Chapter Text
Chapter One
“As O’Lear (2018) concludes, the ability to use discourses of self-reliance, individualism and independence from the center, to co-opt local communities into sharing the environmental exploitation goals of global corporations is one of the primary ways in which environmental degradation has escalated in the early years of the 21st century.”
Athos leans back and rubs a hand across his face, sweeping the messy fall of hair back over his forehead as he considers his fourth edit of the sentence and thinks he might finally be satisfied with it. He’s reached the get-this-thing-the-fuck-off-my-desk stage of grant application hell and concedes that 3pm on the last Friday of the semester might not be the best time to be working on it. But needs must; the grant isn’t due until August 15th, but with the semester ending all three of his Co-PIs are about to scatter for field work and getting a first draft of this finished before they leave is imperative. He cracks his knuckles and leans in to start editing the next paragraph when he’s distracted by the sound of a step in his outer office.
He looks up to find Aramis leaning in the doorway.
“Colloquium; five minutes.” He supplies cheerfully.
“It’s Dead Day.” Is Athos’ decidedly not cheerful response.
“Yes, and we have department town hall on Dead Day. Remember?”
Oh fuck; yes, now he remembers, although he wishes he didn’t. Two years before the department had instigated a semi-annual town hall meeting as part of the DEI plan and, as good an idea as it might have seemed at the time, it’s quickly degenerated into an hour of bitching about collegiality, or the lack thereof on the part of the faculty, and infighting between the geologists and geographers about the relative size of their alumni endowment funds and what that means for the very uneven distribution of scholarship and field travel grants.
“And then beer?” Happy hour; the redeeming feature of every shitty colloquium.
“And then beer.” Aramis confirms with a grin and adds, “Willow Street?” The faculty fondness for Willow Street Microbrewery is exactly why the graduate students are complaining about their lack of collegiality. It’s small, intimate, dog and kid-friendly, which suits the junior faculty with young families, has great food trucks, and excellent beer that unfortunately costs too much to drink in the kind of quantity the grad students are looking for on a Friday night.
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely” Athos pushes himself away from his desk and tilts his head, considering Aramis for a moment. Artfully disheveled as always, his ability to pull off distracted academic and devastatingly attractive all at the same time is a perpetual source of wonder to Athos, but it’s not something he wants to dwell on too long, that way lies madness and a physical reaction that would be entirely inappropriate for Friday afternoon in the Department. He turns back to the grant proposal on his screen. “I’m getting nowhere with this; do you want to hack through it over the weekend and see if you can at least edit it and add in your part of the methodology and researcher qualifications?”
Aramis winces, “Sorry, can’t. I have the final papers for Research Methods coming in at midnight tonight. I need to get them graded this weekend before I have time to think about it and lose my will to live.” He leans back on the door frame all long legs and broad shoulders, the soft cotton button-down shirt undone just far enough to show a wide vee of tanned skin and a smattering of dark curls that is entirely too enticing and Athos suspects Aramis knows exactly what he’s doing, a subtle, constant tease at the edge of his consciousness, reminding them both that they have unfinished business.
He forces himself back to thinking about the grant as Aramis goes on “Send it to Porthos, I’ll look at it Monday.” And then with a distracted wave. “Or run it by D’Artagnan. Didn’t he do his Ph.D. with Gerard? He knows this stuff inside and out.”
“I don’t make my post-docs work on the weekend. You know that.”
“He’s on the grant, Athos. The rest of us are working 24/7 to get it done; no reason he shouldn’t.”
Athos concedes. “Point taken, but he’s got something with Constance this weekend; Maurice is out of town, I don’t want to get in the way of the boy’s sex life.”
“Porthos it is then.” Aramis has turned away, smiling at someone in the outer office.
“Porthos is what, then?” Another voice, deeper and tinged with notes of Jamaica and London, sounds in the outer office and Porthos sticks his head around the door.
“Porthos is going to spend his weekend hacking through Athos’ most recent draft of the RAPID grant so I can work on it Monday.” Aramis, tactile as ever, lays a hand on Porthos’ broad shoulder, squeezing gently and adding his most beguiling smile as Porthos grimaces, but then demurs.
“Okay, send it to me tonight, I’ll get to it after beer.” He withdraws, “Meanwhile, colloquium time. Come on, wankers. Or the grad students will have colonized our corner at the back.”
Athos checks his file has saved to the cloud, saves a physical copy of it on his hard drive and then shuts down his computer, grabbing his water bottle as he follows the other two out of the office and down to the basement auditorium, trying, and failing, not to perv on Aramis’ ass in those indecently well fitted jeans as they walk down the hall.
****
They find D’Artagnan sprawled across four seats at the back of the auditorium, and he unfolds to let them settle in around him. “Treville’s in a spectacularly bad mood; I think he’s expecting a full-on revolt from the geology MS kids when we get to the discussion about requiring them to take a history of the discipline class.”
“Why do they care? They won’t have to do it; they’ll be grandfathered.” Athos settles into the far corner seat and leans back to find a spot on the floor for his water bottle.
“I think it’s the implication that their current education is lacking.” D’Artagnan checks his phone and then sets it to silent, before stowing it in his jeans pocket, and Athos fishes his out and does the same.
“Well, it fucking is.” Porthos raises a hand and all three of them high-five him in turn. This is an old, familiar complaint, common to hybrid departments like theirs. The very different curriculum requirements of the multiple programs raise all sorts of problems when the students find themselves in the same classes, problems that inevitably spill over into in-class unrest and angry comments on the end-of-semester evaluations.
The collective high-five apparently catches the eye of the department chair and Treville glares at them from the front of the room before winding up his conversation with the colloquium coordinator and heading in their direction, taking the stairs two at a time until he’s standing on the step above them. The extra step lends a measure of intimidation to Treville’s frame as he stares down Aramis, and asks, in a voice crackling with exasperation.
“What did you say to the research methods class this week?”
Athos watches as Aramis gives that insouciant little shrug he’s so good at, going for innocence, falling short and landing on shifty. “I might have implied that a well-rounded education includes the ability to critique your own little corner of the discipline.”
“And?” Treville’s tone is positively arctic.
“And that only some of our students are currently afforded that opportunity.”
“Aramis, for fuck’s sake.” Treville runs a hand into his hair and tugs distractedly. “What have we said about you and your lack of a filter in class?”
“Lots; I even remember most of it.”
Athos winces at the glib response, even for Aramis, this is pushing it.
“And yet; here we are. Why do you think that is?”
And now, Aramis grins, wide and beautiful and Athos knows – absolutely knows – in the fraction of a second before he speaks, exactly what Aramis is going to say next.
“Because now I have tenure.”
And there it is.
It’s obviously not a surprise to Treville, Athos knows how the system works, the Chair would have received a cc. of the Chancellor’s email with the official Board of Regents sign off on Aramis’ tenure at the same time as Aramis received his copy. But the rest of them have been waiting for the official letters to drop for a month. No matter how much of a foregone conclusion it was – they’d head-hunted him from Dartmouth for fuck’s sake – tenure decisions are never final until the letter comes in from the Regents. And, with state politics being what they are, and Aramis’ research – immigration from Central America and the role of the US in destabilizing the region during the late 20th century – receiving national attention in the wake of the recent immigration crisis, they’d all been a little on edge waiting for the final decision.
“When did you find out?”
“The hard copy was in campus mail today – the email dropped at noon.”
“Jesus – I thought they were never going to get around to sending those letters out.”
Everything has been delayed this year by the fight over appointing a new Chancellor, which dragged on way longer than it should have due to the Board’s terror at the idea of confirming the appointment the campus favorite, and longtime interim Chancellor – a young, brilliant, Black historian with a research focus on the Second Middle Passage and a tendency to rap in his graduation speeches.
“So?” Porthos grins, sly and teasing, his glance traveling from Athos to Aramis and back again. “I guess this means the cat is alive?” D’Artagnan snorts a laugh and Treville just looks confused.
Athos waves him off “Go ask Kate.” He gestures to one of the senior faculty sitting in the opposite corner of the auditorium, Kate Fleming, longest serving member of the Geosciences faculty, keeper of all the department’s secrets and coincidentally, Treville’s wife.
Porthos has taken to calling this thing that Athos and Aramis have been dancing around “Schrodinger’s relationship”. With Aramis’ tenure letter as the box and the results of the tenure decision, the status of the cat. So yes, the cat is indeed alive; and that thought sets Athos’ pulse tripping just a little faster as he realizes that it’s time to decide if they want to adopt it or send it to the shelter.
Treville points accusingly at Aramis one last time “We’ll talk about this again before Fall Semester starts.” And then heads across the back of the auditorium to his wife; while the colloquium organizer calls the room to order.
Athos, still pressed into the corner seat, shivers with an unexpected surge of adrenaline as Aramis forgoes his usual spot at the end of the row, to squeeze in next to him. The seats are close enough that their knees are touching, and Aramis tilts his head at just the right angle to look across at Athos through those ridiculously long eyelashes before he very deliberately shifts his leg until they are pressed together from knee to hip. The flush of desire that washes through Athos is breathtaking, even through two layers of denim, the heat of contact is intoxicating, and the promise telegraphed in the touch dizzying in its implications. Athos shifts, jeans suddenly uncomfortably constricting and looks away trying to focus on something, anything, to quell the surge of lust that is threatening to overwhelm him.
They’ve been playing this game for almost two years – circling each other; attracted but kept apart by the fallout from Athos’ spectacularly ugly divorce and Aramis’ untenured state. Neither willing to start something that they might not be able to finish. Intra-departmental relationships are tricky at the best of times, a vindictive ex on the same campus and the possibility that someone is going to be on the job market just made the whole thing more of a risk than either of them was willing to take.
Porthos, perceptive as ever, leans over to whisper, “So, I see we’re keeping the cat,” as Athos shifts again, trying to subtly adjust his erection so it’s not pressed against his zipper. After a moment he succeeds and then untucks his shirt to further cover the evidence of his discomfort only for Aramis to use the additional concealment to slide his hand under the soft cotton and run a finger along the bare skin of Athos’ waistline, raising a line of goosebumps, and making him shiver.
Fuck
He twitches, and fixes Aramis with his best deadpan stare of disapprobation. It’s a look that can quell a class of 200 rowdy freshmen in under 30 seconds, and has even silenced a dean or two, but it does nothing to Aramis who just smiles, eyes teasing and then withdraws the finger and touches it lightly to his bottom lip.
“Remember boys, no foreplay in colloquium.” Is D’Artagnan’s helpful contribution to the conversation and Athos is torn between turning the glare on him, which is likely to just draw even more attention to them and being eternally grateful that he’s hidden in a corner, where no one can possibly be aware that he’s achingly hard and praying for death before anyone else notices.
Fortunately, colloquium is just as hellish as everyone expects.
All the familiar complaints are dragged up and answered. The usual group of perpetual graduate students, some of whom who’ve been around longer than Athos, make their customary noises about there being too much pandering to “new” students, which is a dog-whistle for women and the substantial contingent of Chinese and Middle Eastern students now working with some of the junior faculty. One of the Sustainability Ph.Ds. makes a crack about selling out to oil money and that generates a backlash from the fracking research group. There’s an extended debate about the fate of the department’s very expensive summer field camp and a much shorter one about the new Disciplinary History class – given that it’s been approved by the Curriculum committee, it’s already a done deal, student protests notwithstanding – and by the end of it Athos is feeling nostalgic about the worst days of his divorce when he’d show up to colloquium already a fifth of vodka down on the day and completely oblivious to anything going on at the front of the room.
But then it’s over, no one is happy, and everyone is ready for beer.
“I’m walking down; anyone with me?” Aramis climbs out of the row over the back of the seat and stretches, working the kinks out of his back with a long, lithe, wriggle of his shoulders.
And Athos won’t be tucking his shirt back in.
He stands and grabs his water bottle, nodding an affirmative. He habitually walks to work on a Friday, leaving him free to drink without worrying about getting his bike home. “Just give me five minutes to take this…” he waves his water bottle at Aramis “…back to the office.”
“Sure. Porthos?”
“Nope, my turn to pick up Marie-Cessette. But we have a baby-sitter tonight, so we’ll be down for at least one drink in an hour or so.”
“Excellent, D’Artagnan?”
“Um…I promised Constance I’d be at my apartment as soon as we were done here.” D’Artagnan flushes as Porthos smacks him on the shoulder and Athos rolls his eyes, leaving Aramis to state the obvious. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
D’Artagnan grins and heads for the door, “Great, I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do.”
“You wound me.” Aramis claps a hand to his chest and flounces theatrically, the messy tangle of dark curls bouncing as he throws his head back with a pout.
“Drama queen.” Athos holds the door for the group and gets a brief thrill as Aramis rests a hand over his for a moment, leaning in, his smile warm and intimate.
“Just you and me then, see you in five.”
****
They walk down through the arboretum on the north side of campus; the trees in various stages of leaf-out, pale green to emerald; late flowering dogwoods just beginning to lose their pink and white petals, and oaks shedding long threads of yellow-green pollen. By the time they reach sorority row, they’ve gravitated towards each other, close enough for their shoulders to touch occasionally, and Athos catches his breath as Aramis brushes his fingers across the back of his hand and then laces their fingers together.
“So. We’re doing this?”
They aren’t looking at each other, heading down away from campus into Athos’ neighborhood, passing through on their way to Willow Street.
“I was never not doing this; I was just waiting to see if you wanted it.”
The words are accompanied by a reassuring squeeze and Athos returns it, tightening his fingers briefly before he admits. “Don’t ever think I didn’t want you. I’m just…” he pauses, considering his next words carefully and then sighs, going for blunt honesty. “I’m just wary. I don’t have a great track record with colleague relationships, hell with any relationships. You weren’t here when the last one imploded, it was spectacularly ugly.”
Aramis tightens his grip again. “I might not have been here for the divorce, but I’ve met your ex, she’s a fucking narcissist. You just need someone who’s going to be good to you.” And Athos takes a breath as his hand is lifted, the fingers uncurled and Aramis drops a brief kiss into the palm, before he finishes, “Someone who’s going to be good for you.”
“In that case, we could just…” Athos tilts his head to the right, indicating the street that will lead to his house, and Aramis chuffs a soft laugh.
“No, we couldn’t. People are expecting us, and I think you…” he pauses and reframes, "…I think we both, could use a little more time to get used to this.”
“We’ve been getting used to this for years.”
“The idea of it yes, but not the reality.” Aramis stops, and tugs Athos close. They’re of a similar height, it’s only the breadth of Aramis’ shoulders that make it appear that he’s bigger, but pressed up against each other, Athos is suddenly very aware of the strength and power of the body he’s leaning into; very aware that, for all he’s the prettiest human being Athos has ever laid eyes on, Aramis is also very, very male. His heart trips and races as Aramis holds his gaze and reaches to stroke his thumb gently along the line of his cheekbone, curving long fingers around the nape of his neck and drawing him close enough that they can breathe each other’s air.
The kiss is just a fleeting touch, a brush of lips, whisper soft and teasing but it’s like nothing Athos has ever felt before; like nothing he’s ever imagined; the silky friction of beard on skin, the strength of the fingers curved around his nape, the smell of clean sweat and cedar and sandalwood beard oil.
He’s achingly, exquisitely aroused, and utterly sure that this is what he wants.
He tries to chase the sensation as Aramis leans away, but the strong grip of fingers on the back of his head holds him in place and he can’t quite contain the barely vocalized whimper at the loss of the barely-there kiss.
“Okay.” Aramis is smiling, eyes warm and affectionate. “I guess you’re on board with the reality.” He pulls Athos in for a much more platonic hug and presses a kiss to the side of his head. “But we are still expected at Willow Street and we’re adults, we can rain check the debauchery for an hour or two.”