Chapter Text
The university campus shimmered in the August heat, iron fences baking in the sun and old stone buildings casting narrow shadows onto the busy walkways. Returning students spilled onto the quad, arms laden with boxes, bags, and questionable decor decisions. The flag bearing the school motto—Honor, Intention, Growth—fluttered on the dormitory spire.
Up on the third floor, the door to Dorm 3C creaked open.
"Home sweet madhouse," Aramis announced grandly, shoving the door wide with his shoulder while dragging two duffel bags behind him. He didn’t stop talking as he kicked off his boots: "I swear the mattress in Porthos’ room misses me more than he does."
Porthos followed at a more reasonable pace, balanced and steady as always, carrying a mini fridge on one shoulder and a box of fencing gear under the other. "The mattress doesn’t whine about cold feet at 3 a.m., so yeah, probably."
Athos was already there, of course—room pristine, books shelved, fencing kit neatly stored. He sat cross-legged on his bed with a clipboard in hand, marking off items on a training schedule like it was sacred scripture.
He didn’t look up as he said, “I told you we’d need to leave early if we wanted decent parking.”
"We got here, didn’t we?" Aramis flopped onto Porthos’ bed, narrowly avoiding the corner of the fridge. "Also, your planning anxiety is showing, darling."
Athos made a dignified noise in the back of his throat. "I like to be prepared."
"You color-coded our grocery list last year," Aramis said cheerfully. "It was alphabetical and by perishability."
"Some of us appreciate structure," Athos muttered.
Porthos dropped the fridge with a thud and gave Athos a pat on the back as he passed. “He’s got a point though. We’re all braver men because of your spreadsheets.”
Aramis tilted his head, smirking. “Mm. Speaking of bravery—any plans to finally sign up for an AP assignment this term?”
Athos finally looked up. His expression was mild but skeptical, which for him was practically emotional whiplash. “No.”
“Why not?” Aramis asked, immediately shifting into what Porthos privately referred to as the interview face. “You’re the fencing team captain. You’ve got a clean record again. Treville loves you. Think how good it’d look to take a first-year on.”
“I’m not interested in playing nursemaid to someone else’s reckless decisions,” Athos replied crisply, ticking another box on his clipboard.
“You’re one to talk,” Aramis muttered, grinning.
Porthos settled onto his bed and nudged Aramis in the ribs. “Come on, you needed wrangling last year. You were a full-time job until finals.”
“And look at me now,” Aramis said proudly, throwing his arms wide. “Fully bonded. Mostly behaved. Terribly charming.”
Athos arched a brow. “You caused a minor fire in the dining hall.”
"One," Aramis held up a finger. "Very minor fire. And it was technically an accident."
"Technically," Porthos repeated with a snort.
Aramis rolled onto his side and stared up at Athos. “Just think about it. You’ve got the patience. The experience. The glare that turns even third-year brats into remorseful puddles.”
Athos set the clipboard aside with a sigh. “That’s not a compliment.”
"It is," Porthos said. “He just delivers it like a threat.”
Outside the window, a new round of shouting echoed from the quad—a dropped box, laughter, some swearing. Another year was beginning.
Athos stood, brushing invisible dust from his shirt. “Let’s just survive the first week before assigning me to a brat with no impulse control.”
“You’re no fun,” Aramis called after him as Athos crossed to the kitchen. Then, after a beat, he added: “But I’m glad you’re here.”
Athos paused in the doorway. “So am I.”
***
The cab that deposited D’Artagnan in front of St. Arnaud Residence was still rolling away when he threw open the trunk and dragged his single battered suitcase onto the gravel.
“Right,” he muttered to himself, squinting up at the building. It was an old place, elegant in a cold sort of way, all limestone and shuttered windows. Ivy crept up the side like nature trying to reclaim it. There was something official about it—more rulebook than home—but D’Artagnan didn’t mind. Rules, after all, could be rewritten. He’d proven that already.
A few first-years were milling about the entrance, parents fussing and siblings darting around. D’Artagnan skirted the crowd with the grace of someone who knew how to avoid attention. He kept his head down, hair flopping into his face, and flashed the university-issued keycard he wasn’t strictly supposed to have.
Room 2B.
A single.
Assigned last week in what had, on paper, been a “system error.” He hadn’t lied, exactly. He’d simply redirected the algorithm to select his preferred option, while nudging the backup dormitory placements somewhere far away, like Siberia.
The corridor was quiet. His boots echoed on the worn floorboards as he reached his door and swiped the card.
Click.
He was in.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, dumping his bag just inside and taking a victorious spin in the middle of the modest room. One bed. One desk. One chair. No assigned roommate. No hovering AP. No lectures, no long talks about structure and accountability and duty to community.
And best of all? No Treville.
He grinned to himself, peeling off his hoodie and flinging it over the chair. The room smelled faintly of wood polish and dust. He cracked the window open, leaned out, and took a deep breath.
And nearly fell backwards when a voice called up from below.
“You alright up there?”
A woman with long auburn curls stood on the patch of grass below, shielding her eyes from the sun. She wore wide-leg linen trousers and a university badge that marked her as someone official—though her easy smile and sun-kissed face gave off more artist than admin.
“Fine!” D’Artagnan called back, flushing slightly. “Just—checking the air quality.”
She grinned. “Let us know if it’s not up to standard. We can always crack a window or two on our side.”
Her side, apparently, was Room 2A, directly opposite his.
Two minutes later, D’Artagnan was standing awkwardly in their open doorway.
“I thought I’d, uh—say hi properly,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Good instincts,” the woman said, stepping aside. “I’m Constance Bonacieux. Second year. This is my husband Jacques.”
Jacques gave a nod from the couch, where he was assembling a bookshelf with silent intensity. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms steady. There was a calm weight to him, the kind D’Artagnan recognized immediately—Top. Not just in designation. In presence. Jacques didn’t need to say much to set the tone of the room.
“D’Artagnan,” he offered. “Just… D’Artagnan.”
“Well, just D’Artagnan,” Constance said, folding her arms. “You’re the first person I’ve met in two years who got a single as a first-year.”
“Lucky draw,” he lied smoothly.
She arched a brow. “Hmm.”
Jacques glanced up, tools paused. “There aren’t any singles in this building.”
D’Artagnan laughed—just a touch too loudly. “Yeah? Must be a glitch.”
Constance exchanged a look with her husband, but said nothing. Instead, she moved to the mini fridge, pulled out a bottle of sparkling water, and tossed it to him.
He caught it, surprised.
“Welcome to St. Arnaud,” she said. “Let us know if you need anything. The walls are thin, by the way.”
“Right.”
“Very thin,” she added with a pointed smile. “So if you decide to have a rebellious spiral at 2 a.m., we’ll be the first to know.”
Jacques chuckled softly.
D’Artagnan held her gaze. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He retreated soon after, feeling their eyes on his back.
The door closed behind him with a click, and for a moment, he stood still.
Okay. So maybe he wasn’t entirely under the radar. Yet. But the room was his. Just freedom and a whole term to do it his way.
He flopped back on the bed, hands behind his head.
The world, he thought smugly, better be ready for D’Artagnan.
***
The late afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of Dorm 3C, warming the wooden floorboards and making Athos’ perfectly stacked training schedules look golden and, to his frustration, somehow less important.
“…I’m just saying,” Aramis continued from the floor, where he lay belly-down, scrolling through party flyers on his tablet, “that a welcome-back bash is practically required.”
“No,” Athos said without looking up from his clipboard.
“It’s the first weekend,” Aramis insisted. “You’re supposed to celebrate surviving your summer internship-slash-penance-slash-disappearance into the wilderness.”
“I wasn’t in the wilderness.”
“Whatever it was, it took you off the grid and out of Treville’s clutches for three months, which is basically a gap year in your book,” Aramis grinned, kicking his heels lazily. “You deserve to have fun.”
“I have fun,” Athos muttered, pen scratching firmly down his list.
Porthos, perched at the edge of his bed assembling his gear locker, snorted. “When? Is this about that crossword you finished in ink last week?”
“It was a difficult crossword,” Athos said stiffly.
Aramis rolled onto his back and stretched like a cat. “Come with us. One party. Lots of second-years, probably some people trying to figure out who they want to be this year—no responsibilities, no forms, just music and minor mischief.”
“I don’t do minor mischief,” Athos replied.
“You don’t do anything but fencing and spreadsheets,” Aramis shot back, then sat up, face brightening like a lightbulb had gone off in his skull. “Porthos. Tell him it’s good for his emotional development.”
Porthos raised an eyebrow. “He’d rather be emotionally underdeveloped.”
“True,” Athos muttered.
“Fine,” Aramis said, hands up, clearly preparing to dig in. “But don’t come crying to me when you realize fencing team recruitment has fewer volunteers than the rock-climbing club because you’re the face of it and you look like you’d stab anyone who brings a rapier too close.”
Athos did look up at that. “I do not look like that.”
“Scowl check?” Aramis pointed cheerfully at him. “On a scale from one to ‘accidentally terrified a fresher into handing over their dorm keys,’ you’re at a firm eight and a half.”
“Maybe they deserved it,” Athos said coolly.
“Maybe they were five foot nothing with a flute case and no concept of sarcasm,” Aramis replied.
Porthos leaned back against the wall, chuckling. “I dunno. Kid looked shifty.”
“You would say that,” Aramis groaned. Then he turned abruptly to Athos, eyes gleaming with sudden bratty defiance. “Alright. Fine. Don’t come. But if I do go, and I end up with a campus citation or I’m late for fencing drills tomorrow—you don’t get to lecture me.”
Athos tilted his head. “Is that supposed to be a deterrent?”
Aramis blinked. “Well, no. I like your lectures. They're soothing. Like getting yelled at by a disappointed thundercloud.”
Porthos burst out laughing.
Athos stood with deliberate calm, dropped the clipboard on his neatly made bed, and crossed the room to stand in front of Aramis, who didn’t move. But his grin faltered a little. Just a little.
“Aramis,” Athos said, voice low. “If you go out tonight, that’s fine. You’re not my boyfriend. You’re not even my problem.”
Aramis straightened his spine. “But?”
“But,” Athos continued, folding his arms, “if you drag yourself in tomorrow late, loud, or limping—and then try to fence with that ridiculous hangover shuffle—you will find out exactly how wrong you are about that last point.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Noted,” Aramis said, cheeks pinking slightly. “Definitely noted.”
Athos stepped back, calm as ever. “Good.”
Porthos gave Aramis a look that was somewhere between amused and fond. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm. You love me,” Aramis said breezily, swinging himself upright to straddle Porthos’ lap and steal a kiss.
Athos sighed and retrieved his clipboard again. “Just don’t be late. Drills are at eight.”
Eight!” Aramis groaned. “Who plans drills at eight in the morning?”
“Someone who wants to win this year.”
Aramis slid his arms around Porthos’ neck and muttered, “Someone who needs to get kissed more.”
“Not wrong,” Porthos replied, and leaned in obligingly.
Athos looked up for half a second—just long enough to regret it—and then turned his attention back to the spreadsheet.
He liked the quiet. Even when it was filled with Aramis making a racket. Even when Porthos was trying not to laugh. Even when he was tempted to do exactly what Aramis accused him of—go and live his life.
But not yet.
First, fencing team revival.
Then, maybe, fun.
Maybe.