Title: A Loan Among Friends
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain
Synopsis: 1623, Paris. Porthos wanted to impress some lady and he discovered that Athos was a giver. Part 1/2
A/N: This little fic had some influence from "D'Artagnan: journal d'un cadet" and Bookwormforlife's corrections. Wherever you are, thank you again.

A Loan Among Friends

By Arithanas

Is there anything more satisfactory than to be admired?

Porthos seemed to fill an even more space than his big body was alloted; heads were turned to see his dashing aparience and his gallant stride. He was really proud from his choice of that rich carmine twill for his new doublet, and pleased because his tailor's wife saved some of the cloth and made some handsome ribbons to use them as garters for his boothose. Clearly, he must give her more attention, but not too much. His tailor was more important than an affair, regardless of how delicious his tailor's wife was. That was an issue to consider later, for the time being, he was striking and the people noticed it .

Porthos paraded proudly through Rue Férou. Surely, this time Athos would be at least a little impressed, his was not a coxcomb but he reeked as a person of quality from a league away, and he wouldn't like being eclipsed by a simple musketeer. Porthos, with a wide smile reached the door of his friend's house and his landlady came at the sound of the bell. She graced him with a simper and a sigh before letting him climb the stairs toward Athos' apartment.

How odd, Grimaud didn't hurry to attend the door. Either Athos wasn't at home or the servant was on an errand, and both scenarios were a strange occurrence; besides, the landlady could have warned him that her lodger wasn't at home. Porthos, unsure placed his big hand on the door and it gave way to a dark, silent chamber.

"Athos?" Porthos called out, he didn't want to tread into his friend territory unanounced.

"I'm here!" a drunken voice answered back. "Come in!"

At least he was at home. Porthos checked his boots for the last time and strutted into the room, whishing the stupid servant had lit some candles to show off his new clothes in the proper light but beggars can't be choosers.

"What did you do of Grimaud?" he grumbled once he noticed Athos slothfully lay down upon a large divan by the window.

"I thrashed him and sent him to the other room," was the response; he was so shiftless that he didn't even raise his shoulders. Nonetheless he raised his bottle to offer him a drink.

"Fie! Was he insolent or something?"

"You'd be surprised," Athos said, he was in one of those days in which he gave use of his tongue. His hand managed to pour the wine in a tin cup. "I fear that scoundrel will never learn when he must be silent. Bring a chair along and drink with me!"

"I prefer not to," Porthos extended his arm and took the tin cup, "it would spoil m new doublet and I have a date."

"Suit yourself," Athos replied and returned to his bottle without giving a glance to the expensive attire.

"Couldn't you be at least a little jealous?"

"Why?" Athos stopped the bottle midway, with an astonished expression.

"For the sake of my pride, diable!"

"Porthos, the day I begin to do things for your pride will be the day I'll kiss my life goodbye, because I'll have no time to live it!"

Porthos grumbled, he didn't like to be thwarted when he tried to make an impression. He should know better, Athos was the most apathetic man in the world, and he had the curiosity of a potted geranium. Anyone else could make a comment over his clothes or demand to know who was the lucky woman who caught Porthos' attention, but Athos... None of those things deserved even a shrug!

Porthos eyes wandered through the room. All the savory things were in their usual place. That portrait, strategically placed where the sun couldn't touch it, was spotless as usual and Porthos wondered again if it was his grand-father or even his father because the only thing Athos didn't do was light candles to it like that person was his saint patron. By the chimney stand both the armored casket of magnificent gold-work and his sword. The tankards of silver were over the table, maybe his lackey was busy polishing off the patina when he dared to make a comment.

"May I ask you the reason of your visit, my friend?" Athos asked once he gulped his wine.

"I want to borrow your sword," Porthos presented his demand with candor because he will be damned if he admitted he was here just to flash his new clothes to his friend, "this attire deserve the best decoration I could find, don't you think, Athos?"

Porthos never dreamt to stir a reaction into Athos when he was in that state. Maybe, deep inside him, he calculated that that precise state was the reason of why he could get his way and finally gird on the so much yearned weapon. To pile up on his surprise Athos not only sprang up from the divan but darted to the other chamber, made some noise and returned with a couple of purses which were promptly poured over the table with the metallic clang of pistoles and louises bouncing over each other.

"What...?"

Even before Porthos could end his question, Athos moved to the chimney and produce a small key that hung from a piece of crude leather inside his shirt; he used that key to open the casket and his hands took out a couple of rolls with their seals and ribbons which where reverently placed over the mantelpiece and a bundle of paper kept together over which his fingers were crisped before he let it fall over the surface of the table. Then he emptied out the rest of the contents over the coins. Some aiguillettes, and heavy gold chains bounced over rings and medals. Porthos was dazzled by that display of wealthiness on his friend's part.

Athos faced him, a small, sad smiles was on his lips, his hands placed the papers inside the casket and closed it again.

"You know I'd give anything to you, Porthos, even my life, " Athos said, passing next to this pile of gold and silver with chilling insouciance, "But that sword is sealed to its spot, and it will only move from its place until I myself leave this place."

Then, nonchalantly he returned to his divan , his hand made a friendly gesture and patted Porthos' shoulder.

"Feel free to take anything on that table, Porthos," he invited, returning to his divan and his bottle. "Make use of those trinkets like they are yours. I can't lend you that sword, because I borrowed it from my elders."

Then Athos sat and raised the bottle to his lips, drinking the wine in one gulp. Porthos watched him, there were no words to express his admiration and his chastised vanity didn't allowed him to use his voice.

In silence, Porthos walked towards the door, and Athos, having said all he had to say, raised his bottle in that sign that he used to wish his friend the best of luck.