Chapter Text
They're in the middle of a week-long heat wave.
The sun, high in the sky with nary a cloud in its way, has already scorched the grass under their feet. The flowers, so carefully planted and nurtured, have wilted and stand drooping against the ground. Even the birds seem to have lost their voices, sitting defeated and silent in the treetops.
Paris, too, has fallen silent. The streets lie empty and smoke has ceased to rise towards the heavens. Those who can, have abandoned the city for the coastal towns. Those forced to stay behind sleep on their roofs and eat their dinners cold. They endure because they must, sweating and panting in the sun like over-worked beasts in front of the peasant's plough.
So, of course, the King has decided that it's the perfect time to throw a fête.
The tents have been raised, the wine barrels opened and the musicians stand red-faced and glassy-eyed as they play their harps and blow their horns. As the very air around them vibrate with heat, the sounds they produce sound less like music and more like the cacophony of the damned. Hell, Aramis feels as he licks his cracked lips, has rarely been so close.
His throat feels parched, but then so it has ever since he'd received a cut to his ribs some days earlier. They had been tasked to escort a messenger to Le Havre and some fools had rushed them in the woods. The cut had been nothing serious, but nonetheless he'd bled like a stuck pig. To make matters worse, the physician had then bled him to keep the wound from festering in the heat. Ever since his thirst has been as unquenchable as Athos' and, for the first time he can recall, he's found himself both willing and able to match his friend bottle for bottle.
A fat drop of sweat runs down his forehead, dripping off the edge of his nose. There's a handkerchief in his pocket but Treville has already made it clear that the next man to fidget will face a fate worse than their current parade duty. What that could possibly be is hard to fathom, but Aramis has the utmost faith in his captain's ingenuity.
"I think I'm going to be sick," comes a sudden, miserable whisper to his left.
Glancing through the corner of his eye, Aramis attempts to take stock of the speaker. d'Artagnan's face has indeed turned sallow and his Adam's apple bounces up and down as he swallows convulsively. To the left of d'Artagnan, Porthos' jaw twitches in a wordless comment and Aramis finds himself sighing in agreement. Not only would the stench of vomit make a most unwelcome addition to an already hellish day, but worse still would be the embarrassment such an event would bring their Captain.
"Breathe through your nose," he advises, speaking with his lips still. A most useful gift, he's found, for the many times when their duty consisted of being seen and not heard. A few harsh exhales follow his words but they only result in d'Artagnan beginning to sway.
Porthos, moving with the kind of grace no one ever expects from a man of his size, reaches out to grab hold of their friend's arm. Around them, their fellow Musketeers stand unblinking and unmoving yet there's been a clear change in atmosphere. No one wants to see their Captain lose face in front of the King and the Cardinal.
"Don't suppose you have a plan?" Aramis asks, turning his head an inch to meet the eyes of their leader. Rather than worried, Athos looks grimly amused. Not a good look under the best of circumstances, something in the way it's aimed straight at Aramis has him regretting his question.
"I do," the older man replies, "but you're not going to like it."
He's right. Aramis doesn't like it at all.
But needs must and all that.