Seven Days of Joyeux Part 4
“Seven Days of Joyeux” is a Musketeer Space prequel novella by Tansy Rayner Roberts. For more Musketeer hijinks, check out the Musketeer Space Table of Contents. This festive novella is brought to you by my generous Patreon supporters.
Go back to Day 1.
Go back to Day 2.
Go back to Day 3.
Go back to Joyeux Table of Contents.
ATHOS
He hates to watch cinquefoil, brutal mishmash that it is, but he will admit to an appreciation for fleur-de-lis. There’s a calm precision to the game, to the spinning of the poles and the intensity of player against player. It’s almost as good as fencing, but no one would be crazy enough to fence in zero gravity.
He has often though that he would love to get a foil into Chevreuse’s hands, but she is too dedicated to her own sport to be tempted by something as tame as swordwork.
This a strange match to watch. The Emerald Knights are still the Emerald Knights without Chev, but Buck is so different, all passion and thrust where Chevreuse is restraint and brutal precision.
Buck would make a terrible fencer, but she is astounding in the air.
ARAMIS
Chevreuse insists on watching the game with them. They don’t have a ticket for her, but she squeezes between Porthos and Athos, her legs slung across their laps. Aramis can feel Chev’s feet brushing against her hip, and she wants to kiss her.
Aramis misses Chevreuse like breathing. She’s still here, so close, and yet they’re not that anymore. Are they anything? Friends, of course, Aramis has always been good about staying friends with the women she loves.
It’s different this time. The ache is different, perhaps because she started missing Chev even before they broke up. They were terrible together, at least half of the time. But when it was good, it was so fucking good, and now Aramis does not know where to go next.
(Maybe it’s time, maybe this is a sign that the Musketeers aren’t for her any more, she always wanted to be a priest… this has been a distraction along the way.)
She could never have kissed her here in the stadium like she wants to right now. They would never have risked that kind of public affection.
Aramis knows it must be killing Chev to be in the audience and not in the tank. They’re friends now, which means Aramis can reach out and squeeze her hand to comfort her, if she wants to. It’s too soon, though. She can’t quite trust herself to do it right.
Friends is fine. Aramis can do this. Eventually the ache will go away.
PORTHOS
This game is too damned civilised. Porthos loves the manic grunt of cinquefoil, the mess and the sweat of five-on-five TeamJoust, with its blood and bruises. That’s a real sport.
It would probably be a bad idea to let the Prince Consort play the version of the game that would smash his pretty face on a regular basis. Chevreuse is living proof that even the prissy fleur-de-lis version of TeamJoust does not guarantee the safety of its players.
Chevreuse is heavier than she looks, sprawled across Porthos’ lap, with her head tipped back against Athos’ shoulder. She’s trying too hard, cheering every match point and making silly faces at the cam, letting everyone know what a good sport she is about not playing today. It’s not fooling anyone.
Is it too soon for Porthos to admit that she never really liked Chev? She never thought she was good for Aramis. They were in love, anyone could see that, but they didn’t make each other happy. The fights had been getting worse, the screaming and throwing things, and now they have this – pretending they can still be friends. It’s no fun for anyone.
Aramis says something that Porthos can’t hear and she turns her head just in time to catch a sly “Four days to go,” in the curve of her ear.
“Four days to what?”
“Till the end of Joyeux.”
Porthos turns and stares at her friend, who pretends to have her attention on the game. “The what now? Is this still about your stupid bet?” Surely it’s only friends in happy relationships who devise fiendish schemes to match up their other friends, not those in the midst of messy break ups?
Aramis looks gleeful. “It wouldn’t kill you to sleep with him.”
Chevreuse catches part of that, because of course she does. “Sleep with who?”
“Me, probably,” says Athos, who misses nothing. “I’m a catch.”
“I hate you all,” says Porthos, her face going hot all over. “And also, never going to happen.” She raises her fist towards Athos and he bumps knuckles with her in solidarity.
Platonic fistbumps for the win.
ARAMIS
The Emerald Knights win. They win the game, and take out the record as the first fleur-de-lis team in history to have an unbeaten season.
It breaks Aramis into pieces to watch Chevreuse screaming with delight and pride. They actually could have got away with kissing in public today, and no one would have thought it was anything romantic. Chev smooches Porthos and tugs on Athos’ beard, and when Prince Alek runs over to pick her up and take her to to the podium with him, she beats him on the back of the shoulder blades and rubs her bright green makeup all over his face.
Chevreuse and Aramis could totally have got away with kissing in public in this moment, but that’s not going to happen because they broke up two days ago and there’s a heavy feeling in the pit of Aramis’ stomach that won’t go away.
It was a good game, and she and Chev spent the whole of it practicing their ‘just friends now’ skills but seeing her girlfriend (ex-girlfriend) up there with her teammates and that bloody trophy feels like the end of something.
Maybe the end happened a long time ago, and Aramis was too damned stupid to see it.
(This would never have happened if she was a priest, she would have her life together and stop hurling ridiculous, doomed relationships at it)
She leans into Porthos, who is still clapping and cheering, and says “Next season, can we go to the cinquefoil games instead?”
Porthos hooks one arm around Aramis’ neck in a hug that’s mostly comforting. “You’ll get over it,” she says.
“Don’t want to,” Aramis sulks.
ATHOS
Misrule is his least favourite of everything.
Pretty much everything about Joyeux irritates Athos, and always has because what the hell is the point of celebrating midwinter traditions on a space station anyway? But Misrule is the absolute worst.
This was true even before he was forced to be the Musketeer representative for explaining the difference between Winterlight and Joyeux, and the whole festive terrorism thing turned Joyeux from an annual annoyance to something that was actively trying to kill him.
(Winterlight was just as bad at this time of year, and what does ‘the dance of the elements’ even mean? It could be anything, but back home it was an excuse for foolish behaviour just like Misrule here in space. As if the concept of Misrule was ever going to be a good idea for people who live in artificial oxygen and gravity)
Athos volunteered to be on duty for the ball weeks ago, because he thought it would be less annoying than being forced to have fun by his so-called friends who have never respected his distaste for holidays.
But no, this is the actual worst. If he wasn’t on duty, he could slip away home and/or get drunk, but instead he is patrolling the ornamental gardens outside the Palace, which means tripping over copulating couples in nearly every rosebush.
He is not getting paid enough to deal with the blatantly underage girls with their glittery boobs hanging out of space dragon costumes. Two of them throw up into a virtual fishpond while another holds back their hair and sings show tunes in an off key voice.
It is 22:00 hours. Everyone in the solar system is less sober than Athos. The festive terrorists have yet to make their mark on the fourth day of Joyeux.
He almost hopes their plan is to blow up the Palace.
“Athos,” says a quiet voice in his private comm line, the one that usually only Aramis or Porthos use. He frowns for a moment before realising that it is Chevreuse. “Are you still on duty?”
“Will I regret saying yes?”
“Don’t be a smart-arse. Are you here?”
“Near the north balcony.” He heads up the winding steps to the balcony, and stands at the rail until Chevreuse eases her way out of the double doors to join him. “Assassination attempts?” she asks in a brittle voice.
“Zero so far.”
“My favourite number.” Chevreuse looks more tired than Athos has ever seen her. Worn thin, wrung out, and pissed off. She leans heavily on the single stick that she has been using today instead of the crutchesThe medipatches have mostly put her leg back together again by now, but she’ll have the limp for a day or two. “I need to beg a favour, but you can’t ask why, or request any details, and afterwards we never talk about it again.”
Athos’ eyebrows almost disappear off the top of his face.
“Also, don’t make that expression.”
“I can’t help my face.”
“Athos, please.”
“Tell me,” he says gravely. It’s not like tonight can get any worse.
Chevreuse passes him a small slip of paper with a series of time codes written out for him. “I need you to perform some digital surgery on one of the internal security cam feeds. Preferably without looking at what’s on it.”
Athos stares at the paper – actual paper, ensuring no electronic trace – and then back at her. He’s talking to Minister Chevreuse now, not Chev the hellcat pole defense who crashed into their lives because of her passion for Aramis. “Tell me I’m not committing treason,” he sighs.
Because he knows what this is – the shape of it, at least. Anyone who saw the way Prince Alek and Buck were staring at each other yesterday might suspect why some cam footage now has to be deleted.
“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t qualify,” Chevreuse says after a moment’s hesitation.
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
“I’m going to tell the Regent the whole story,” she promises him. “But believe me, it will go down better without anyone having the chance to review the visuals.”
That doesn’t sound likely, but it’s her funeral. “Fine,” Athos agrees. “I’ll do it. Of course I will.” He sticks the paper in his pocket.
Chevreuse looks as if she had expected him to put up more of an argument. “Just like that?”
“I trust you,” he drawls, putting as much sarcasm into it as he can.
For a moment, he thinks she is going to hug him, and he steps back out of range hastily. But Chevreuse gives him a look instead, a small smile, like she knows exactly what is going on in his head.
He doesn’t trust her that much.
PORTHOS
It is the night of Misrule. That is the only explanation for the plain-faced, clever man melting chocolate in Porthos’ kitchen.
Bonnie is away visiting her family for the holiday, and Porthos is celebrating, apparently, by letting the man she promised herself she would never sleep with take serious liberties with Bonnie’s stove top.
Can she blame Bonnie for this? If her engie was still here, Porthos would definitely not have invited Chef Coquenard up for a drink when she bumped into him in the Misrule crowd that has transformed Marie Antoinette Esplanade into a dancing, grinding flashmob of poor decisions.
She might at least have tossed a coin, left it up to chance instead of plunging forward with something she’s not sure she wants to finish.
They’ve had an in-depth conversation about life and the universe. She’s still dizzy with the startling revelation that he and Madame Coquenard are divorced, have been for years, that Porthos’ interpretation of their relationship as one of a friendly business arrangement is literally true.
This is the worst thing that could have happened. Because Coquenard is here, right here in her space, telling her about the historical origins of hot chocolate as he adds chilli and paprika to the smooth liquid in the pan, and then takes it off the heat to add cream and milk.
Has she mentioned his shoulders lately? She certainly hasn’t stopped thinking about them in the last half hour or so. He fills the room, not just with his large frame but with his soft, deep voice, and there is no reason at all why she shouldn’t drag him into her bed right now.
Except that he’s still talking, and she can’t stop smiling, and oh, this is bad. This is catastrophic. Joyeux should be banned.
They drink brandy in large tumblers while they wait for the chocolate, and Porthos has lost track of how many times they have refilled each other’s glasses.
She first met Remy Coquenard four years ago, and she promised herself that she would always keep him at arm’s length. That plan has worked so very well for all this time and now she can’t even remember why it was so important.
He serves her hot chocolate in her own tiny mugs, the ones that Aramis always complains about because they’re too small for anything but the sharp, strong coffee that only Athos likes to drink. Tonight, the cups are perfect for rich, spiced chocolate, and Porthos sips hers until her tongue is soothed and spiky all at once from the combination of flavours.
“Pollina,” he says softly. No one else calls her that, not any more. Pol, on occasion, she quite likes that Pol stays with her even now, but never Pollina. She should hate it, but it sounds so good in his voice. Everything sounds good in his voice. “Ask me to stay, and I’ll make you breakfast.”
“I hate breakfast,” she lies, but kisses him anyway.
She fists her hands against his neck, and he backs her against the wall, and the taste of hot chocolate heats up in both of their mouths. Joyeux, Porthos decides in a fierce thought before all rational thought melts away completely. Joyeux will always taste like this.
ATHOS
He finds Chevreuse in the gardens, alone. She sits on a bench, her walking stick stretched across her knees and her head tipped back as if she’s actually listening to the music that filters out of the plexi-glass doors of the Palace. Her hair is still emerald green. Was the game really today? It seems a long time ago.
“Done,” Athos says, and drops on to the bench next to her.
“Thank you,” sighs Chevreuse.
He bumps his shoulder companionably against hers. “I suppose you know what you’re doing.”
“Fuck, I hope so.”
They sit in silence for a long moment.
“It was a good game today,” Athos says. “Your plan to use the Duchess of Buckingham was inspired.”
“If I never see that woman again it will be too bloody soon,” Chevreuse grates out.
Her venom is surprising, but only to a point. “I thought she was a friend of yours,” says Athos.
“Did you watch the footage before you deleted it?”
“I think it’s in all our best interests if I don’t answer that question.”
“Good call,” says Chevreuse. She is drowning in some private misery, and Athos would rather be anywhere than here.
“Look,” he says, turning to her, and she turns to him in the same moment and oh, bloody hell. This is not a possibility he has ever contemplated. She is off limits, for so many reasons.
Chevreuse leans into him, and their mouths brush together for a moment. It’s not a kiss, but it could be. It’s a long time since Athos has felt such a genuine tug of want towards another human being, but right now he wants her like breathing, like wine.
Of all the things he has ever done to push his friends away, this is a line he has never crossed. He’s an addict, not a fool.
Athos lets his kiss slide on to her cheek instead, and then pulls away altogether. Chevreuse gives him a knowing, shaky smile.
“Look at you,” she breaths. “Making good decisions. I’m almost proud.”
“Well, it is Misrule,” Athos reminds her. “The world is supposed to be upside down.” He considers offering her the platonic fistbump that he and Porthos have been exchanging quite a lot recently, but decides she is unlikely to find it funny any time soon.
ARAMIS
She is off duty and loving it. The pulse of the music, the freedom to dance and flirt and not hang around waiting for a few stolen moments with her (former) girlfriend.
Aramis is not at the Palace tonight. Musketeers have a standing invitation for the Misrule Ball, as do all members of the Royal Fleet. But she didn’t fancy rubbing shoulders with the Cardinal’s Sabres all night, or getting her dance on in the same building where Chevreuse will be turning today’s fleur-de-lis win into one of her usual PR works of art.
So Aramis is in the middle of Marie Antoinette Esplanade in the heart of Paris Satellite. It started out as a street party with attitude, and somewhere around the third DJ of the night transformed into a deeper, dirtier celebration of Misrule than the Palace could possibly offer.
This is Paris on a plate. Beautiful, elegant and professional by day, and a sweat-drenched party animal at night.
Aramis grinds against a unicorn, surrounded by a dazzling group of young women wearing fake Mendaki tentacles and hot pants. It’s loud and hot and fast. The unicorn has a gorgeous mask, all satin and beads and a long, curling horn jutting out from her forehead. Only her mouth stands out beneath the mask, slick and wet.
Aramis dances like it’s her last night alive.
Her breath puffs out like steam as the temperature drops in the bar, far too rapidly to be natural. Aramis’ eyes are closed when she feels the first snowflakes on her face.
ATHOS
It’s a minute, perhaps two minutes, since Athos and Chevreuse did not kiss each other on the mouth. Somewhere, a clock strikes midnight. They are far too close to each other, and still not kissing. It’s a frozen moment of tension, broken only by the echoes of the deep clock chimes.
“SNOW, ATHOS!” screams a voice over his comm. It’s too loud, enough that his first impulse is to rip the stud out of his wrist, but it’s worse than that, because it’s Aramis.
“What?” he says, lifting the wrist in the time-honoured gesture for ‘taking a call.’ Chevreuse politely glances away.
“I’m in Marie Antoinette and it’s motherfucking snowing all over the plaza, like actual snow, and it’s settling, I think it’s for real!” Aramis howls. She sounds off her face, but that doesn’t stop the guilty feeling that maybe somehow she knows what nearly happened here.
Chev blows Athos a kiss and heads her way back to the party on her walking stick, her head held high. She doesn’t look back. They’re racking up the good decisions between them, tonight. They deserve some sort of prize.
“It’s midnight,” says Athos, breathing out and letting his shoulders slump back against the bench. “It’s tomorrow.”
“SNOW STARTED LIKE TEN MINUTES AGO,” Aramis shouts, and he can hear the buzz of the crowd behind her. She’s not shouting at him because she knows he nearly snogged her girlfriend (ex-girlfriend), she is just trying to be heard. “It’s yesterday’s thing, but maybe it’s today’s thing too, because it’s snowing all over and it’s not stopping and can we totally build a snowman?”
Athos wants to laugh, because it’s that or punch himself in the face. “I’m on Lunar Palais, I’m too far away to build a snowman with you. Call Porthos.”
“Can’t, Porthos is GETTING LAID,” Aramis hoots. “There’s chocolate involved, it’s a whole kinky chef thing. Don’t call her, she’s busy.”
“What would I do without you to keep me up to date on developments?”
“It’s a new day, Athos. Happy fucking Joyeux!”
“Happy Joyeux to you too,” he says, and almost means it.
“I love you, honeypie!”
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, but he can’t stop his mouth twitching into a smile.
Aramis and Porthos saved him, they keep saving him. Their friendship is the closest he will ever come to loving anyone after the broken pieces of his former life, after Auden, after the world he left behind.
Athos would rather cut off an arm than hurt either of them.
“It’s Amends!” Aramis howls into the comm. “It’s tomorrow, that’s Amends!”
How fiendishly appropriate. A day for making reparations for past sins, and renewing the bonds of friendship. Can Athos claim not sleeping with Chevreuse as his holiday activity for that day too? “Not on Valour,” he tells Aramis. “On Valour it’s the fifth day of Winterlight.”
“Valour is stupid!” Aramis howls through the comm. “Your planet is stupid, Athos.”
“Not arguing that point.”
“Five days of winter is too many winter!”
“Winter lasts longer than five days,” he reminds her.
“What happens on the today of Winterlight?”
Athos breathes out. He remembers real snow. The chill of it, the frost-tipped trees, the fog of his warm breath on a bright, cloudless day. He could have lived without ever seeing snow again, and now he’s going to have to walk through the damn stuff to get to his quarters, if he goes home to Paris after his shift ends. Since the alternative is staying here to make extremely bad decisions with a woman he needs to never be alone with again, he is definitely going home to Paris.
“Breathing the air,” he says into the comm. “Day five of Winterlight is breathing the air.”
Aramis laughs hysterically at him for half a minute. “Only on Valour would they have a whole holiday devoted to breathing.”
“Only on Valour,” he agrees.
“Valour is stupid, Athos.”
“Good night, sweetness.”
On his way back through the party, after signing out for the end of the shift, Athos spots Mr Linton Gray standing near the bar, observing the festivities through calm, uninvolved eyes. His boss, the Duchess of Buckingham, is nowhere in sight.
Athos finds himself slowing down, offering a nod to the other man whom he suspects has had almost as difficult a night as he has. “Do you ever wish a day could be entirely struck from the records?” he asks gravely.
Mr Gray flinches as if he had not expected to be addressed, and then a slow smile passes over his face, making him look altogether more interesting than when he is playing the invisible man. “All the time,” he replies.
“Misrule has always seemed like an exceptionally bad idea,” Athos says, which is perhaps an obvious statement, but prolongs the conversation.
And since when did that seem like such an appealing notion? For some reason, he can’t seem to move away as he originally intended.
“Isn’t that rather the point?” says Mr Gray.
It’s a challenge, but it makes Athos smile. Is this flirting? Compared to the horrendous possibility of seducing Chevreuse and living with those consequences, the appeal is obvious. Linton Gray offers no drama whatsoever.
The sensible, practical decision would be to flirt with no one, to talk with no one, and to go home. Athos has made enough choices for one day.
“Would you like to have a drink with me?” Gray asks.
Athos considers the possibility, and lets it go. “Another time.”
But he smiles, to show that he means it and after a moment, Linton Gray smiles back at him.
Come back tomorrow for Day Five: Amends [breathing the air]
