bakerstreet | I have died every day waiting for you.

I have died every day waiting for you.

I have loved you for a thousand years...

Some say that if a pair of lovers die together in tragedy, they will get another chance when they are reborn. Even if the two of you keep losing each other, you'll get to meet again.

This meme is that meeting. For the first time? For the hundredth time? That much isn't clear. What is clear is that on this, your seeming first meeting -

Everything rushes back to you. Memories, emotion, and all the comes with it...including the memory of how you two died. Overwhelming, isn't it? Some people find it hard to accept, for good reason. What will you do? You can't just bring it up, they'll think you're crazy! Maybe you don't want to bring it up, as you refuse to believe it yourself. And even if you do believe it, that doesn't mean you have to embrace it. You're your own person, after all. You refuse to love someone merely because of who you were in the past.

Or maybe you can't help but let these feelings rise to the surface because they're too strong. No matter what, you can't repress it. In fact, the more you two meet and spend time together, the more you find yourself falling back into the old roles...and making the old mistakes. That isn't good, though; there's one more thing. One of you, when you first met, had a vision about how the two of you would die this time.

You can't let that happen. Not again.

Comment with your character and your preferences.
Feel free to do a modern AU of your character. Assumed CR and AUs are a must here.
Don't feel obligated to stick with first meetings. Play that the characters have known each other for a while, are trying to have a relationship while trying to be their own unique selves, not having a relationship because THE PAST DOESN'T DEFINE ME, or even trying to avoid death in an adventurous fashion!
Reply to others.

...I'll love you for a thousand more.

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"Right," Porthos says with a nod - he knew that, of course.

"If it finds me worthy." He matches that smile easily, as if instinctively. The man's name - Aramis - halts him, though; it seems to reverberate inside of him, so loud it's almost deafening. It hasn't even made it's way to his tongue before he decides he recognizes it, remembers saying it once before.

"Aramis. Call me Porthos," he says, and stretches out a hand.

"Porthos," Aramis says and clasps the man's hand, a strong, capable hand, he can tell already.

But that's when it all seems to come flooding back, a lifetime's worth of memories that he didn't know he'd lost. It's enough to jar him where he stands and his grip instinctively tightens. It's so sudden and so profound that his eyes sting with it.

How - how can it be? How can they have -

it makes no sense. He's heard that voice saying his name in any number of contexts: intimate and dire. It all flashes before him, even as he holds to Porthos's hand.

Porthos feels Aramis' grip tighten - painfully, almost - and sees the sudden glassiness of his eyes. It takes him only an added second to feel the same rush of memories, images flashing before his eyes, and feelings - too many to nail down and understand - swell up in his chest. He flinches, clenching Aramis' hand with a sudden urge to hold on for as long as he can.

"You--" he starts, eyes locked on Aramis. He doesn't know what to say, because he can't even begin to make sense of this. He swallows, hard, trying to steady his shallow breathing. What can he say?

There are men milling about them, many of whom might notice what is going on. With a look to this man - this Porthos - who Aramis seems to know so very intimately, he pries their hands apart. Not now. Later, but not now.

"Let me take you to Treville," he tells him, pointedly. They shall talk soon, after Porthos has met with the captain and his place is secure.

He leads the way up the stairs, willing himself not to look back. "This is my room," he says as they pass. For them to talk later. "And this is Treville's quarters."

Stepping back, Aramis doesn't lose his gaze. They will talk.

Porthos clears his throat as Aramis lets him go, eyes darting down to his now empty hand as if it is responsible for that flood of memories. Porthos gives a sharp nod at Aramis' pointed comment, and follows closely behind as he's lead across the small courtyard. His eyes stare holes in the back of Aramis' head as they go. His gaze only moves when Aramis mentions his room; he commits it to memory, though he highly doubts he will forget.

Porthos glances at the Captains' quarters as they halt outside them, then finds Aramis' eyes again. "I won't be long," he promises in this low, sweet voice that shocks even him, but it seems right, natural when it leaves his mouth. He ducks his head and knocks on the Captain's door.

That reply, the promise to return, seems to send a jolt right to Aramis's very core. It winds him, the desire he feels from such simple words.

He's nearly thankful when Porthos steps in to speak to Treville, leaving him a moment to catch his breath and gather his wits about him. He leans back against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

Such memories: such sweetness. Stolen moments in a grove of trees - where? He doesn't know - Porthos's hand on his cheek, drawing him close for a kiss that went from gentle to heated in a matter of a few beats of their hearts.

What is happening?

Porthos has to pause a moment when he closes the door behind him, trying to still his shaky hand and convince his heart to slow its rapid beating within his chest. His mind is suddenly heaped with images, flickering behind his eyes at unimaginable speeds. A rain storm and Aramis' stubbled cheek beneath his palm, Aramis laugh and the feel of his smile against Porthos' mouth, a field painted in gold, Aramis' shirt crisp white in the sunlight. And beneath it all there's something darker, too; bloody, painful, gnawing at his insides.

He has to shake his head and clench his fists before he steps into the room and greets the Captain. It takes everything he has to remember why he's here, to focus on the task at hand rather than the memories. He's here for a reason, and he holds onto that as tightly as he can as he speaks with Treville.

Surely, Treville will grant Porthos a commission. Surely, this will not be the only time Aramis has cause to see this man.

Pushing himself from the wall, he takes the few steps to his room, going inside to the dim coolness, leaving the door ajar on purpose.

He doesn't want to think of the darker images, but even as he dismisses them, they flash before him again: Porthos staring up at him as if surprised to be dying. And if is as if the pain is just as fresh now as it was then and it leaves Aramis winded. He could not have gone on - he didn't, he's sure of it. He died soon after. By his own hand.

He falls to sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Porthos keeps the conversation quick, both because he knows that Captain Treville must be a busy man and because he can barely focus his attention, can barely keep his hands and voice steady. He can't be making a particularly favorable impression, but he doesn't dwell on it; can't, really, with his mind already drowning in other thoughts. Fortunately, Treville agrees to give Porthos a chance to prove himself, and Porthos thanks him graciously before excusing himself.

He finds Aramis' door open, and stares in at his form, hunched over on the bed. The image makes something stir within him, and every inch of him urges him forward. He steps into the room, coming to a stop at the end of the bed - much closer than he'd intended, really. His mind may be telling him that this is fine, that this is right, but he still can't figure out how that can be.

"Aramis?" He asks. He doesn't know what else to say.

"I don't understand," he's told, Aramis's voice quiet. "How is it possible? How do I know how you lived and how you died? How do I know?" he asks, looking up, face drawn and confused, "How your mouth tastes? How your body feels against mine?"

He stands, meeting Porthos halfway. He wants to reach for the other man, but stops himself, just barely.

Porthos shakes his head, jaw tightening as he listens to Aramis' desperate questions in that too soft voice. He can't answer them, because he doesn't understand it either, but the confusion on Aramis' face turns his stomach. He stiffens when Aramis stands, teetering on the edge of being afraid and being overjoyed. It feels as though he's suddenly a step closer to reclaiming something he'd lost.

"I don't know," he starts, eyes searching cautiously for Aramis', "But I know you. I remember your hands and your laugh and your stricken face looking down at me. A long time ago, I think."

A long time ago; Aramis nods. He knows this, too, though he doesn't know a year or how long it was, or even how long they were together.

"Porthos. That wasn't your name, then." Which only strikes Aramis after he's said it as entirely ridiculous. "But your face." His face softens some, fingers lingering just a breath from Porthos's cheek. "I know your face." It seems etched on his heart.

Porthos nods; they were different people then. It doesn't make sense, but he feels frighteningly sure of it now. He steps carefully into Aramis' touch, letting his cheek slide against the warmth of his hand. It sends a shiver through him, like's he's been splashed with ice water, but the shock is quickly replaced by a soothing familiarity.

He reaches up to cover Aramis' hand with his own, eyes falling closed, squeezing shut as he tries to think, tries to slow down his racing thoughts so he might start to sort them. "What--" his voice is gravelly, edges tinged with frustration, "What is this?"

"I don't know." Aramis's voice is quiet. And even though he would have been sure that this is the first time he and Porthos have met, the scruffy cheek against his palm is so very familiar; he traces circles with his thumb. "But ... it seems that our hearts, if not our very lives, are entwined. I have no explanation for it. We must ... we must talk about what we remember. To see what memories we share and what .. what they mean."

Aramis' touch is comforting. It helps to calm him, stops his heart from bruising itself against his ribs. Whatever magic this is, it has it's good and it's bad.

"Right," he says, the idea of something concrete to start also taking away a sliver of anxiety. He opens his eyes again, letting his hand fall to his side. "I remember dying," he says before he can consider it. It is the darkest thing in his head, and it pushes above all the bright. His jaw tightens, the memory so vivid in his mind. "And you were there. At my side."

Perhaps, it is not the best place they could start, but he can't take it back now.

Aramis's knees weaken for a moment at the mention of that. His room is simple and he only has one chair, so he goes to sit on the edge of his bed, letting Porthos with him if he so wishes.

"I could do nothing to help you," he whispers. "The injury was too dire, the wound too deep. All I could do was follow you." Even if now, the Bible spoke so against self-harm, he knows that he could not have born life without this man.

Porthos watches Aramis sit, noting the tension in his shoulders, sensing the tightness in his throat as he opens his mouth to speak. The words, though so quiet, startle him, and the idea that Aramis had hurt himself - killed himself - make tears spring to his eyes without warning. He swallows and blinks them away, feeling overwhelmed and foolish. But even if it was another version of himself, and even if it was another lifetime away, he cannot help his feelings.

He sits beside Aramis, feeling drained. "They are other memories," he says after a stretch of silence. "Better ones."

There are. Aramis nods, lifting his head when he feels the extra weight on the bed. "I remember ... touching you." In a way that he had never touched a man. "And more."

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I have died every day waiting for you.

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sorry for my slowness!

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