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It wasn’t a good night. Very few nights were, but Aramis didn’t mind too much. Bad nights no longer meant screaming and embarrassment. These days, no one had to know. He knew that it had gotten much better. Porthos had held him and calmed him and made him understand that he was, indeed, safe. And alone in his room, with the door bolted shut, Aramis knew that everyone else was safe too.
He had been told to pray to the archangel Raphael for assistance with his night terrors and did so diligently. The prayer calmed his mind and let him sleep soundly for a few hours. Even when the memories returned to torment him, he felt strengthened, knowing he wasn’t alone.
Most of the time, he wasn’t afraid any more. Sometimes, there were only fleeting images that he would acknowledge briefly before turning to his side and falling asleep again. Other nights, there was more.
That night, he’d been woken by a distant shot. He’d known what would follow and had sat up in bed. When he slept while his mind replayed the massacre, he had no control over his reactions. Aramis preferred to be awake. He sat and let it happen because there was no point in fighting. He didn’t want to fight. These were the last memories he had of his brothers.
The sounds came back to him that night; Men shouting in pain, horses whinnying in terror, the crack of muskets, the screams of the dying. He remembered each one of them. As so often, he tried to put names to the sounds, to understand who had died when. He knew it was pointless, but it focussed his mind on something. And… He liked the nights when the sounds came back. He’d become so much better with the sounds. At first, he’d jumped at every shot, but he had trained himself. He’d allow himself these nights and then, during the day, he could shoot like everyone else. Well… Better than most everyone else. He wasn’t the shot he used to be, but he was undeniably good.
He was good at this as well. The sounds in his head were still there, but he wasn’t deaf to the world. He heard the call of the guard, the steps in the yard, the clearing of a throat, before there was a knock at his door. It amused him that he knew it was Porthos from the sounds alone. A very hesitant Porthos, trying to wake him without startling him. Aramis found it quite endearing.
“Aramis? Aramis, it’s me,” Porthos called.
Aramis forced the memories to the back of his mind. The screaming dimmed and the second knock was a lot clearer.
“Aramis, I’m sorry to wake you, but…” Porthos sounded so shy, so truly sorry. Because he knew what sleep meant to Aramis now. And yet he still came. Because it was important, because Aramis was important to him.
Aramis smiled and got up, sliding the latch back silently before opening the door. He yawned.
“Not my preferred time for a social call,” he said, beckoning Porthos inside. “But be my guest, dear friend.”
He flopped back down onto the bed and closed his eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s Athos,” Porthos said, slightly out of breath. “He’s drunk.”
Of course it was about Athos. Everything was about Athos these days. When no further explanation followed, Aramis opened one eye and glared at Porthos. Rather ineffectual in the near darkness of his room.
“May I suggest you only tell me when Athos isn’t drunk?” Aramis said. “Might save you a lot of running.”
“It’s not like that.”
Aramis groaned. “He’s hungover every morning so the evidence suggests he’s drunk every night. What is it? So far you’ve managed to tuck him into bed without help.”
As much as Aramis would have liked to have a heart to heart about Athos’ excessive drinking, he could think of at least a dozen more suitable times to have it. The bell struck one as if to support his point. He reached for his blankets. Despite only taking three steps on the cold floor, his toes were freezing.
“Aramis…” Porthos’ voice broke, making Aramis put the blankets back down and open both eyes. “I think he’s dying.”
Aramis jumped to his feet, pushing the door open again so he’d have more light.
“Did you fight?” He looked Porthos up and down. If Athos had gotten him into another needless tavern fight… “Are you injured?” he asked, unable to find any evidence, but not quite trusting his eyes.
“What? No.” Porthos shook his head. He looked miserable. “It’s Athos. He’s drunk.”
Aramis snorted. “So he isn’t dying. He’s drunk. Please, spare me the dramatics.”
“No, it’s… it’s bad. He’s all… cold and blue and… he’s not breathing right.”
Aramis’ throat constricted until he could barely breathe himself. Cold skin, blue lips… not breathing… No. He swallowed around the growing lump, trying to make his voice sound even.
“Where is he now?” he asked, sitting back down on the bed.
“In his lodgings. I left him to sleep it off.”
Left him to choke on his vomit and die. “He’ll sober up soon enough,” Aramis said. He didn’t believe his own calm reassurance and maybe that showed. It certainly didn’t reassure Porthos one bit.
“Aramis!” Porthos grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “You have to come with me.”
Aramis couldn’t. Cold and blue and… dead. And Aramis couldn’t help. He’d been there and he couldn’t…
“Help him, please.”
Porthos leaned over him. His eyes were wide and full of fear. So much fear. And Aramis couldn’t do this either.
He gathered his trousers and boots from the floor and jumped into both. On the way out the door, he grabbed his weapons belt. He was already at the gate, nodding to the musketeer on guard, by the time he pulled up his braces. Beside him, Porthos was jogging to keep up.
Aramis started to run. Not that he wanted to get there any sooner, but he couldn’t face talking to Porthos, couldn’t tell him what he feared. He only knew that if Porthos was to discover his friend dead in his rooms, he couldn’t let him be alone.
They turned into narrow Rue Férou and thundered up the stairs. Porthos fumbled with the key. Aramis cursed him inwardly for his diligence. At the moment, Athos’ enemy was unlikely to come in from the street.
The room smelled overpoweringly of vomit, urine, and stale wine.
“Open the window,” Aramis barked as he skidded to a halt next to the bed. Thank heavens, Porthos had had the good sense to put Athos on his side. A puddle of sick was on the floor. On the floor. Not in Athos’ lungs. It was good. Had to be.
Aramis knelt and jabbed two fingers at Athos’ throat, feeling for a pulse.
“Praised be the Lord,” he breathed, feeling the tell-tale flutter, uneven, but undeniably there. Athos was alive. Aramis breathed deeply through his mouth. He hadn’t died. He was alive.
He sharply flicked Athos’ cheek. “Wake up. Time to get up now.”
When that didn’t elicit a response, he slapped Athos.
“Aramis!” Porthos tried to pull him away, but Aramis resisted.
“He needs to stay awake.” Aramis slapped Athos again with more force. “If he sleeps, there’s no telling if he’ll wake again.”
There was a choked noise as Porthos’ grip on his arm loosened, but Aramis couldn’t focus on Porthos’ shock, because in that moment Athos groaned and opened his eyes.
“That’s it,” Aramis said. “Sit up now, on you go.”
He tugged at Athos’ shoulder, but all that did was to make the man shudder as his stomach rebelled once more. Aramis held his head while Athos was violently sick.
“And that,” Aramis said when all that came up was bile. “Is why you don’t lay someone down to sleep it off.”
He hoisted Athos up into a sitting position.
“Sit,” he said to Porthos. “Hold him upright and don’t let him fall asleep.”
Porthos nodded and scrambled to obey, evidently frightened, but also relieved that Aramis was taking charge. Aramis sighed. He hated command. It never had suited him particularly well and after everything… It didn’t matter. He had no choice.
He stood by the window for a moment to get some fresh air and discovered a rope with a water bucket on it. That would certainly help. He hoisted the bucket up and into the room before lighting the lamp and surveying the scene. The room was filthy. He grabbed a bowl from a small table and thrust it at Porthos.
“Here, that should help,” he said. “And get him out of that shirt,” he added, wrinkling his nose at the various stains.
He used the shirt to mop up the puddles of sick, then threw it out of the window along with the sopping wet breeches Porthos had also removed from Athos. Surely, a man like Athos had plenty of clothes to spare.
By the time Aramis had cleaned the worst of it and emptied the dirty water out of the window, Porthos had wrapped Athos into a blanket.
“He’s cold,” Porthos said.
Aramis could see that. Athos’ lips were blue, his face nearly translucent. He wasn’t shivering though.
“Is he conscious?” Aramis asked.
Porthos hesitated. “I think so.”
Aramis crouched down in front of the bed and flicked Athos’ cheek again. The man flinched, but otherwise showed no response.
“He’s drunk himself into a stupor.” It was despicable.
“What do we do?” Porthos asked.
“We wait. Don’t let him sleep. Don’t let him choke.” Aramis shrugged. “Not much else we can do.”
He settled down onto a rickety stool and rested his chin in his hands, watching the mismatched pair on the bed. Porthos cradled Athos in his arms like an overgrown child. Fitting, really, since he behaved like one.
“Don’t be angry with him,” Porthos said, looking at Aramis over Athos’ shoulder. “He can’t help it. He needs the wine.”
“You need a glass or two. Not this.”
“He does,” Porthos insisted. He brushed the hair from Athos’ forehead with ridiculous tenderness. Sure, because Athos deserved to be pampered for his stupidity.
“He clearly doesn’t,” Aramis said. “Look at the state of him.”
“He can’t stop it.”
Aramis snorted. “Did he tell you that? He makes a conscious decision to get himself into this state. Don’t make it sound like he doesn’t have a choice.”
“I don’t think he does,” Porthos said, gently rubbing Athos’ temple with his thumb.
Aramis leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. You didn’t always have a choice in life, he knew that. He knew very well that most people didn’t have a choice in when they died or how. But Athos did. And he chose this. He could be a perfect musketeer, but no, he'd rather drink himself to death. He chose this over the life he’d been offered.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Aramis asked. “That wine is more important to him than the regiment?”
Porthos winced. “Don’t say that. He loves the musketeers as much as you and I.”
“Well, he’s begging to be kicked out.”
“That’s not true.”
“Tréville won’t tolerate this much longer. It’s either the drink or the uniform.”
Porthos shook his head. “He’s the finest recruit in the regiment. Let him enjoy his wine.”
“Not when it’s affecting his duties.”
“He’d never let it,” Porthos said with conviction. “He’s very conscientious.”
“Right,” Aramis said. “And at the parade? What was that?”
“That was the heat.”
“The rest of us weren’t affected.”
“I had a headache. It was terribly hot.”
“You didn’t make me think you had died.”
“He had a bad day, alright?”
“He had a hangover,” Aramis spat. “He always has a hangover. It’s affecting his swordsmanship.”
"How can you say it's affecting his swordsmanship?” Porthos asked. “He beats you. He wiped the floor with me yesterday."
"And I hit the target every time.” Aramis held out his hand so Porthos could see the persistent tremble. “But you know this is affecting me. You know it’s still a bad practice for me.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes while Porthos mulled that over.
“He is very good,” he said eventually.
“Imagine how good he could be without the drink,” Aramis added.
“I accept him as he is,” Porthos said. “I don’t need him to change.”
“You need him to stay alive though.”
Porthos jerked as if he’d been hit. Aramis knew it was a low blow, but he needed Porthos to understand that this wasn’t sustainable, that he couldn’t stick up for the drunkard all the time, that he needed to let go or be destroyed by it.
“It's not usually that bad,” Porthos said. “He's not usually like that. I promise you, he’s not. It’s just a bad night. The drink won't kill him."
Aramis laughed although he found little humour in the situation. "No, it probably won't,” he conceded. “He'll get himself killed in combat or in training before that."
“What?” Porthos stared at him in disbelief. “How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true. Because you need to stop covering for him. Staying out late, dragging him home every night—”
“He’s my friend,” Porthos interrupted him. “That’s what you do for a friend.”
Aramis bit down sharply on his tongue. Fine then. Fine. What did he know after all? If Porthos wanted to waste his friendship on yet another hopeless case… Fine. Who was he to disagree?
He shivered and drew his shirt tighter around himself. He glared over at Athos, nice and comfortable, leaning against Porthos. He used to be the one in Porthos’ warm embrace. Not that he needed it any more. Athos needed it more right now. Aramis didn’t begrudge him the warmth. Obviously.
Porthos murmured softly into Athos’ ear. Aramis couldn’t hear, but he knew what Porthos would be saying, he’d heard it for weeks upon weeks. Still, he strained to distinguish the words. All he could hear was the murmur and the slow, uneven rasp of Athos’ breath.
To keep himself from thinking, Aramis took the rosary from around his neck. He’d never been good at waiting and found the familiar routine of the prayers a soothing occupation for his hands and mouth. He’d spent weeks staring into nothingness and getting lost in his memories. He didn’t need any more of that. Especially not during their vigil.
He made the sign of the cross, breathing deeply, and relaxed into the prayer. He clutched the small crucifix.
Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, creatorem caeli et terrae…
The familiar Latin washed over him as he continued to focus on his breathing.
When he moved onto the first bead, he noticed that Porthos had stopped talking. Well, he didn’t mind an audience.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, he prayed more loudly. Sanctificetur nomen tuum…
He wondered if Athos believed. He didn’t wear a rosary, just that locket. What was in it? A tiny portrait of a lover? Maybe a lock of her hair? Probably not an icon of a saint. Athos didn’t strike him as the praying kind, though he undoubtedly spoke Latin.
Aramis shook his head as he moved onto the first three Ave Marias. One each for the three theological virtues, faith, hope, and charity.
Ave Maria, gratia plena…
The faith that God wouldn’t take another musketeer.
Ave Maria, gratia plena…
The hope that Athos would indeed live through the night.
Ave Maria, gratia plena…
The charity to actually want him to.
He had barely started the Gloria when Athos emptied his stomach again. Aramis abandoned his prayers and got up to empty the bowl while Porthos wiped the mouth of a groaning Athos. Aramis looked for a cup to give Athos some water, but couldn’t find one. He settled for rinsing one of the empty wine bottles and handed it to Porthos.
“Try to make him drink,” he said. Then, noticing Athos’ eyes on him, he added: “Try to keep it down. It’ll help.”
He wasn’t sure Athos had heard. He still seemed completely out of it. Most of the water dribbled down his chin. His head lolled from side to side while Porthos tried to keep him awake.
“How much did he have?” Aramis asked Porthos. Too much, obviously. He didn’t go out much, but he had seen Athos drink. Had seen how unaffected he was by incredible amounts of wine. To get him to this state… Aramis sadly shook his head. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
Porthos ducked his head. “I didn’t know.”
“How can you not know?” Aramis asked sharply. “He didn’t get like this while you were out taking a piss.”
Porthos shrugged. “Wasn’t like I was watching him the whole time. I was playing cards.”
Aramis glared at him. “You watched me all the time.”
“It’s different with Athos. He’s… he’s not injured.”
Aramis’ breath caught in his throat. Sure. Sure, this was…
“You call this healthy then?”
"It's just..." Porthos trailed off.
"There's nothing just about this. You know that,” Aramis snapped. “You came to me because you thought he was dying. And you know why I came back with you? Because I thought that in the time it took you to run to the garrison, he had very likely died."
Porthos’ eyes went wide. His arms tightened around Athos. “It’s not like that,” he said.
"What is it like then? I'll show you! It's like this." Aramis picked up a bottle and put it onto the table. "And like this." Another bottle followed.
Aramis picked up bottle, after bottle. Soon, the table was covered, then the top of Athos’ chest, the windowsill. And still there were more.
Aramis spent a long time on his knees, removing bottles from underneath the bed. There wasn’t a speck of floor that remained empty. Bottles, nothing but bottles. Each one of them seemed to weigh Aramis down. So many bottles, so much wine. All of them empty; all of it drunk by Athos. He hadn’t been in Paris that long. And in that time, he’d drunk plenty in the tavern and the garrison.
Aramis hadn’t expected that. He’d known there was a problem, of course. It was impossible to miss when you knew Athos, when you stepped foot into his room. But he hadn’t known the full extent of it.
He turned in a slow circle, looking into every corner of the room until he couldn’t find another bottle. Only the mountain ranges of bottles he’d collected. So many bottles. He didn’t count them. He didn’t need to calculate just how much Athos had drunk per week, per day. The effects were clear enough.
When he looked up, Porthos’ eyes were full of tears. Aramis nodded his head slowly. This was it. This was the truth. And it hurt.
Porthos sniffled. “Did you mean it?” he asked. “When you said Athos… Athos would die in… in training?”
Aramis sighed. “You must see that this…” He gestured towards the bottles. “Isn’t healthy. That much wine, it… upsets the body. Not just for a day, either. It does things to you, your brain, your heart.”
“He’s always drinking the good stuff,” Porthos said. “He won’t go blind from that wine.”
“It’s not the quality of it. It’s the sheer amount. It takes some time, but it breaks people. We’ve both seen that before.”
Porthos shook his head. “No, not Athos.” He stroked Athos’ hair. “He’s not like that.”
“Look at it, Porthos. Look at all those bottles. He is like that.”
Porthos’ shoulders slumped forward. Aramis felt for him. It was painful to see the truth. But maybe if Porthos saw it, he’d do something.
“It’s affecting his reflexes,” Aramis continued. “It’s making him slower, it’s making him weaker. It’s making him age before his time. And that shows in training. Every day, he’s a little bit slower. And one day, he’s too slow to react. One day, you’ll think he’ll parry a blow, only he doesn’t, and then…”
Porthos face was screwed up in pain. Aramis had watched him train with Athos. It was clear how much Porthos enjoyed working with him, how much he loved not having to hold back. His strength was countered with skill. Only in the picture Aramis painted, there’d be the day when it wasn’t. Aramis fingered his rosary. Maybe he’d gone too far.
“But…” Porthos started. Right. Apparently, Aramis hadn’t gone far enough yet.
“But it’s even more likely death will come in combat,” Aramis said. “You will show him mercy, but an enemy will not. When he stumbles, they’ll stab him. When he—”
“No,” Porthos said. “Please don’t.”
“I’m not the one doing this. It’s him.”
Porthos sighed. “I know that. But he doesn’t.”
Aramis chuckled darkly. Porthos’ ability to fool himself was astonishing. All it took were some fancy words and half-baked reassurances from Athos and Porthos wouldn’t hear a word against him.
“He knows,” Aramis said. “He’s hurting himself deliberately.”
Porthos didn’t reply. He went back to softly talking to Athos. Aramis watched him. He didn’t try to hear the words any more. The pain was evident on Porthos’ face. He didn’t need to know how exactly he expressed it. As much as Aramis regretted causing that pain, it was necessary. He couldn’t just stand by and watch as Athos destroyed himself and, more importantly, Porthos.
Porthos shifted Athos in his arms so he could get a hand to the little pendant he always wore. Aramis was glad to see him seeking comfort there. Saint Jude. Porthos certainly kept him supplied with a steady stream of lost causes. It had taken some time for Aramis to convince him that his saint wasn’t actually Judas Iscariot. Porthos hadn’t believed him at first. Unfathomable that anyone but a traitor would intervene on his behalf. For years, he had believed that the biggest biblical villain he knew was his patron saint. Aramis’ heart ached thinking about it.
Porthos’ ecclesiastical knowledge was sketchy at best, but he was eager to learn. The few times he had accompanied Aramis to church, he had soaked up every bit of information. But none had made him happier than learning about his Saint Jude. The patron saint of the impossible. He fit Porthos so well. Often overlooked, but eager to prove himself, to assist anyone who sought his aid with his unquenchable optimism.
They sat in silence for a long time. Porthos and his optimism. Aramis and the dark reality. And somewhere in between maybe, Saint Jude and the archangel Raphael. Aramis prayed. He prayed for support, for guidance, and for the wisdom to take it.
Athos groaned.
Aramis got up and took a closer look at him. Athos had warmed up and looked a little less pale. Both pulse and breathing seemed to be steadier than before. Maybe the worst had passed. For that night at least.
“You can put him down now,” Aramis said.
“But what if he falls asleep?”
“It’ll be fine.” Aramis prayed to God that he was right. “We’ll watch him. We’ll be there if he chokes.”
Athos protested with low grunts when they gave him more water and then repositioned him.
Porthos shushed him. “It’s alright,” he said. “You can sleep now.”
Athos squinted, trying to focus his eyes. “Por’os,” he slurred, finally recognising who held him.
“Shhh,” Porthos said, stroking his face. “Sleep.”
Aramis made to move away, to give them some privacy, but Athos seemed to have spotted him. “A’mis… you r’ly are ins’pa’ble.”
Aramis swayed backwards like he had been punched. All the air rushed from his lungs. He stumbled and sat down heavily on the floor.
Inseparable.
No.
They weren’t. He… wasn’t. Porthos wasn’t. Marsac… Marsac and Aramis, they’d been inseparable. Inseparable. Inseparable except for… when… Inseparable. They weren’t. He’d never… not again… It wasn’t like that. It had never been like that at all. Marsac had never been inseparable from him and Porthos wasn’t either. Nobody was. Nobody would ever be again. He wouldn’t do that to himself. He knew better now.
Not inseparable.
No.
Never.
Porthos sat down next to him and threw a blanket over them. Aramis curled his fingers into its frayed edges.
“Sorry, only one I could find,” he said. “You’d think he’d have a bigger household, really. He must be able to afford a few luxuries. Other than wine that is.”
“How is he?” Aramis asked because that was what he had to ask. His voice sounded far away to him, somehow foreign.
Porthos sighed. “Think he’s asleep now.”
He scooted closer and slung his arm around Aramis’ shoulders.
“Thank you, Aramis,” he said, embracing him. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Aramis held himself very stiffly. This wasn’t… This couldn’t be happening. They weren’t… a thing. They didn’t belong together at all. He’d tried that and he wasn’t doing it again. They could be friends, but not like that.
Where had Athos heard that word? He must have heard it somewhere. Were they talking around the garrison? Of course, he knew they were talking about him, but talking about them? Talking about him and Porthos? Talking like they were… that word? It wasn’t right. They didn’t know of course, but… but still…
Too late he realised that Porthos had been talking for a while.
“… once he settles in, it’ll get better. He’s with us now. He’ll learn eventually.”
“And until then, he’s risking his life,” Aramis said. He hadn’t caught Porthos’ entire argument, but he could counter that last bit. “His life and yours,” he added.
“Aramis…” Porthos said. Aramis could feel him shake his head. “Don’t worry about me.”
“He is risking your life,” Aramis insisted. “You are always watching out for him.”
Porthos squeezed his shoulder. “That’s what we do. We’re all brothers in the regiment.”
Brothers. Aramis’ heart clenched painfully. Exactly. They were all brothers. That’s why it hurt.
“Yes,” he said, trying to make his voice steadier than he felt. “But usually your brother watches your back as well.”
“He d—”
“No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t when he drags you into yet another tavern fight.”
“That was once.”
“It only takes once.” The words came out sharp enough to make Porthos wince. Aramis was glad. He wanted to weep, but that would only make Porthos comfort him, ignoring the issue at hand. Not that he didn’t want comfort. But he wanted this more.
Porthos sighed. “Please, give him time.”
“No.”
“I’ll talk to him. He’ll try…”
“Try and fail. Trying is no help to anyone. He has to do it.”
“Give him—”
“I can’t.” Aramis bit down on his lip until he could taste blood. “It’s dangerous,” he ground out.
“Oh, come here, you.” Porthos hugged him tight. Aramis did not let himself relish the warmth and the closeness. This was exactly what he didn’t want.
“It’s dangerous,” Porthos said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. “But that’s what we do. Being a musketeer is dangerous. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Aramis roughly freed himself from the embrace and sat back on his heels, facing Porthos. “Being a musketeer is risking your life. It’s dying. I know that,” he said. “But it’s not actively killing yourself.”
Porthos’ mouth fell open. He stared at Aramis. Aramis stared right back. Eventually, Porthos cleared his throat.
“He is, isn’t he?”
“Praised be the Lord,” Aramis hissed. Finally, Porthos understood. “Yes. He is.”
He watched Porthos’ throat bob as he swallowed. “But we can… maybe…”
“No,” Aramis interrupted. “I can’t. There’s no we in this.”
Porthos’ eyes went round with astonishment.
“I’m sorry,” Aramis said. “I can’t go through this again. So many of my friends died. I can’t sit and watch and…”
His voice hitched. Porthos reached out for his arm, but Aramis jerked it out of his range.
“It won’t be like that, Aramis. I swear.”
“I can’t live on empty reassurances.”
“No, seriously,” Porthos said, looking like he believed himself. “This ends now.”
And Aramis wanted to believe, but all he could see was a future in which Athos died.
“I can’t…” His voice sounded so small, choked by all the tears he didn’t want to cry.
“You won’t have to. He’ll live. We’ll be friends.”
Aramis wanted that. For himself. For Porthos. He shook his head, genuinely sad, mourning for what could have been. “I can’t be friends. Not like this. Not with him.”
“Please Aramis,” Porthos breathed. “For both of us.” He was crying. Aramis held out a hand and Porthos clutched it.
Aramis wouldn’t cry. Not here, not like this. He’d made a decision. He knew it was right. He had to protect himself if he wanted to be a proper musketeer once more. He couldn’t go back. If he ever went back to that darkness, he didn’t think he’d find the way out again.
There was a movement from the bed and then Athos’ raspy, but steady voice.
"I neither requested, nor do I require your friendship."
His words seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room.
Porthos stared at Aramis.
Nobody spoke.
Athos harsh breathing was the only sound.
Then Aramis jumped to his feet and swiped an arm across the table, sending bottles flying everywhere. Glass smashed against the walls, the floor, shattering. Left-over drops of wine sprayed in all directions.
Aramis screamed, but no words came out. It was too late. Too late for all of this. He already cared. He was already hurting. Athos wasn’t just hurting himself, he was tearing Aramis apart.
Aramis stormed out, throwing the door shut. He stumbled against the bannister at the top of the stairs. He clawed his fingers into the wood, doubling up in pain. He loved both of these men. And it hurt to know he’d lose them. It hurt so much.
He loved and he cared and he knew it would end, swiftly, painfully, again. In the back of his mind, the screaming started. Not again. He couldn’t go through this again. He couldn’t be friends, have friends, and lose friends. And yet here he was.
The screaming grew louder.
He tried to hold on, tried to anchor himself in the present. Wood underneath his fingers. He couldn’t let go. The slightly musty air of the house. He was here. The voices in the room. They were here as well. They were real. His friends. His goddamn, accursed friends.
“You don’t talk to him like that,” he heard Porthos say, voice full of barely contained fury. Broken glass scraped across the floor inside the room.
“Why?” Athos sneered. “What makes him so special?”
Aramis sank to the ground. All the tears he’d contained flooded his face with a vengeance. He sobbed silently. What indeed?
He could hear Porthos growl, glass crunching beneath his boots.
"His best friend left him to die among the corpses of his brothers. You don't reject his friendship like that."
You didn’t. But oh, how Aramis wished that he could.