Work Text:
Rochefort is not very aware of himself or the world around him when he awakens in the earliest hours of the morning. The horizon is still pink when he feels a slight tug on his hair and warm breath by his ear. Birds sing outside, signaling the beginning of a new day, and Rochefort can only grunt in response and relax further into the warmth of his bed.
There’s another slight tug on his hair, and then the touch is gone, replaced by the feeling of soft knuckles brushing against his cheek. “Are you awake?” a voice whispers.
Rochefort groans and rolls over, burying his face in his lover’s chest. “No,” he replies. “Check again when the sun has risen.”
d’Artagnan snorts and presses a kiss to the top of Rochefort’s head. “Well that’s just awful, isn’t it? For me, at least.”
Rochefort hums, prompting d’Artagnan to continue.
He sighs and says, “I suddenly find myself desiring another man’s touch, but there is no one here to give me what I need.” d’Artagnan sighs once again when he feels a wet kiss on his sternum and the scrape of stubble against his skin. A second kiss is placed between his collarbones, and then he feels Rochefort’s tongue outline the hollow of his throat.
Rochefort nudges d’Artagnan onto his back and leans over him, one hand pressed to his ribcage and the other braced against the bed. He kisses d’Artagnan once, twice, then bites his lower lip until he tastes iron.
“It is very early,” Rochefort says, voice rough from sleep.
“Yes,” d’Artagnan replies, squirming underneath him as his fingers glide down to his hip, teasingly close to his groin.
“And I am exhausted.”
“I see.”
“However…” His fingers trail back up d’Artagnan’s body, cupping his chin. “If you can arouse me…”
“ Yes, ” he repeats, voice barely a whisper and laced with impatience.
“You may use me until you find yourself satisfied.”
Rochefort is on his back before he knows it, d’Artagnan’s lips finding his once more. He kisses him fervently as he ruts against his thigh, already hard and aching. Eventually he pulls away, trailing kisses down Rochefort’s chest and stomach until his tongue is sliding along his cock. Rochefort moans at the sensation, his hand finding its way into d’Artagnan’s mess of curly hair, which is quickly batted away.
“You’re exhausted, remember?” he asks coyly, tracing circles on his lover’s upper thigh. “Lay back and relax.”
Rochefort does as asked and is immediately rewarded with d’Artagnan’s mouth around his cock. He groans, fisting the bed sheets to keep from gripping d’Artagnan. He doesn’t bother with trying to keep quiet, neither of them ever have— except for when they say each other’s names. Rochefort doesn’t care if a passing ear hears him in bed with a man, but someone learning of their trysts could put both of them in danger, so their names are reserved for loving whispers and reverent, out-of-breath sighs, spoken like a prayer in an empty cathedral.
Such whispers leave Rochefort’s mouth as his pleasure builds, feeling himself approach the edge as the sun finally rises above the horizon, casting a lovely glow on d’Artagnan’s face. He’s beautiful in a way Rochefort has never seen, and in a way he knows he will never see again. Even as he reaches his orgasm and has it ruined by d’Artagnan’s prompt retreat, he can’t find it in himself to feel annoyed. He sits up and pulls d’Artagnan in for a kiss.
“I love you,” he says.
d’Artagnan’s smile is blinding. “I love you, too. Are you awake now?”
Rochefort smiles back and ducks down to kiss d’Artagnan’s neck, teeth scraping against skin until d’Artagnan is moaning and grinding against him.
“Absolutely,” he practically growls, digging his nails into d’Artagnan’s hips. He feels d’Artagnan melt against him and he sighs.
“Hurry, now,” he says, that teasing lilt returning to his voice. “You don’t want to be late for your morning meeting with the Cardinal’s Guard, do you?”
Rochefort hums. “You know the price of impatience, don’t you?”
“I seem to have forgotten,” d’Artagnan replies. “Remind me, won’t you, my love?”
As always, the price of impatience is d’Artagnan’s own punctuality, as well as his ability to sit comfortably for the rest of the day and his need to strategically hide the bruises and bitemarks that now adorned his neck and chest. Rochefort does not escape unscathed, though, his back decorated with several scratches, some bearing small beads of blood.
Rochefort makes sure every mark on his lover’s body receives a kiss before they part ways for the day, then prepares himself to meet with the Cardinal and his guardsmen. Before he leaves, though, d’Artagnan insists on tying back Rochefort’s hair for him. He’s had a somewhat odd fixation on it for the past few months, and Rochefort isn’t sure why, but never questions d’Artagnan’s touch.
It isn’t until several hours later that the reason is finally made apparent to him. Rochefort is on his way to the stables to retrieve his horse for a short trip to town when he runs into Cardinal Richelieu, who eyes him curiously.
“Where are you off to, Rochefort?”
“Heading into town, Your Eminence.”
“Alone?” Richelieu pries, fixing Rochefort with a look that makes him feel as though he’s being sliced to pieces and examined.
Rochefort nods, giving the Cardinal a nervous smile and replying, “Yes, Your Eminence. Is there someone you wish to accompany me?”
Richelieu shakes his head. “No, no, I just thought… Well, it is getting rather late in the evening, and it will certainly be nightfall by the time you return.”
Rochefort’s brow furrows in confusion. “I do not follow.”
Richelieu sighs. “All I’m saying, Rochefort, is that if I had someone in my chambers nearly every night, I wouldn’t keep them waiting. I know whatever you’ve been doing and whoever you’ve been doing it with has been going on for some time, but don’t get cocky. Women are fickle creatures.”
Rochefort isn’t sure when to begin with that last bit, but as he opens his mouth to respond, the Cardinal cuts him off.
“Do choose your words carefully. I’m not in the mood for lies.”
Rochefort swallows. After a moment, he settles on asking, “How did you find out?”
Richelieu hums. “You’re very discreet, I will give you that, but it seems that your lover is too possessive to allow total secrecy.”
Richelieu moves to walk past Rochefort, and his head spins, contemplating the possibility that d’Artagnan was overheard admitting to their affair, or that perhaps Rochefort had given them away without noticing. Before he can say or do anything, there’s a harsh tug on his hair as the elastic band binding it at the base of his neck is ripped out. He hisses at the unpleasant feeling and whips around to find the Cardinal right behind him, elastic in hand.
“Why—”
“You can’t tell me that you honestly think no one notices,” he says, reaching forward and grabbing a lock of Rochefort’s hair. He looks at him, then at the large, ornate hall mirror to his left.
Rochefort follows the Cardinal’s gaze and his jaw drops at what he sees. In Richelieu’s gloved hand is Rochefort’s own hair, three locks of it twined into a neat plait. The feeling of d’Artagnan’s fingers in his hair returns to him, and it finally dawns on him just what his lover has been doing to him in the early hours of the morning as they lie sleeping together.
Rochefort clears his throat. “I confess, Your Eminence, I was not aware of this myself.”
“No?”
“He ties my hair back for me on the mornings he stays.” Rochefort realizes his mistake as the last syllable leaves his mouth.
Richelieu locks eyes with Rochefort in the mirror, looking uninterested. “In what position am I to judge you when I do not question the private affairs of Buckingham and King James?” he replies, releasing Rochefort and stepping back. “It is not my business who you take to your bed, Rochefort. As long as you continue to conduct yourself properly and follow my orders, we will not have a problem with one another. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Good.” He hands Rochefort his elastic band back. “Hurry up. I’d hate to hear the ensuing quarrel upon your return if you’ve found yourself an impatient lover.”
Flustered and still clinging to the shock of the moment, Rochefort bids the Cardinal goodbye and rushes off. As he turns the corner at the end of the long corridor, he takes a deep breath. He ties his hair back and begins to make his way to the stables once more, this time with the gears of his mind clicking and whirring as he contemplates this new development.
As he rides his horse into town, he devises a plan on how to respond to d’Artagnan’s actions. It will be tricky, and he isn’t sure of his skill in the execution of his plan, but after two weeks of wondering and waiting, he finds d’Artagnan asleep in his chambers during the middle of the day, having snuck of from a meeting or feast of some sort, and he seizes his opportunity.
d’Artagnan awakens to soft humming and the distant, barely there feeling of someone touching his head. He groans and shifts slightly, prompting the mass against him to speak.
“Finally awake, I see.”
“I needed rest. They all came at me at once,” d’Artagnan replies.
“I hope that is not innuendo.”
He huffs. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” d’Artagnan sits up and presses a kiss to Rochefort’s cheek. “I have to get back. I told them I was coming to the palace to visit Constance and antagonize you a bit. If I’m gone much longer they may think me dead.”
Rochefort caresses his cheek and kisses him full on the mouth, holding him close even though he’s halfway off the bed by now.
d’Artagnan chuckles. “I really must go.”
“I wish you could stay. Always.”
He kisses him once more. “Maybe one day I can.”
Rochefort’s eye flickers to the side for a moment, and there’s a mischievous glint there. His gaze quickly turns back to d’Artagnan and he smiles, letting him go. “Hopefully soon. Will I see you tonight?”
He nods. “You will.”
And with that, they release each other, and d’Artagnan leaves. He sneaks down the hallways, avoiding people who might gossip at the sight of him leaving Rochefort’s chambers, and heads back to his shared home with the other three Musketeers.
The house is empty, even to the rare extent of missing Planchet, so d’Artagnan finds himself something to eat and digs out the small stash of wine he keeps hidden for himself. If he didn’t put away some of his own, Porthos and Athos would surely drink the lot of it right out from under Aramis and himself. d’Artagnan settles himself at the table and eats, thinking about Rochefort as he does so, already missing the feeling of his hands.
Just as he begins to sink into an indulgent fantasy, the door opens.
“d’Artagnan!” Porthos bellows, dragging a drunk Athos alongside him.
d’Artagnan chuckles, watching Aramis trudge in behind them.
“Did they cause you trouble?” d’Artagnan asks.
Aramis just sighs and takes a seat next to him. “There wasn’t even a party,” he says. “They just had a bit too much money on them when we stopped by the tavern. We were going to come to the castle, Porthos wanted to catch you and Miss Constance so he could embarrass the two of you, but they got into a state so quickly…” Aramis shrugs off his coat. “Glad to see you’re back, though.”
d’Artagnan nods in response, pushing the wine in Aramis’s direction. He takes it gratefully.
“Glad to see you had fun, too,” Athos says, taking a seat on the other side of d’Artagnan. “Found yourself a comfortable spot in her bed, did you?”
d’Artagnan’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?” His hand moves instinctively towards his neck, but he stops himself just in time. There’s no way he has any marks on him, none visible at least. He and Rochefort are generally careful about that sort of thing.
From behind him, d’Artagnan feels a hand tug at his hair. He yelps and whips around. “Why did you—”
“You let her braid your hair,” Porthos coos drunkenly. “How sweet.”
d’Artagnan blinks. He reaches up to feel his hair, his fingers immediately brushing against a small braid. He ruffles his locks and finds another, then another.
“She isn’t very good at it,” Aramis comments, looking at d’Artagnan over the rims of his reading glasses. “Doesn’t she attend to the Queen? One would think she can at least braid hair decently.”
d’Artagnan’s fingers shake as he feels the various little braids strewn throughout his hair. Without another word, he rushes out the door, leaving his friends stunned and staring after him.
The heavy door to Rochefort’s room creaks open. As it shuts, a voice says, “You braided my hair.”
“I believe you did it first,” Rochefort replies without looking up from his book.
d’Artagnan locks the door and crosses the room, taking a seat on Rochefort’s lap. “Does it bother you?” he asks. “I’ll stop if it does.”
Rochefort puts his book down and wraps his arms around d’Artagnan. “No,” he replies, giving him a soft smile. “It does not bother me at all. I only thought, if you get to stake your claim, so do I.”
d’Artagnan laughs. “So that’s what this is about?”
Rochefort shrugs. “The Cardinal thought the braid was because I have a possessive lover.”
d’Artagnan leans forward. “Do you?” he asks lowly.
“Do I?” Rochefort replies with the same tone of voice, pulling d’Artagnan by his hips.
d’Artagnan smiles and pecks him on the nose. “You do. But that isn’t why I braid your hair.”
“Oh? Then why do you braid my hair?”
“You’ll laugh at me,” he says.
Rochefort kisses him. “Never. Tell me.”
d’Artagnan hums and rests his head on Rochefort’s shoulder. “I used to braid my mother’s hair. As an infant I was always playing with it, so when I was old enough, she taught me how to braid it. Eventually I started braiding hair for some of the girls that lived near us. Few of the boys were fond of it.” He chuckles. “Many of them were mad at me for stealing the attention of every girl nearby. They had no idea that I couldn’t be less interested.”
Rochefort thinks of when this all started, the secretive braiding of his hair; five, maybe six months ago.
“You started braiding my hair soon after your mother passed,” he says, carding his fingers through his lover’s hair.
d’Artagnan is silent for a moment, still as a statue in Rochefort’s arms. After several moments, he says, “It reminded me of her. Reminded me of home. I’d close my eyes, listen to the birds sing and feel the sun on my back, and for a moment I was with her. It was just us in the garden, watching the sun rise before we tended to the horses. And then I’d open my eyes, and you’d be lying there beside me, sleeping peacefully, but I didn’t feel any different.”
Rochefort blinks. “So I remind you of your mother now?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, attempting to lighten the mood.
d’Artagnan laughs, even as tears brim in his eyes, and smacks Rochefort’s arm. “No,” he says, making eye contact with Rochefort. “You remind me of home. You are home.”
Rochefort feels a sudden wave of emotion crash into him upon hearing d’Artagnan’s words. He kisses him passionately, holding him as close as possible. When they part, he feels d’Artagnan’s tears on his face. He kisses him again, and again, and again, until he tastes salt on his tongue.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you and I want you to stay with me.” He takes one of d’Artagnan’s hands in his own. “Tonight and every night for the rest of our lives. I want the only home I know until the end of my days to be wherever you lead me.”
“And what if I go somewhere that you cannot follow?” he asks softly.
Rochefort cups his cheek with his free hand. “There is no such place.”
d’Artagnan smiles widely, unable to contain his joy, and more tears spill down his cheeks. “I love you. Truly, I do. I could not leave you if I tried. I could never desire to.”
Rochefort looks at d’Artagnan with so much love in his eye that no one who could have walked in at that moment could have mistaken his expression for anything but pure adoration and devotion. “If I could have your hand…”
d’Artagnan’s heart skips a beat. “You already do,” he says. “In every way that matters. I am yours, and you are mine, regardless of priests or rings or ceremonies.”
“I am yours,” Rochefort echoes. “And you are mine, until death do us part.” He runs his knuckles along d’Artagnan’s cheek. “May I never see another sunrise without you.”
“May I never know another home outside of your arms.” d’Artagnan turns his head and kisses Rochefort’s fingers, then makes eye contact with his lover as he says, “For as long as we both shall live.”
Rochefort’s breath catches in his throat. It was one thing to broach the subject, to sneak in marriage vows amongst his own declarations, but it was quite another to hear his sentiment returned in kind. In this moment, it felt as if they were at an altar, being joined together in their own private wedding. They needed no priest, though, nor congregation, nor guests, nor extensive dress. They needed only each other, purely and wholly as they were now in the dim light of the candles and the setting sun.
“I would have you as you are now,” d’Artagnan says. “I would have you if you became King tomorrow, and I would have you if you became a peasant. I would have you ten years younger, and I will have you ten years from now, and ten after that, and on and on until you are upon your deathbed. I would have you if you were the strongest man in the world, and I would have you if you could not lift a thing. I would have you ill, and I would have you well. Not a day shall pass that I do not love you, cherish you, want you— however you wish to label my feelings. I wish for no other life than one by your side. I wish for no world in which you are absent. I wish for no man to destroy what we have created together. I wish for our souls to join and never separate. I wish for you to love me, as I love you, until the end of time.”
Rochefort doesn’t realize he’s crying until d’Artagnan’s thumb brushes against his cheek.
“Who knew you were such a romantic,” d’Artagnan teases, kissing the bridge of his nose.
Rochefort laughs, feeling more content in this very moment than he ever has. “I love you,” he says, tears continuing to fall. “I love you and I always will. Nothing will ever change that. I do not care if you are a Musketeer of Paris or a poor farm boy from Gascony. I do not care if you fight me in the daylight and love me in the night. If the only way I can have you is secret rendezvous away from searching eyes, or stolen glances and disguised touches, that is how I shall have you. I could survive off the sight of you alone, but I pray I am never condemned to so much as a day without holding you.” He cradles d’Artagnan’s face in his hands. “I pray,” he whispers, “I pray each and every night that there will come a time and place in which I will not have to hide how completely and utterly I am devoted to you.” He rests his forehead against d’Artagnan’s and sighs. “But so long as I have you, and so long as you love me, I refuse to complain. You are already far more than I could ever hope for, and as long as I know your touch, I know happiness.”
d’Artagnan smiles and brings a hand up to run through Rochefort’s hair. A moment later, his eyes light up.
“I have no ring to give you,” he says, leaning away, “but I believe I have discovered a suitable alternative.” d’Artagnan leaves Rochefort’s lap for a moment and seeks out the dagger kept in Rochefort’s desk, bringing it over to him along with a few small elastic bands.
Rochefort looks at him curiously. “I do not understand.”
d’Artagnan sets the elastic bands aside, all but one, and uses it to tie off a lock of his hair. He then brings the dagger up and slices through the strands, the blade passing just above the elastic. Rochefort watches in confusion.
“I want to braid my hair into yours, and yours into mine.”
Rochefort smiles and kisses him. “Whatever you wish, my love.”
With that, d’Artagnan sets to work on braiding his hair into Rochefort’s, deft fingers crossing and twining the locks of hair until he can tie off the braid. He leaves the rest of Rochefort’s hair down, kissing the top of his head once he’s finished.
“Your turn, my love,” he says, offering Rochefort the dagger.
d’Artagnan’s braid takes a bit longer, Rochefort being far less experienced with braiding hair than his lover. The streak of silver hair stands out amongst d’Artagnan’s brown locks, barely hidden behind his left ear, but the usual anxiety that comes with the possibility of being caught does not consume Rochefort in this moment. He thinks only of d’Artagnan and their love for each other. His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a kiss.
“If this is truly to be our wedding, I believe there is still one very important step left,” d’Artagnan says. He leans in, lips by his ear, and whispers, “Take me to bed.”
Rochefort picks d’Artagnan up and carries him to bed, kissing him every step of the way. They part only to undress each other, but tonight is nowhere near as rushed as most nights, fueled by urgent lust and impatient desire. Tonight every action is slow and deliberate and performed with the utmost care and tenderness. Tonight they make love in the light of candles and stars, relearning each other’s bodies as if it is their first time together.
In the morning, they will awaken and prepare to part, just as they do on most days, but until the sunrise they are not Captain and Musketeer, they are not enemies with casual quarrels, they are only Rochefort and d’Artagnan. They are lovers, husbands, and nothing about their circumstances can change what they feel in their hearts.