Chapter Text
They say that when you meet your soulmate, the whole world opens up. Food tastes better, alcohol is enjoyable (Athos can’t even fathom that), and people gain a new sense that allows them to experience everything on Earth in a new way.
When you meet your soulmate, you gain a new sense. The sense of smell.
Athos doesn’t know if he likes the idea. Ever since he was a child, it mildly terrified him. He quite liked the world as it was, thank you very much, he didn’t want it to suddenly include new stimuli that would assault his senses and change how he experienced everything he knew. He definitely didn’t like the fact that this new awareness couldn’t be turned off. What if he didn’t like having a sense of smell? What if he didn’t like the new world he’d be forced into?
His parents laughed, of course. They were soulmates. They had lived without the sense of smell and with it, and they assured him with placating smiles and headpats that there was nothing to be afraid of, that having a sense of smell is wonderful, that he’s missing out on so much. That’s alright, though. He will find his soulmate one day and experience it for himself.
Fat chance, Athos thought now.
Actually, the chances of finding your soulmate weren’t bad at all. See, when I say soulmate, it’s not really the one of a kind type. Some people are simply compatible in a way that makes them click. Not everyone finds a soulmate, while some lucky people find several. Soulmates is just a romantic way of saying “people who have perfect chemistry”. Much better than smellmates. Or chemistrymates. Workshopping that name didn’t take much time.
There really is quite a high chance that Athos will one day find his soulmate. Theoretically. Athos, however, doesn’t find that life often goes his way.
When he met Anne, he was shocked that the famed chemistry miracle didn’t happen. If she wasn’t his soulmate, who could be? She was perfect. He fell for her harder than an egg on concrete, and he broke just as easily.
With the benefit of time, he sees only one silver lining about that whole shit show, and that is the fact that she was not his soulmate.
If she could break his heart the way she did, how much worse would it have been if she was his soulmate? If she bonded with him, compatible on a cellular level, if her mere presence could alter the way his body and mind operated?
No, life does not usually go Athos’ way, but in this, Athos would be happy if it never did. Not only does he doubt that he’ll ever find a soulmate, he hopes to high heavens he never will. What does he need a sense of smell for, anyway? So he’d feel the need to buy fancy, expensive alcohol and cheese and all those other things bonded people rave about? He’ll gladly save his money and drink himself under the table on the cheapest gin, thank you very much.
Porthos is of a different opinion. He’s one of the lucky people whose chemistry matches many people at least partly, and the more time he spends around people, the keener his sense of smell is. It’s never too good - he’d have to live with his soulmate in close quarters for that to happen - but he can enjoy his beloved wine and cheese and, uh, the smell of petrol, Athos thinks he remembers him saying. To each their own and all that.
The downside of Porthos’ life long sense of smell is that he doesn’t remember what it was like not to have any, and still says things like “you must be able to taste that!” when offering him something that is entirely based on aroma. Athos also has to shower and put on clean clothes every time he meets him.
That’s another thing he doesn’t have to worry about unless he’s around bonded people. Wearing the same shirt two days in a row? Not a problem! As long as it’s not stained, he’s even fine with four days. Bonded people, however, do get a bit up-nosed (pun very much intended) around those who are unbonded. In the recent years, however, they haven’t been able to say as much anymore in fear of accusations of discrimination. That Athos finds hilarious. Not only can he turn up at work smeared in horse shit, no one is legally allowed to tell him to go shower anymore.
He wouldn’t do that, of course, on account of having basic human decency. Unfortunately, to Porthos, not smearing himself with horse shit is not enough, he also has to be freshly showered and wearing clothes not older than two days, lest he wants to offend his sensitive nose. (Porthos says his nose is not sensitive at all but that Athos has an intensely pungent sweat. Athos tries not to take that too personally. It seems that his best friend is chemically compatible with most people apart from, oh, yeah, Athos himself.)
Well. It’s not like Porthos would choose to be his best friend if they didn’t spend so much time together and rely on each other in life or death situations. Athos is keenly aware of the fact that, were it not for these circumstances, he’d have no friends at all.
Whatever the reason may be, they have grown to be more than colleagues. They are brothers. There are only three people they would jump in front of a bullet for: the king, the queen, and each other, and Athos knows for a fact that the first two would be out of professional duty, but for each other, they’d do it with a beating heart and a prayer on their lips. (A prayer for the bullet to hit their bulletproof vest.)
He takes a sip of his gin and tonic and wonders what their new colleagues will be like. Brujon and Clairmont are both leaving to join the King’s Guard (a wholly ceremonial post that would make their mothers proud and look amazing on their CVs, but which would kill Athos with boredom), and the ranks of the personal royal guard (archaically known as the musketeers) will be replenished with two new faces.
Today, Marsac and Treville, the most senior soldiers, stayed with the royal couple while Athos and Porthos joined the others at the “changing of the guards” to send off their young cadets and welcome into their little family two new faces. Basically, it’s an excuse to get pissed, and Athos takes any and every opportunity he can to do just that. He’s good at it, too. Practiced. He knows exactly how much to drink to look only mildly inebriated, to keep himself on that edge for as long as he has to be sociable, and to tip over it the second he’s alone, taking himself from buzzing numbness to blissful unconsciousness without a detour to puketown. He is a pro.
He isn’t anywhere near that state now, though, not with his colleagues so near and the responsibilities looming over both his and Porthos’ head. If anything happened to Treville or Marsac, they’d have to step in. And anyway, his drink tastes weird tonight, the gin sharper than he’s used to and the tonic barely covering it. It’s making his head spin, and not because of the alcohol intake. Strange. He didn’t notice it when he first started drinking that evening.
“They’re here!” someone suddenly shouts.
“Changing of the guards!” another one hollers and the whole bar erupts into cheers. Porthos stands up and drags Athos with him to the centre of the action. Brujon and Clairmont, their faces split into huge grins, salute them and accept their (ridiculous) bearskins, which Athos is pretty sure are old, out of use, and infested with at least one type of pest he’d stay away from, seeing as their clean, official bearskins never left the barracks.
The guards then stand at attention, salute the new recruits, and then part like the river Jordan to welcome two new men. It’s all very coordinated and dramatic for a bunch of drunks in a bar, but Athos doesn’t expect anything less diva-like from men who chose those hats as uniforms. Not that he looks down on them. He’s sure they have very good reason to have chosen their profession. A reason he can’t see.
The two men they reveal look promising. Athos studies them with his soldier’s eye, his focus sweeping over them, catching bits and pieces of surface level information. One is young, tall, nervous but smiling, ramrod straight back even when at ease. Second looks more unkempt, more loose, his body language open, smile friendly, but his unassuming muscles coiled with strength, obviously used to action. Both have longer hair, meaning neither came straight from the army, but they have the air of fighters. Special forces, maybe.
“We’re keeping these, you can take these,” one of the guards tells Athos and Porthos with a grin, and the mass swallows up Brujon and Clairmont and leaves the two new guys standing alone like orphans during the blitz.
“Well, that was... surreal,” the rugged (charming, roguishly handsome) one says, scratching his head, shifting his body weight to one leg. “Please tell me we don’t have to wear those hats.”
Porthos laughs and claps them both on the shoulders, leading them to their table. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t wear anything I couldn’t get through the door in.”
“He already struggles most days anyway,” adds Athos dryly as he follows them.
“It’s not my fault that old castles are full of tiny doors,” Porthos complains as they sit down.
“It is your fault that you keep forgetting do duck.”
Athos earns himself a delighted laugh from the rugged fellow and a surprised burst from the younger one. Porthos glares at them both, managing to immediately wipe the smile off of the boy’s face and scare an apology out of him, but the other one’s grin only grows larger.
“I’m Duvallon, code name Porthos,” Porthos drops the stare and shakes their hands, then points to Athos. “This ray of sunshine over here is Olivier de la Fere, code name Athos.”
“Posh?” the rugged one leans in and raises his eyebrows.
“You have no idea,” Porthos says in a conspiratorial tone and Athos rolls his eyes. There’s something strange in the air, something... he’s not sure how to describe it. He’s not even sure if it’s pleasant. It is, however, starting to get on his nerves.
“I’m Aramis,” the rugged one offers them both a handshake. His hand is dry and a shade warmer than Athos’. “Or René, but Aramis makes me feel like a romantic hero,” he grins and leans back. Athos feels like he can breathe more freely.
“Charles. Or D’Artagnan,” the young one, likewise, shakes their hands, his grip overconfident but slightly clammy, trying to hide his nerves. “Do we use code names when we’re not on the job?”
“Yeah, it makes it easier,” Porthos nods. “But do what you’re comfortable with, as long as you don’t mess up in official channels. We’re so used to the code names we barely remember the real ones,” he indicates himself and Athos.
Athos briefly wonders if he should mention that he actually strongly prefers that they do not use his real name, but then decides to wait and see if they even try. He doesn’t want to invite any questions.
“Do the King and Queen have code names?” Aramis asks.
Porthos chuckles into his wine glass. “Only ones you do not want to repeat in official channels.”
Aramis’ expressive face somehow conveys “oh really, is that how it is? Alright then, interesting”, while D’Artagnan seems mildly scandalized. Athos’ mouth curves into an amused smirk.
“They’re the monarchs of France!” d’Artagnan exclaims. “Why have this job if you don’t respect them?”
“I have this job for a steady paycheck and bragging rights,” Porthos shrugs, unbothered. “Nothing gets you laid like being the king’s personal bodyguard.”
“That is exactly why I joined,” Aramis nods sagely and Porthos raises his glass to him in a salute. Then Aramis turns his eyes to Athos. “And you?”
Because I have a death wish and Treville was the only one willing to give me a job with my past, Athos thinks. Aloud, he says: “I like the uniform.”
Aramis seems to like the obviously flippant answer, judging by his appreciative nod. “It is a very nice uniform.” Then, he stands up, pointing at their drinks. “Next round’s on me, what are you having?”
Porthos orders the same house red, D’Artagnan a cider. Athos is almost tempted to ask for coke or something similarly inoffensive to his prickly senses, but the memory of the circumstances of his recruitment makes him want to drink, so he asks for another gin and tonic, this time with ice. Everything is more palatable when chilled to the max. Why is he being so sensitive? And why is the air so... heavy? Every breath carries a strange flavour to it, almost as if he’s...
...
...no. No, that’s not possible. It can’t be happening! This was not... it was not the place nor the time, such place and time doesn’t exist, he’s not supposed to...!
Athos’ heart starts hammering in his chest, his head spins, his breathing picks up. He squeezes his thigh hard under the table and starts counting from hundred to zero in increments of seven. It would not do to have a panic attack in a full bar.
“You OK?” Porthos asks. Athos looks at him, and his concerned face, surprisingly, snaps him out of the worst of it. He isn’t alone. Porthos is with him, and Porthos never allows him to fight alone.
He never realized just how much the sight of his best friend worked like a balm on his soul.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s nothing.”
Porthos reluctantly nods. It’s not that he believes him, Athos knows, but he knows Athos very well by now. He knows very little about his past, but over the years, he’s learned that Athos has demons and that those demons are very, very private. He would never force him to confront them in public, nor would he draw attention to them.
Athos hesitantly pokes the thoughts in his head, steeling himself for another wave of panic, but the low simmering of it doesn’t threaten to overcome him again. Good. Now he can try to think about this rationally.
Athos’ soulmate is in this room. There is no denying it, unless... but no, this time, it’s different. His soulmate is here, must have been here... maybe for the last half an hour or so, that’s when the drink started to taste so strongly. The bar isn’t reserved for the guards, but it’s so full of them, no one else dares to squeeze in. Which means... shit.
The smell got stronger once their two new colleagues sat down with them. It’s one of them.
Alright, his soulmate is a man. Interesting. Unexpected, but not shocking. Athos isn’t a very sexually active man. Unbonded people don’t tend to be. He does prefer women as far as he knows, but bonding with someone can change a lot of things as well as increase one’s libido.
No, the problem isn’t the sex or gender or coffee preference of his soulmate. It’s their - his - profession. If it really is one of these two men, that means that Athos can’t simply avoid him. He’ll be forced to work in close quarters with him, unable to stop breathing in his scent. It’s not like he can just stop breathing any time he gets near his soulmate. And the more he breathes in, the more he’ll... what? Bond? Is that how it works? He knows the basics, the theory in the abstract, he just never cared enough to learn the science behind it, the nitty gritty of the whole process. He just knows that the more time soulmates spend together, the stronger their relationship, the more they can smell, in turn meaning they can smell each other more...
“There we go, red wine for Porthos, gin and tonic for Athos, and two ciders for D’Artagnan and moi,” Aramis startles him as he sets their drinks on the table. Fuck, did the smell get stronger with his arrival? Is Athos just imagining it?
Athos downs his old drink, doing his best not to wince at the taste, and tries the new one. Same problem, just colder and sparklier.
“Mm, this is very good!” Aramis’ surprised voice makes Athos look up to see him appreciating his glass of cider.
“Never had it before?” asks Porthos.
Aramis frowns. “No, I’m pretty sure I have.” Then he shrugs and drinks again. “I suppose I’m just overjoyed about the new job.”
But when Porthos and D’Artagnan go back to whatever they were talking about while Athos was having a panicked revelation, Aramis isn’t so quick to join them. Athos watches both newbies, trying to feign polite interest. D’Artagnan is enthusiastic and curious, which could be distracting him from any potential new smells. Aramis, however...
Aramis is also politely feigning interest. Which means... well. He supposes it’s a good thing it’s not the royalist little upstart. Aramis seems like an intelligent, easy going guy.
And Anne seemed like an innocent angel, whispers the part of Athos’ brain he likes to drown in alcohol.
He needs to pretend there’s nothing wrong, prolong the inevitable. Hey, maybe he can fake his entire working relationship with Aramis. Smelling isn’t visible, is it? Athos has a good poker face.
Unfortunately, he isn’t counting on the fact that he is very, very new to this “has a sense of smell” thing, and the bar is full of men who have very little regard for soap. One such man, captain Marcheaux, chooses his side of the table to lean over to, one hand on the back of Athos’ chair, the other on the table, his right armpit almost in Athos’ face.
“How are the new recruits doing?” he asks pleasantly. Athos takes a deep breath and cannot help but reel back a little as the full power of an unwashed armpit hits him straight in the face.
He freezes.
Aramis freezes.
Nobody else notices. D’Artagnan doesn’t know Athos or his reactions, and Porthos knows Marcheaux enough to know that leaning away from him is a good idea at any and all times, so he doesn’t question it. Aramis, however, has been waiting for any sign, Athos knows that because he himself did the same, watching out of the corner of his eye for any signs that the other man is his soulmate.
Fuck, he knows.
That’s it, then, Athos thinks. He is absolutely fucked. Aramis, the good-natured jokester, is going to be overjoyed to have found his soulmate, and Athos will have to publicly let him down. And then work with him. Possibly for years. This is going to be a shit show of epic proportions and Athos is steeling himself already, but then...
... then nothing.
Aramis doesn’t say a thing. He joins Porthos and D’Artagnan in their chat with Marcheaux until the man is kind enough to fuck off, and then turns the conversation to their backgrounds. He bonds (ha) with Porthos over their shared history in the SAS, makes interested sounds when D’Artagnan talks about being top of his class in training, and when Athos tells him the bare basics - military school, officer in the navy, no mention of the gap year that destroyed his entire life - Athos could almost be imaging the tightening around his eyes.
And so they talk and spend the evening, guards milling around them, and bit by bit, Athos relaxes. The panic that has been gripping his heart ever since he realized the truth hesitantly leaves, as if it doesn’t really know if it won’t be needed again, ready to jump back at any sign of trouble. But there is no trouble. Because whatever the reason, Aramis is mirroring Athos in pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary.
Athos has found the perfect soulmate. One who doesn’t want him, either.