the King’s Musketeers. It had taken a year for Treville to learn that he had been born Olivier de la Fère, the eldest son of an impeccable lineage. Eventually, Athos had admitted the tragedy of his marriage and the murder of his brother at the hands of the wife he had loved.
A return to a house that held so many memories had clearly not been a decision Athos had taken lightly. The last time need had driven him here, he had drunk himself almost to oblivion and nearly died at the hands of his murderous wife while around him his ancestral home burned like a torch. Treville had been relieved to see him lay aside old memories the previous night, drinking only moderately, and this morning he had seemed positively light of heart, which boded well.
By the time the sun had tracked overhead, Athos returned, followed by a young lad driving a pony and cart. Together they unloaded bread, cheese, smoked meats, vegetables and fruit, as well as a small barrel of ale and some bales of sweet-smelling hay for the horses. Athos had acquired enough food to stand a siege, Treville just hoped it wouldn’t come to that. They thanked the shy lad who’d driven the cart and slipped him a coin for his trouble. He stammered his thanks and rode away, promising to return when needed.
“The villagers will alert us to anything suspicious and none will learn of our presence from them. No roads pass through the estate and there are no other villages nearby. As only those we trust with our lives know of our whereabouts., we should be as safe here as anywhere.”
“But I cannot desert my post indefinitely.”
“His Majesty and the Queen are in safe hands. We will receive word when the threat is over, but for now, there is nothing to be served by fretting.”
“You make me sound like one of the Queen’s ladies.”
“One of the queen’s ladies wouldn’t stand here stripped to the waist and as filthy as a street urchin. Once we have filled the pantries we can go to the river. The day looks set to remain fair.”
After Athos had admired his labours in the kitchen, they ate another light meal of bread and cheese, then gathered their weapons and rode bareback over a rolling meadow to the river. The water, shaded by alder and birch, was clear and deep, tumbling over a small rocky waterfall into a wide pool. Athos promptly stripped off and slid in, swimming with strong strokes to the other side and back.
“How is it?” Treville enquired, pulling his shirt over his head and tugging off his boots, keen to be rid of the dust that had collected on his sweat-soaked body while he’d wielded the broom to such good effect.
“Fucking freezing,” Athos admitted. “When did you last swim?”
“Longer ago than I care to remember but I grew up by a river and after one of the village lads drowned, I made it my business to learn.”
He caught his breath at the cold water, but he didn’t hesitate as he kicked away from the bank, knowing that to edge in slowly was a mistake. The water was crystal clear and on reaching the middle of the pool, he ducked under and swam down to touch the sandy bottom of the pool where a shoal of small fish quickly scattered away. Treville surfaced and ran his hands through his hair, dislodging the last of the dust.
“I used to fish here as a boy,” Athos said, as they swam the length of the pool. “The brown trout are good to eat. I stowed some line and hooks in the chest last time I was here.”
The thought of fresh fish for supper took Treville straight back to his boyhood. He had spent long afternoons in the sun by the river, often returning in triumph with a brace of fat fish, earning approval from their cook.
When the chill finally drove them back into the dappled sunlight by the water’s edge, they sprawled naked on their backs and let the sun warm their bodies. Treville drifted into sleep and woke to the slow movement of Athos’ long-fingered hands on his body, looking up into lover’s face, seeing it for once wholly open and unguarded. He reached up, touching the backs of his fingers to Athos’ cheek.
Athos pressed a soft kiss to Treville’s palm. The gesture warmed his heart even more than the sun warmed his body. Their touching remained light and sensual, as they took the time to learn each other’s bodies in the full light of day, a luxury they had never previously been able to indulge.
Athos moved from scar to scar, kissing each one in turn: the long but fortunately shallow furrow a musket ball had gouged out of his side at la Rochelle; the thin white line left by a sword slash to his right thigh obtained in a cavalry skirmish and so on down the muscle-corded body.
The trail of light fingertips told Treville that his lover had reached the scar on his calf he received in his first serious battle, when only a lucky twist to one side had saved him from being hamstrung. The wound had festered and at one point there were fears for his lower leg.
“Turn over,” Athos instructed. “You have a fine arse and I have a mind to admire it in daylight.”
Obligingly, Treville rolled over, pillowing his head on his arms. Athos rubbed his shoulders, seeking out any knots in the muscles and working them loose with a deft touch. The skilled fingers worked their way gradually downwards until they reached Treville’s buttocks. Instantly, unwanted memories hit him with the force of a musket ball as the rape and torture he’d endured in the Bastille during the brief ascendency of the king’s vengeful mother, Marie de Medici, flooded back.
Treville twisted around and sat up, shaking off Athos’ questing hands, his breathing coming now in harsh pants.
“Steady!” Athos took him by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. “That’s in the past. Let it go…”
Treville drew in a shuddering breath. “I’d hoped those memories had gone.” He relaxed under Athos’ gentle touch and turned onto his stomach again. “It hasn’t taken me like that for a long time.”
“Such memories never go.” His lover’s tone was pragmatic, holding a wealth of experience that Treville had never dared delve into too far. “Let me replace them with better ones.” Athos went back to his previous slow massage, keeping his hands to Treville’s shoulders.
The next long breath was calmer as he forced the memories back into their box and slammed down the lid. It was rarely acknowledged but rape was a hazard that all captured soldiers faced. When women were scarce, victorious fighters with lax commanders would slake their hunger in other ways, and priests knew when to make themselves scare. Treville had only once needed to hang a musketeer for such a crime. The story was still told to new recruits. From that, his men knew he would not tolerate any excess that would bring shame on the regiment.
The undemanding fingers started to work their slow magic again. This time, he did not tense when Athos’ warm breath ghosted over his arse and a light finger trailed down his crest, rubbing lightly over his puckered hole.
“Leaving the saddles in the yard was a mistake,” Athos remarked. “My gun oil is in one of the bags.”
Treville laughed at the obvious disappointment in the younger man’s voice. “Then for that we will need to wait for tonight.”
A theatrical sigh greeted his words. “I have never seen the virtue in patience.” The questing finger traced the line of a scar at the top of Treville’s right thigh. “I’ve been remiss. This isn’t one I’ve noticed before.”
“Montauban, ’21. Not one of Louis’ better enterprises. I gained that in a pointless skirmish that cost the lives of ten good men. I was trying to drag one of our wounded onto a horse and a man I thought I’d taken down turned out not to have been as dead as I thought.”
Athos’ strong hand ran over Treville’s arse again and this time he did not tense.
“I was 24 when I left here, vowing never to return,” Athos remarked. “If it hadn’t been for that mission to take Bonnaire to Paris, I might never have set foot on this estate again.”
Treville kept his head pillowed on his arms, divining that Athos might fight it easier to talk to his back than his face. “Do you intend to remain as an absentee lord?”
Athos hesitated so long before replying that Treville thought his question would go unanswered. “I don’t know. When Porthos was injured and we were forced to take refuge here, I felt like a spear had been driven into my guts but later, the knowledge that she was not dead changed things. I had carried that burden for five years and was never free of it apart from when I managed to drink myself into oblivion.”
“Do you still love her?” The question left Treville’s lips before he could bite it back. The warm hands on his back stilled and Treville cursed himself for a fool. He should have let Athos tell his story in his own way. “Athos, I’m sorry, that is not a question I should have asked.”
“Remember our conversation this morning when you said there was no question I could not ask you?”
“I also said that I might choose not to answer.”
The silence stretched between them, as taut as a wire.
When Athos spoke again, his voice was barely louder than the breeze in the trees. “I choose to answer. No, I do not still love her. Maybe I never did. I loved the woman I thought I knew, not the woman she is. I was young. I mistook passion for love. Maybe the passion is still there, but the love has gone. We would destroy each other like two moths to a flame and I have seen enough of flames.”
He felt the brush of Athos’ beard between his shoulders and felt the press of lips to the back of his neck. “Come. Let me show you what remains of the house. I would value your opinion.”
They dressed in silence, the tension in the air gone like morning missed chased away by sunlight.
Athos pulled Treville into a lingering kiss and his embrace said more than words could easily express.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-28 08:39 pm (UTC)