[ok let's go] When he was fifteen, Aramis Eliseo Herrera made three rules. 1. Whatever's up with your gender is between you and God and no one else. Don't tell anyone. (He's sixteen when Marsac finds him huddled way, way in the back of the locker room, still in his gym clothes, holding the crumpled shirt and slacks of his uniform and making no move to put them on. Marsac ignores the bell, ignores him saying over and over again to just go, and sits with him until Aramis gives up and explains. Marsac doesn't tip over the bench and knock him to the ground, doesn't hit him or spit on him or any of the things Aramis knows the other boys would do if they found out. Instead, Marsac offers to steal him a skirt from one of the girls at La Virgen de Guadalupe down the road, and it startles Aramis into almost hysterical laughter. It's impossible. It would not, could not happen. But he feels so, so much better. "I knew you were too pretty to be just another boy," Marsac says, as he helps Aramis fix his tie when Aramis finally feels like he can stand getting dressed again. "You're a princess, too, darling." Aramis has been a hopeless romantic since the age of three. His mother would read to him from their mail-order Reader's Digest anthology of fairy tales, with gold-edged pages and full of stories of love and redemption and sacrifice, and ever since then Aramis knew that was the kind of life he wanted. Something dramatic and heroic and full of love and loss and triumph. Princess, Marsac calls him, and Aramis could cry with joy. Yes. Finally, finally something feels right. In the little secret space the two of them have, he can be himself and a princess and Marsac will be his knight. Years later, he realizes all the shit that comes after is a punishment for his naivete.) - 2. The world is terrible and will disappoint you. Do not get your hopes up. (He's seventeen and has just beat every other private school épéeist in the state of California, and he's so high on adrenaline he could probably jump off the roof and not feel it right now. After the medal ceremony, he goes looking for his mother. They always meet in the front corner of the room, on the left-hand side, no matter where they are. He strides through the crowd of people, still in his fencing jacket, head held high and chest puffed out to show the gleaming gold on his chest, and they part for him like he's fucking God. It could go to a boy's head, really. His mother is talking to an older man, tall, with a rugged face, and when Aramis sees the fleur-de-lis and crossed swords on the man's jacket, he comes back to earth with a crash. Holy shit. That's John Treville. John Treville is talking to his mother. His mother looks over the man's shoulder and sees him, and her face splits into a wide smile. "Mijo, there you are!" She motions him excitedly forward, and because his mother does not ever care about what other people think, she tilts her head towards Treville and waggles her eyebrows at him. He nearly trips over himself stumbling over to them, all the grace and coordination he'd displayed barely half an hour ago going completely out the window in the face of his nerves. John Treville is talking to his mother. John Treville wants to talk to him? Holy shit, John Treville wants to talk to him-- Treville turns, and over the man's pleasant smile Aramis can see the assessing, calculating look in his eyes. It's not cold, not worrying or rude, but Aramis knows instantly that he's being considered. He fumbles his épée and gear from his right hand to his left when Treville offers his, and fuck he looks like a clumsy idiot, Jesus Christ in Heaven way to fucking screw it up-- "It's a pleasure to meet you," Treville says, his sharp blue eyes turning kind, suddenly, and Aramis is heartened as they shake hands. "I've been discussing Dumas University with your mother." "Oh," Aramis says, for lack of anything better to say in the face of his wildly pounding heart. His mother puts an arm around his shoulders and Aramis barely feels it. They can't afford Dumas. Why is Treville talking to them? Unless--unless maybe-- "I've got money in the budget for a few full rides," Treville says, and Aramis' heart soars.) - 3. You care too much about people who don't give a shit about you. Don't ever fall in love again. (He is eighteen and feels the literally icy hand of fucking death upon him. "I'm fucking freezing," he says, his teeth chattering, and he pulls the fleece Kings blanket his mother had sent as a joke even tighter around himself. "We're going to fucking die, and they'll find our frozen corpses in April when this ice block finally thaws." "Will you stop being such an enormous fucking drama queen," Porthos says from the top bunk. "The power only went out half an hour ago, I'm sure they'll get it back on in no time." Athos stands at the window, silhouetted against the gray-white haze outside, and Aramis can see the worried furrow in his brows from here. They've barely known each other for four months, but Aramis can already tell when Athos is genuinely anxious about something. "It's getting really bad out there," Athos says. "I can't see the trees at the foot of the hill anymore." "We're going to die," Aramis says, feeling the cold sinking into the pit of his chest. "I have never been this cold in my life. I didn't even know it could get this cold." "Welcome to New England," Athos drawls, and Aramis would flip him off if he could move his fingers. He's shivering harder than he ever has in his life--he's starting to ache with it, is starting to feel sick to his stomach, and he wants to go home, this is terrible, why isn't it break yet so he can get out of this frozen hellhole of a state and go home? "Aramis," he hears, and looks up to see Athos frowning at him. It's a different frown than he's ever seen on him, though, and after a second Aramis realizes that this must be Athos' concerned face. "Are you okay?" He forces a smile. "Of course, I'm just f-freezing my fucking nads off--" He stutters in the middle of the sentence, his muscles jerking and shivering and his teeth chattering too hard, and something clicks in Athos' face. "Move over," Athos says, and crosses the room in three steps to climb into bed with him. Aramis has never been so relieved in his life. He's piled nearly every blanket in the room on the bottom bunk, dragged everything off Athos' single bed on the other side of the room and wrapped it around himself, and it takes some rearranging to get Athos under them, too. But once he does-- "Holy shit, that's so much better," he gasps, pressing up against Athos' side. Athos gasps in a breath through his teeth, nearly cringing away, but he clenches his jaw and bears it. "You are cold," he says, and puts an arm around Aramis. "I was not fucking exaggerating," Aramis says, and pushes his face into Athos' shoulder. Athos is shivering, too--not as badly as Aramis, but under their hoodies they're both slowly getting colder. The radiator cooled almost as soon as the power went out, and the wind's picked up outside. "Is this a blizzard, then?" Aramis tries to laugh. "I was expecting snow tornadoes. I have to say I'm not impressed." Athos gives one of those dry chuckles that Aramis finds so utterly adorable, and pushes his hands into the stomach pocket of his hoodie. "Oh, just wait. We'll go outside tomorrow and the drifts will be taller than Porthos." "We can make a snow-me," Porthos says from above them, and Aramis can only laugh a little bit before his chest hurts too much from shivering and laughing combined. Athos hugs him a little closer. "Porthos, you should come down here," he says. "I think Aramis may actually shiver so hard he scrambles his brains like an egg." "How would we tell the difference?" Aramis extricates himself from Athos enough to punch the mattress above his head, and Porthos' laugh breaks off into an "ow, fuckin' hell, Aramis, I was kidding." Then the bed shakes and Porthos' legs appear on the ladder. A second later he comes into view, dragging the comforter from the top of his bed. He's like a blanket-wielding angel. Aramis reaches out for the blanket with shaky hands, but Porthos shakes his head and starts to tuck it under the edge of his mattress, so it hangs down over the front of Aramis' bunk like a tent flap. "That's clever," Athos says, his one hand rubbing Aramis' shoulder. "Keeping the warmth in." Porthos nods, his face intent as he pushes the blanket firmly under the edge. "Old trick." "Where'd you learn it?" Aramis asks, watching him. Porthos glances over at him, and there's a guarded, worried kind of care on his face. Aramis can read him pretty well already. "Tell you later," he says finally, then finally, finally clambers into bed with them. "Oh, fuck yes," Aramis says the second he feels Porthos' body heat, and he and Athos both shift to drag Porthos between them. Porthos is huge, Porthos is an enormous radiating ball of sunlight and heat and Aramis never ever wants to move from this blanket fort of warm, warm friends. "Fuckin' shit, you two are freezing," Porthos grumbles, and he drags them both down under the blankets and pulls them close. Aramis ends up half on Porthos' chest, with Athos stretched out on the other side of Porthos' chest, with Porthos' arms encircling them both, and it's so warm, it's so nice. Nobody's held him like this in...in ever. The wind may be shrieking outside and the snow hitting the window may be coming thick and fast, but the three of them are pressed close, pressed together, and Aramis can't believe he wanted to leave this a minute ago. This is perfect. And maybe he feels a hot swoop of something in his chest, right then and there, but if he does, he pushes it down and down and down, because he may have broken every other rule he's ever made, but he will not, cannot break this one. He won't. He won't.)
