Archive of Our Own

‘You don't have to remind me!’

When Athos looks back on the week that’s just passed, this is the moment he thinks about most. This is the moment he should have intervened. 

He had heard clearly the strain in Aramis’ voice, had seen the light sheen of sweat that had lingered on his brow all morning as they led Marsac from the Bonacieux house. The dark circles under his eyes spoke to his lack of sleep. Marsac’s return had snapped something in Aramis and none of them had done anything about it. 

Athos hadn't been there in the immediate aftermath of Savoy but he had heard whispers of what it was like when he joined. Aramis drew into himself, distanced himself from everyone including the captain, with whom he used to work much more closely, or so they said. It was still there sometimes - evident in the fond exasperation of the older soldier’s voice and the leniency that came after the dressing downs, as if Treville thought concealing his affection was punishment enough for whatever they had done that day. But everyone knew Treville had a soft spot for all four of them. Newer recruits thought it was merely respect; older Musketeers knew better.

But it is Porthos, not Treville, who most of them credit with Aramis’ recovery. He, too, hadn’t been there after Savoy but it wasn’t long before he joined. Porthos was somewhat of an outsider to the regiment - if his lack of nobility wasn’t an issue, the fact the rest of the Musketeers were grieving was. Everyone had lost someone, whether it was a roommate or a sparring partner, and Porthos, who had joined wanting a fresh start, was a painful reminder that life went on. 

It turned out, actually, that was just what Aramis needed. Aramis who had isolated himself - who the other soldiers had allowed to isolate himself because Who wouldn’t do the same in his position? - had found someone who he could look at without feeling guilty and who didn’t mind that he was a bit broken because it was clear that what they both needed was a friend. 

By the time Athos joined, Savoy was a not-quite distant memory. The majority of the worst days were over and light had appeared in Aramis’ eyes again. Nightmares were few and far between and as time went on, the massacre at Savoy wasn’t mentioned. Still, Athos can’t believe he didn’t make the connection when they were waiting for the Duke.

‘You don't have to remind me!’ 

Athos could kick himself. He watches now, as Aramis trudges across the garrison’s courtyard, seemingly full of purpose but with shoulders slumped in a way that Aramis’ hardly ever are. It’s like he is trying his best to act like he’s focused but his body speaks of nothing but distraction.

Athos sighs. He needs to talk to him. They all do. Aramis hasn’t said much to them in these last few days since Marsac’s death - Treville had said less, if that was possible - but they knew that Aramis had been found cradling Marsac’s body on the floor of the armoury. Athos didn’t have to be told to know precisely who shot him.

Hairs on the back of Athos’ neck stick on end and he looks up to see Treville standing on the balcony, his gaze also directed at Aramis who ducks into the kitchens, seemingly oblivious to the looks of concern following him. Treville sags a little but senses Athos’ stare and glances down. He says nothing, but straightens up and walks back into his office.

That’s when Athos makes a decision. Nothing is going to be solved by just sitting there.

He gets to his feet, taking the stairs two at a time until he reaches the door of the captain’s office. He raps on it with his knuckles and receives a brusque, but resigned ‘come in’ in response. 

He enters and nods to his captain as he moves to stand in front of his desk. Treville is sat, hands flat over a bunch of papers that Athos thinks he might have put there as a crutch. They don’t appear to be in any sort of order but Treville keeps shuffling them. 

‘Can I help you, Athos?’ he says, curtly.

‘Sir, we need to talk about Aramis,’ Athos replies. 

‘Do we?’

Athos’ eyebrows raise and if he weren’t Olivier De La Fere he might have taken a step back in surprise. Instead, he hardens his gaze. 

‘We do. Whatever-’

‘Where are the others?’ asks Treville abruptly, stopping Athos mid-sentence. He doesn’t look up, even as he continues looking around his desk as if for something to write with, even though Athos can see a quill directly in front of him. 

'Porthos and D’Artagnan are at the palace,’ Athos replies, thinking that Treville should have known this, since he gave out the duties this morning and he wonders again if it’s a stalling technique. ‘I think you know where Aramis is,’ he adds, not allowing Treville to change the subject and letting his captain know that he saw him watching his friend. Athos knows Treville is aware of how the marksman is faring. 

Treville says nothing, just returns to the papers on his desk.

‘What happened with Marsac?’ he asks again. 

' Athos-’ Treville starts, wearily, finally stilling, but Athos interrupts him.

‘Captain, with all due respect, we didn’t question you before. You know as well as I do that Aramis is not himself. The time for silence has passed.’

Treville looks at him for a second, as if deciding whether to use his superiority to dismiss Athos out of hand, as he had done before, but instead he sits forward in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighs the most long-suffering sigh Athos thinks he’s ever heard. Which says a lot given how regularly he has to deal with the four of them.

‘I don’t know everything,’ Treville says eventually, his voice dripping with tiredness. ‘Just that Marsac came to kill me and Aramis stopped him.’

Athos inclines his head slowly as he tries to process this information. It was one thing to guess it, another entirely to hear it confirmed. Aramis had killed his oldest friend, one to whom he owed a life debt (though certainly not in Athos’ eyes). It was enough to make anyone withdrawn.

‘Did Marsac hit you too, Sir?’ Athos asks, curiously. ‘Your lip…’

Treville, Athos suspects, has kept many secrets in his time, but from the way he looks now, Athos can't believe he ever managed it. He looks almost sheepish as he replies gruffly ‘No. That was Aramis.’

The air in the room seems to grow thick. Because Athos knows only one thing would ever make Aramis turn on the captain like that. Marsac was right. Treville had been responsible for Savoy. 

‘Captain-’ 

‘Athos,’ Treville says, and Athos thinks there’s a hint of a warning in his voice. 

‘Marsac was right,’ Athos says, half wishing for Treville to deny it but not expecting him to do so all the same. He knows in his heart what has happened. 

‘Athos.’ Treville says firmly. ‘That’s enough. If you want to talk to Aramis, I suggest you find him yourself.’

Athos is torn between fury and a stony understanding, stopping at shame somewhere in between. Treville had betrayed them - betrayed Aramis - and yet his friend hadn’t resigned his commission, and Tréville is still in charge. Nothing had changed, though the cold truth hung just a little above their heads. Perhaps there had been a good reason (there must have been, for Aramis to still be here) but it doesn't change the bare bones of the matter.

‘I don’t believe Treville is guilty and I never will.’

As he stands there though, Treville's part is not what makes Athos feel so...ill. Rather it's his own wilful ignorance - the fact he had let Treville stand there and all but admit to being part of what happened in Savoy, and yet he still told Aramis he wouldn’t help. Something had been rotten and he had let it pass. No wonder Aramis didn’t want to see them now - why would he believe they cared at all? 

He had known no good could come of Marsac’s return. It had flayed opened wounds that were already only roughly healed. But refusing Aramis help with the investigation was hardly the answer - Athos has picked at too many wounds of his own to know that it wouldn’t have stopped him either. 

‘Ask yourself one question: if it is true, what then?’

Aramis shouldn't have had to ask for their help. And Athos thinks, as he remembers that feverish soldier snapping at his old friend, he did really. He was suffering in plain sight - what more did he have to do to reach out to them? They were supposed to be better than this. The Inseparables.

‘Athos,’ the captain says seriously, and Athos snaps out of his thoughts. ‘Aramis needs you now, not I.’ 

Athos hears what is left unsaid, or at least he fills in the gaps himself. Do not let your guilt over not asking me the truth before stop you from helping him now. 

He gives a clipped nod, and strides out of the office, ever the composed soldier and nobleman. He doesn’t know how to feel, but the bottom of his stomach seems to have fallen. He can’t imagine how Aramis is feeling.

How on earth is he supposed to broach the subject with him when he was so unwilling to listen before?

‘How much evidence do you need that something is badly wrong?’

In the kitchens, Aramis finds himself staring at a bowl of apples, thinking of his words from barely a week ago. There’s a sickness in his stomach that makes him hesitate, so he pretends that he’s choosing, not wondering whether he can eat at all. He’s been trying not to think, not to dwell, but then thoughts - memories - come back to him when he’s not expecting it and now here he stands, staring at a fruit bowl. 

He sighs and picks up the topmost fruit, tossing it in the air. The act is not unusual to Aramis, though he usually thinks a lot less about it. Now everything feels forced. He wonders when that will stop.

Fuck , he breathes internally. Knots have formed in his stomach and he feels as though he’s forgotten something, as if some answer to the whole thing is just beyond his reach. But it’s not and he cannot grasp it at all. He can’t look at any of his friends, and though he knows it’s not their fault - he might have done the same thing when faced with a deserter who left his friends for dead - it wasn’t as simple as all that was it? 

And Treville .

He can’t bring himself to think about that too much either. He’s forgiven him already (or he hopes he has). Forgetting is proving harder. He can’t quite shake the anger. He wonders if it constitutes treason. 

He throws himself into a chair and he doesn’t know whether he’s grateful for Serge’s current absence or not. He can’t be arsed with conversation but if he’s honest, he’d welcome the distraction. And, perhaps more than anyone, Serge would understand. 

Instead, he sits there in the quiet, shoulders slumped, rubbing his apple up and down the seam of his trousers, trying to think about anything but the state of the armoury floor or whether Marsac knew it would end this way. Usually he would dig his Bible out but he’s not feeling up to it today. He doesn’t even have it with him.

Porthos would tease him about that, he thinks. Ask him if he was sickening for something. Well, Aramis supposes, he is really. There’s definitely a general air of nausea that’s been plaguing him for a few days. But he hasn’t actually been sick and that counts for something.

He leans forward on his arms, apple in his hand pressed against his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut. 

God, he wishes it were a week ago.

He’s been sitting like that for a while when he’s startled by a knock at the door. It opens and somehow he knows it’s not Serge - Serge wouldn’t knock. When he sees Athos, he nods. Of course. Athos has been staring at him for days.

‘Hello,’ Athos says, in his impossibly posh drawl, and Aramis manages to muster up the smallest of smiles in an attempt at a greeting. 

Athos doesn’t say anything for a second, just comes and takes the seat opposite. ‘How’s your eye?’

Aramis is confused for the shortest of seconds before he remembers the fading bruise around his eye. ‘Oh. Fine. Fading already.’ He attempts another smile but it’s tighter - and falser - than before, if possible. 

‘I hear it was Marsac’s doing.’

Aramis tries his best not to flinch at the name and feels a sharp flicker of anger at the casual way Athos is able to just bring it up. It’s not that he wants eggshells, per se, but isn’t it his right if he did?

In any case, he curses himself for telling Porthos that Marsac hit him, though he takes a little heart at the fact he’d managed to leave out the full details. That he got himself knocked out, for one.

He’d been so foolish.  

‘Well, I certainly repaid him in full,’ he replies bitterly. Aramis can only assume Athos knows what happened in the armoury by now. He realises it must be going around the garrison, a sort of open secret just as it was when he returned alone five years ago. Whispers followed him then too and he hears them now, just as loud.

‘Treville said you hit him.’

Whatever Aramis had expected next, it wasn't that. The directness now nearly takes Aramis’ breath away, though really, he thinks, it should hardly surprise him. Why else had he been avoiding his friends if not for this? Athos never had been one to beat about the bush. 

Unless, of course, it’s about him and his past; then it’s a different story. It almost makes Aramis angrier, because he knows his own is about to be unspooled entirely. What right did anyone have to question him about this now?

He bristles but nods as if with an air of nonchalance. He knows Athos can see the challenge in it.  ‘I did.’

‘Why?’

Aramis looks up at him, dumbfounded that Athos would walk so knowingly into such an open trap. His friend is being wilfully ignorant and perhaps that shouldn’t anger him as much as it does, but after the week he’s had, he doesn’t feel like being led down whatever path Athos is intending.

‘Does it matter?’ he bites out in the end, finding that his better angels are ill-equipped today to fight the impulses of his demons. He doesn’t want to feel like this, he doesn’t want to argue with his friend. But Athos is pushing it. And some some self-destructive, pitiful part of him is ready for it. 

Athos doesn’t waver or wince, as a lesser man might have, in the face of such frost. In fact, it almost looks like he expects it and when he answers, he does so calmly.

‘Yes, it does. I’m sorry you think that it wouldn’t.’

Aramis tries his best not to scoff, irritation rising. ‘Well, it doesn’t. Not to me,’ he lies, as if it hasn’t been the only thing on his mind for days. ‘What’s done is done. Marsac is-’ The words get stuck in his throat suddenly and he swallows convulsively. ‘He’s gone.’

Athos watches him and nods. ‘I’m sorry for it.’

‘Are you?’

‘Not sorry that he is gone, but sorry that it was by your hand,’ Athos says, softening a little as he leans forward to look in Aramis’ eyes, a hand resting gently on his shoulder. ‘You should not blame yourself for this, Aramis.’

There it is, then. Aramis really isn’t surprised that his friend knows. He focuses on just breathing in and out, trying to maintain some semblance of control now it’s out in the open.

But, now that it is, every emotion he has tried to keep at bay is rushing forwards, desperate to be felt, and he feels like he’s fighting a losing battle. Like he’s trying to plug a sinking ship. He feels grief for 21 Musketeers, sadness, anger at himself, at his friends, at Marsac, at Treville, at the King.  He’s furious that he was forced to survive on half-truths, that no one trusted him, that no one put him first for once , but even as the fury consumes him it’s chased back by the guilt, guilt that he should be so selfish, guilt that he’s being dramatic, guilt that he feels so angry, guilt that he did what he did, that he forgave Treville, that he hit Treville. 

He feels like he might just fall apart and no one will be able to do anything about it, least of all him. Athos is picking at wounds he does not know how to close. 

‘Athos, please-’ he says, finally, only a little desperately, pushing his friend’s hand away. ‘Leave me.’

‘I think we’ve done quite enough of that.’

‘Then why stop now?’

‘Aramis-’

‘It’s fine-’

‘ You most assuredly are not-’

‘Athos-’

‘Aramis!’ Athos’ sternest voice puts an end to the tiresome back and forth, stops Aramis from trying to hide behind it. His voice is quiet when he continues, stern but gentle in a way that Aramis does not want to hear because what right did Athos have to talk to him gently now? He bristles but Athos is unperturbed. ‘It’s been days. We haven’t seen you for longer than minutes. This isn’t going to get any better, you know this.’ 

They both know how hard won Aramis’ recovery from Savoy was, even if Athos had allowed himself to forget. He may not have been there to witness it personally, but he knows, and the lingering trauma exists in the small spaces, in the crease of Aramis’ brow, in his silence on that parade and in the forced lightness of Porthos’ voice. Loath as he usually is to admit such things, Athos needs them to talk.

(Athos seems to consider his next words, and if anything that makes them worse. Later he’ll be ashamed of what he says next, but right now he thinks, if Aramis won’t talk about for himself, he thinks, maybe he’ll do it for them, to save their friendship. They can’t go on like this, none of them can.)

‘If you value our friendship at all, you know something needs to be done.’

There’s a beat of stunned silence before Aramis hisses back, ‘If you valued our friendship at all, you would have listened before!’, unable to stop himself. 

Athos, though clearly taken aback by the outburst from his thus far reticent friend, has the good grace to look contrite and inclines his head slightly. ‘You’re right-,’ he starts, but it’s too late, the dam has been broken. 

‘What did it take for you to come and find me now? The fact I hit the Captain? Is this some attempt to court-martial me, Lieutenant?’ He sneers, better angels thoroughly drowned out for a moment as he stands from his chair and paces away from his friend. He fights to keep his voice level. ‘I saved his life and I killed my best friend to do so. Is that not loyalty, Athos? Is that not enough?’ 

Aramis’ loyalty had never been in question, as far as Athos was concerned. Marsac’s had and rightfully so, and Athos can’t deny that it hurts some deep part of him to hear Aramis call the deserter his best friend. But he quells that little thought, because of course he had been his best friend, a long time ago. And then Marsac had left him alone in the forest surrounded by 20 dead men. 

Lord knows, Aramis didn’t deserve any of this. 

‘You have every right to be angry,’ Athos says eventually, and he’s still so infuriatingly calm, Aramis almost wants to kick the chair out from under him. Almost. Anger bubbles under his very skin, and it’s all he can do to keep it at that level. He knows it's not actually Athos' fault, he knows. And yet - he feels like he's caught in a current and he won't be able to keep his head above water much longer, no matter how hard he swims.

‘I’m not angry,’ he says, even though he is, even though it’s obvious. 

‘It’s okay-’

‘I’m not.’

‘Aramis-’

‘I’m not angry!’ Aramis’ voice is raised now, at the edge of his control, and he breathes hard, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him fully. He’d lasted all week. Why is Athos trying to ruin it now?

He throws himself back in his chair and runs a rough hand through his curls, pulling at the ends, his leg moving up and down like he’s focused all his negative energy into one limb. Athos wants to reach out and stop it, but he knows the touch will not be well received. 

‘I’m sorry, my friend.’

Aramis huffs, waves him off. He doesn’t want to feel this, he doesn’t want any of this. He doesn’t want the pity, he doesn’t want the comfort, it’s not right. He just wants for it to go away, all of it. 

‘I wish you hadn’t come to find me,’ he says and Athos feels sick at that. Aramis has always craved his company, always, since the day he joined the regiment, before the sentiment was returned. And now Athos finds he returns it with such vehemence, he feels like his holding to something and losing purchase with every second. He shows none of this though, just sits up straighter. 

Aramis braces his hands at the back of his neck. ‘I was fine before. I was fine.’ 

‘Aramis-’

‘Leave it, Athos, please. I don’t blame you, I don’t blame any of you, whatever guilt you think you might bear-’

‘If you think it is purely guilt that led me to your side, then you do not know me at all.’

‘I know it’s guilt that drives you to the bottle every other night.’ Another angel down for the count.

Athos takes the barb in his stride. ‘They do say it takes one to know one.’

‘I don’t drink like that.’

‘Perhaps not, but you know that’s not what I mean. Guilt plagues us both, my friend. Only unlike mine, yours is wholly misplaced.’

‘I wouldn’t know, since you’ve never really told us-’

‘My past is my own,’ Athos cuts him off, before they go down this treacherous path. This path leads to a different kind of hurt, and he knows Aramis is deflecting. And whilst Athos might have acknowledged some hypocrisy on his part for making Aramis face his feelings, he also knows it’s completely different. Anyone who had been a Musketeer for longer than five years knew what happened at Savoy, and everyone who had come later had at least heard about it. 

‘Why can’t you let me alone with mine, then?’

‘Aramis,’ Athos sighs. 

Aramis’ anger seems to deflate in seconds but his shoulders are still taut and his hand pulling at his hair again. ‘I can’t do this,’ he mutters.  

‘Aramis-’

‘No, Athos, I can’t do this.’ He stands and strides to the door, throws it open but doesn’t expect to run straight into Porthos, carrying a bottle of something. He stands there, shaking minutely with desperation to escape. 

‘Oh hello,’ Porthos says, surprised, looking between Athos and Aramis, who looks down at his feet. ‘The captain said you were both in here. Brought us some wine.’

Aramis says nothing, just shakes his head and pushes past his friend with naught but a small, soft, and wet ‘not now’ and Porthos is left to watch after him as he goes into the courtyard and leaves the garrison. 

‘What the-?’ he says, dumbfounded, putting the wine down on the table and looking at Athos. ‘Should we follow him?’

Athos shakes his head sadly. ‘Leave him be. He just needs time.’

Porthos huffs lightly. ‘Thought we’d given him enough of that.’

Athos agrees. But stays seated nonetheless.

It’s nearly midnight when there’s a small knock at Porthos’ bedroom door. They retired there after Serge returned and kicked them out, chuntering about ‘Musketeers littering the place’ as he busied himself with a sackful of potatoes. Porthos’ room seemed the most obvious place to go - they knew Aramis’ homing instinct would bring him there first when he returned from wherever he was.

And now it seems like they were right. Porthos looks at Athos, with a raised eyebrow, before moving to open the door. Aramis stands there, looking down at the floor, drenched in yet another of the April showers that have plagued the city. 

He steps aside to let him in, and in he trudges, standing for a while, unsure whether to sit or stand there dripping onto the stone floor.

‘Sit down, you idiot,’ Porthos says, throwing him a towel. ‘Since when have you ever had to be invited.’

Aramis nods vaguely and walks to a chair. He doesn’t sit, just puts the towel over the arm and slowly divests himself of his doublet. 

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Athos asks quietly and Aramis looks at him over his shoulder. He nods again and takes the cup Athos steps forward to give him. He stares at it.

‘Sit,’ Porthos says again, taking his own place on his bed near the window. Aramis, who still seems more outside than inside, takes a moment before pulling the chair up and shuffling into it. He raises his cup to them and drinks. Something in Athos relaxes a little, though the evening is far from over, the matter far from closed. But something, too, in Aramis has changed, his shoulders less tense, his brow less furrowed. The fact he is here sitting with them at all. Days ago it would have been normal; now Athos finds he’s grateful.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, a quiet that is far preferable to the icy moments they’ve come to know in the past week, in which everyone clearly wanted to talk but felt unable to do so. 

It’s Aramis who breaks it, and there’s something warmingly familiar about that. ‘You might have liked him, you know.’

If Porthos is surprised at the chosen subject, he hides it well, lest it stop Aramis speaking at all. Athos, for his part, merely raises an eyebrow. ‘Marsac?’ 

Aramis nods. ‘Yeah. Not Porthos, no-’ he almost laughs, ‘No you would have hated him still, and no doubt him you. But Athos, I think he’d have got on with.’

Athos doubts it but says nothing, but is thankfully saved by Porthos’ affront that anyone wouldn’t like him when they liked Athos.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

Aramis smiles warmly. ‘Nothing, my friend. If anything, it’s what’s right about you that would have seen you two rub each other up the wrong way.  You’re loyal to a fault. Marsac could be…less so.’ He stops himself short of saying that Porthos would never have left him in the forest that day. 

Then again, neither would Athos.

‘Of course, that’s not to say you aren’t loyal,’ he says, suddenly worried that his friend might get the wrong impression. ‘But Marsac was a pragmatist. Ruled by his head first and foremost. He was fair, but he knew when to bend the rules. And often did.’ He almost smiles. Athos is so tired of Aramis’ almost-smiles. But still, this is the most he’s spoken in seven days, so this has to be something. 

‘And he liked a drink.’ He tips his own cup towards Athos and takes a gulp. 

Porthos watches him sadly, and turns to Athos, as if Athos might help. Athos’ face is blank - he’s not hurt, or offended, but feels a little helpless watching Aramis talk of Marsac like this. Wine keeps Athos’ demons somewhat at bay; Aramis’, it seems, like to talk. 

‘Before Savoy, it was like we were the same person,’ Aramis offers next, casually and Athos has to put a hand on Porthos’ arm to stop him replying, as he always does, that Aramis is twice the man Marsac is and ever will be. He’s right but Aramis won’t hear it. Aramis continues uninterrupted. ‘Even afterwards really. The only difference between me and Marsac then was that I had you.’ 

Aramis’ face falters for a second, and Athos thinks he might cry but he doesn’t. 

Porthos can’t hide his worry, had never been able to really, not when it comes to Aramis. He stays Aramis’ hand as he raises his cup to his lips once more. ‘Do you think you’ve had enough?’ he murmurs, sadly, though Aramis is far from drunk. He's tried it before and it doesn’t work. Not for him. 

Aramis laughs him off anyway, but there’s no naturalness to his laughter, it doesn’t sound quite right. ‘I don’t think I’ve had nearly enough, Porthos, not nearly enough.’ His face falters again and he has to wave them off as his friends instinctively move closer. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Aramis-’

‘No, it is,’ he sits back in his chair, his hand rubbed through his hair and down his neck, and he looks at his friends with a shaky smile. ‘See? Fine.’

He is very visibly not fine, but Porthos and Athos are gracious enough to not point it out. Or perhaps it’s guilt that holds their tongues. Porthos shoots a helpless look at Athos over Aramis’ head and the Comte decides there and then it doesn’t matter. 

‘Aramis-’ he starts, ready to beg for forgiveness, if he must, for the injustice he forced his friend to suffer through alone. It might not be enough - might never be enough - but it occurs to him that Aramis truly doesn’t know how sorry they are and that, alone, is reason to tell him now. Properly, and with words.

‘I shot him.’ 

Aramis’ voice is distant, like he’s unsure or incredulous or simply numb, and whatever Athos was about to say dies in his throat, leaving only silence for just a moment. 

‘I know,’ Athos replies shortly - not unkindly. Understanding. ‘I-’

‘He saved my life.’

Athos sighs, a small sad little sigh, and comes to stand beside his friend, resting a hand gently on his shoulder, as he had done before. This time, Aramis doesn’t shrug him off. ‘I believe you saved his.’

Aramis doesn't reply. Just gives a little stilted nod and reaches up to pat Athos’ hand. Porthos reaches across and grips his knee.

‘We’re here.’

Aramis gives that little smile he’d given Athos when he’d walked into the kitchens, false and tight and altogether for them. Shame stabs Athos again like a knife between the ribs at the sight and he is struck by a sudden very real desire to fall to his knees in front of this generous man. If Athos were another man he might have even done so, because, God, they really did leave their friend to face a devastating truth alone. Marsac may have had it coming, but they were the ones who forced Aramis’ hands on the trigger.

They had failed him monstrously.

Forgiveness almost seems like too big a favour to ask in the wake of that, but what’s worse, deep down, Athos knows he already has it. Aramis wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be faking smiles for them, if not. 

Aramis pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs at his eyes, tiredly, tears that might have welled up squashed away by his fingertips. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been here,’ he says wearily. 

Porthos hushes him, muttering that he has nothing to be sorry for. ‘We’ll be alright yet.’

The warmth - and hope - of Porthos’ words comforts is infectious and something does seem to settle in Aramis. It’s clear that whatever time he felt the need to take away from them is coming to an end, the anger Athos had seen this afternoon ebbing away slowly to be replaced with...what? Athos thinks its fatigue, really, but a latent optimism he’s not known for believes it might be closure. 

‘And you heard his reasons.’

It occurs to Athos that they still don’t know the full truth of the matter, the ins and the outs, but it doesn’t feel right to ask now. The events of the last - well, five years really - are Aramis’ to draw a line under and Athos won’t push him on details that will only bring peace to his own mind. It is Aramis’ secret, he decides, Aramis’ truth, and if he doesn’t want to tell them...well, it feels less important now.

But there is one thing - one urgent thing - still left to be said. 

‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ Athos says, taking a seat beside his friend. He doesn't need to say what for. Aramis doesn’t look at him, even goes to shake his head, to commute their guilt, but Porthos stops him with a squeeze of the knee.

‘Athos is right. We should have listened.’

Aramis might be generous, but he knows better than to say that they did. ‘It’s okay. I might not have done either, if I was you.’ He means it, but it’s not true. He exhales and wipes at his eyes again roughly, and Porthos leans back to reach for a handkerchief off the windowsill. He hands it to Aramis, who eyes it with a resigned sort of fondness before he takes it. He doesn’t use it, just holds it loosely in his hands, running his thumb over it thoughtfully.

Silence descends upon them all again. Athos wants to say more, but there is little else to be said without cracking the fragile peace that Aramis has painstakingly rebuilt for them. Ultimately he thinks it’s selfish to labour the point, now an apology has been said. It’s not enough, he knew that for sure now, but nothing would be.  

In any case, it is Aramis who, again, breaks the silence, still absentmindedly fiddling with the fabric in his hand. There’s something he feels compelled to say, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to after tonight. He wants to say it tonight, and then never again.

‘Marsac was decent, you know. Before.’ He speaks as though it's a fact he needs them to know, rather than a simple observation. He glances at them and then back down at his hands.

‘He lost his way a long time ago,' he continues. A lump rises in his throat, but he can’t cry - won’t . He feels sick, too much wine and too much feeling all at once. He just wants to sleep, but now he’s started he knows he has to finish. He puts the handkerchief down.

‘Thank you,’ he manages to say, quietly. He looks at them both now, sincerely. ‘Thank you for not abandoning me.’

Athos knows he doesn’t mean last week. He’s talking about five years ago. He’s talking about every moment since Savoy, when the ground might have swallowed him up, when his friends didn’t allow it to. He’s talking about the fact that they were there and Marsac was alone. He’s talking about not letting him drift away then, and doing the same now, when it might have been easier - more convenient - for them to just let go. 

As if such a thing would ever be acceptable to either of them. 

Not for the first time, not even the first time tonight, Aramis’ capacity for forgiveness astounds him. Athos doesn’t believe he could do the same, not fully. Trust is so easily broken, and they almost severed it when they refused the notion that Treville would betray his troops, even in the face of almost-damning evidence. They had made Aramis believe that the captain could do anything, even kill him, and they would still side with him. And now Aramis is thanking for something they had never wanted to be thanked for. 

Marsac didn’t do anything wrong in Aramis’ eyes, except leave him and he’s made himself clear that he doesn’t really blame him for that. To him, it was circumstantial. He wasn’t in his right mind.

Nor was Aramis, but Athos knows without doubt that his friend wouldn’t have left Marsac to rot, had the boot been on the other foot. It does no good to speak this aloud though, better to let Aramis remember Marsac the way he does. He’s always had far too generous a spirit, it’s what Athos has always admired most about him, even if it gets them into trouble more times than he can count. 

God, he loves his friend. He’s sorry to have let him down so badly. 

Athos makes a mental note to not let such things fester again. Not when it comes to his Inseparables.

Maybe one day, he’ll tell them about his wife. 

They spent the evening in much the same fashion, though the conversation that filled the silences was decidedly less...weighty. Porthos valiantly wanted to cheer Aramis up and Aramis, though still distracted and sick at the thought of anything, didn’t want to disappoint his friends who, whatever else had happened, were trying. The feeling of betrayal - the loneliness - lingers, but squashed into empty spaces where Aramis hopes it will be forgotten eventually. His friends are here now and what’s done is done. He’s not going to lose anyone else this week.

All good humour, however manufactured, is spent now, as Aramis lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had barely any to give at all, though Porthos tried to do what he could with dwindling resources, and now he simply feels empty. He’s tired, but not in the way that leads to sleep. 

He just can’t shake the feelings. He feels restless, like his thoughts are a knot he can’t unpick, and he knows in his heart of hearts that the matter is not over for him. He understands the intentions of his friends, knows that what they did wasn’t out of malice or lack of caring, and he has forgiven them - or at least he fully intends to. But it doesn’t stop the thought coldly intruding into his mind to remind him ‘You don’t matter as much to them as they do to you’. 

He doesn’t even think it’s true. Not like that, anyway. Not in words so stark and cruel. But he would do anything for his friends, and when they had the chance to prove the same - to prove that their brotherhood was more than fighting for King and Country - they fell short. The one time Aramis’ side diverged from the King’s (for Treville’s side would always be the King’s, he had been reminded, as much as either of them wished it otherwise), they chose the King. He’s not sure they fully knew what they were doing - but then, he thinks savagely, neither did Marsac.

He will forgive them, he knows. He thinks it might not even be an issue of forgiveness at all, really; rather, it’s expectation. The parameters of their friendship feel...changed...after the last week, but, he reminds himself, that doesn’t mean the foundations it’s built on have. 

And if it’s proof he needed, Aramis tells himself that the pursuit of that in matters of love and friendship is futile - a fool’s game. Since when has he ever needed that? He’s had faith in his friends for too long to abandon it now. 

They had been his saving grace before, they would be again. 

He closes his eyes with a sigh and wills his mind to clear so he can just - sleep. If a tear slips from beneath closed lids later, he does not wipe it away. He prays for the relief of another sunrise, another day away from last week. 

It will hurt less tomorrow, he tells himself. And he’ll tell himself that every day until it’s true.