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They met two years before Savoy. 

When Porthos marched into the Musketeers' garrison for the first time, mustering all his courage to face up to captain Treville and ask him -no, demand- that the legendary warrior take a man like Porthos into his regiment, Aramis was there, already had been for almost two years, starting from an aide but quickly having risen to become one of Treville's best soldiers. As Porthos climbed the rickety staircase, brow drawn into the most threatening glower he could possibly muster, Aramis' head snapped up from where he was bent, washing a particularly tough stain off the grainy planks, and dark brown met black as they caught each other's eyes. Porthos' immediate reaction was to hunch his shoulders, bracing for a snide comment that would sting but wouldn't feel in any way unexpected. But then, to his immense surprise, the youthful face in front of him broke into a grin, and the man sprang to his feet, lithe as a cat.

"Why hello there, monsieur!" the man exclaimed with not a hint of thinly veiled malice, and Porthos regarded him for a moment. Yet he could discern no mocking glint in those dark brown eyes, and the smile seemed quite sincere. "May I be of service?" 

Porthos grunted, sifting from one foot to the other. He was hardly ever nervous -indignant, frustrated, angry, yes, but never purely nervous- but something about the other man's direct yet polite greeting made him pause, and not in an unpleasant manner, and that was the unexpected part.

" 'M looking for Captain Treville of the Musketeers", he started, carefully, the usual warded harshness seeping into his voice. That appeared to take the other man aback a little, because he blinked and cocked his head slightly to one side. Still, he made no relevant comment. Instead, he just dropped the dirty, soggy rug he'd been using to scrub the floor, and used his newly vacated hand to point to a door at the far end of the balcony overlooking the training yard. 

"Well, you're in luck then, he just got back from patrol. His office is right there, you can't miss it." He offered another sun-bright grin that Porthos had no idea what to make of, so he decided to play it safe and grunted again, then glanced over his shoulder to the aforementioned door. He had half a mind to just turn his back and walk there, place his demand and let matters take their course, but then he realised he had not an inkling of knowledge on what the code of behaviour was when it came to talking to a military officer. One of Treville's standing, nonetheless. 

So, begrudgingly, he resigned to his fate and turned back towards the young musketeer, then cleared his throat.

"Uh...", was all he managed to come up with at first, because suddenly he wasn't sure what to ask for and in what manner, but the other paused halfway through the act of reaching for the previously abandoned washcloth, and straightened back up. 

"I could... take you there?", the younger man suggested, seemingly reading Porthos' mind without much effort, which was, honestly, quite disconcerting. And yet...  

"Uh... Sure. Thanks." 

"Splendid! Follow me," the man exclaimed as if it would be an honour to assist him, dropping the washcloth carelessly enough that some dirty water splashed back out across the floorboards. Porthos blinked in slight bewilderment when his impromptu guide seemed to not pay it any heed. 

"My name is Aramis, by the way. May I ask yours?"

"Porthos... du Vallon." He only remembered to include the surname he'd chosen for himself at the very last second- and with pleasure as well as surprise, he realised it felt right on his tongue, if a little foreign still. It would grow on him, he supposed. Or, rather, he would grow into it. As an honourable man, a musketeer. 

Hopefully. 

"Du Vallon? Never heard of it- then again, there are a lot of noble houses in the countryside I don't know about!" Aramis laughed, and Porthos tensed, for a moment thinking he was finally being made fun of. But- no, Aramis still looked and sounded as sincere as before, and there was even a spring to his step as they finally reached the door to Treville's office. Aramis knocked twice in quick succession, then pushed the door slightly ajar and peeked in. 

"Captain? Do forgive the intrusion, there's a man here who would like an audience with you." Then he stepped back, beckoning Porthos inside with a wink. "Good luck, Porthos." 

And so, it was with Aramis by his side that Porthos took the first step towards his new life.

Porthos had not expected it, but as it were, he was accepted relatively easily, in an earnest, almost protective manner on the Captain's part that the now-musketeer couldn't even begin to decipher.

(Later, much, much later he will learn the truth of it, and it will not be pretty. He will wish he never knew.)

But for now, all he knew was that suddenly he had a home, and brothers in arms, something akin to a real family and, for the very first time in his life, an actual purpose.

And so, Porthos was perfectly content.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Porthos realised that Aramis just... was like that. Always with a smile on his face, dark brown eyes glinting with sharp intellect that he sometimes aptly concealed in favour of appearing harmless as a newborn hare, when reality couldn't be further from it. He was a devil in swordplay, and ferocious when performing his duty, but his true talent lay in marksmanship; he never missed a shot from as far as almost three hundred yards depending on the weapon he used, and everyone in the garrison seemed to adore and despise him at the same time, because a) he was, apparently, half-Spanish which, at a time when Spain was hailed as France's number one enemy, could lead to trouble and b) he was the captain's favourite, although Porthos was swiftly rising in Treville's eyes as well, challenging Aramis for the spot with ferocity.

Still, nobody outright antagonised Aramis, and very few disliked him in earnest. With a surplus of charm and the skill to back it up, he could have almost any friend he wanted, and yet, for some reason, he chose Porthos. Porthos, who started as sort of an outcast, his heritage proving to be somewhat of a hindrance when it came to making friends. The others grew to respect him after witnessing his skill with the blade and his raw physical strength, but still they often shied away from his company at first, unsure of how to handle him, if they even wanted to. So Porthos trained with them but took his meals and breaks alone, and his bunkmates in the barracks mostly avoided conversation with him, almost as if they feared him.

It's okay, he told himself. He didn't mind- didn't care. So long as he had a home, a steady income and a purpose, he'd survive. He's been through much worse, after all. Compared to his life up to that point, this was child's play. 

Still, he was lonely. And if he were being honest with himself, he'd admit that, well... it kind of hurt. He'd never admit to it out loud, but he'd always longed for approval, acceptance. Here, he was getting the first (his skills demanded respect of his comrades, at least), yet he always lacked the second, no matter how hard he chased after it.

So when Aramis plopped onto the vacant spot next to him, on the benches and tables strewn around the perimeter of the training yard for the soldiers to rest and eat, Porthos didn't shoo him away. 

"Gruel again," Aramis commented cheerfully and without preamble, his good mood belied by the way he scrunched up his nose and poked a wooden spoon at the unappetising soupy mass sitting inside his bowl. "You'd think as the King's soldiers we'd at least be entitled to solid food more often."

"Eh, I've had worse," Porthos replied without missing a beat, slipping into the conversation so naturally as if they'd done this every day, when in reality that was probably the third or fourth time in total he'd spoken to Aramis ever since he'd been accepted in the regiment as a cadet. "There was this stew Ol' Maggie made at the Court o' Miracles, an' let me tell ya, it was so bad..."

They always sat together at meals after that, without ever acknowledging the change, and Aramis went as far as to plead with Treville that they be assigned on patrols together (Treville relented, but only on the condition that Aramis took up double stable duty, to which the young man earnestly agreed- a testament to his and Porthos' growing friendship).

Within the first month, they quickly became inseparable. 

Porthos liked that. It quickly made the garrison feel like home in more than just name, and not only because the rest of the musketeers started warming up to him as well, trusting Aramis to make the right call, quickly jumping to his defense whenever an outsider so much as gave him a dirty look. 

And while the eventual acceptance by his peers meant much to him, what he'd found with Aramis was even more than that. After Charon and Flea, Porthos hadn't believed he'd find a soul as kindred to his as they'd been, but would you look at him now- he'd easily found that and more in Aramis. He swore to himself that they couldn't have been closer even if they'd been related by blood. And that, more than anything else, made Porthos certain that he'd finally found his place in the world.

And yet, for all their indisputable closeness, it was only after the first few months came and went that the two found themselves sitting in a tavern to celebrate Porthos finally ascending from a cadet to a musketeer proper, sipping watered-down ale and making moon eyes at the barmaids (another thing he quickly learned about Aramis- he put his charms to excellent use when it came to the fair sex), that Porthos abruptly realised he knew practically nothing about his companion. He'd already told Aramis about his life in the Court of Miracles, his old friends that he left behind there, spending a few years in the infantry ranks before resolving to join the musketeers, and so on and so forth, but just then it hit him that pretty much all he knew about Aramis, was that he was the biggest flirt in Paris, of half-Spanish origin, and that Treville took him in at seventeen, a few years after his mother died.

(That last part, apparently, they had in common, and sometimes Porthos did wonder what it would be like to grow up around a man like Treville, surrounded by musketeers. Would he have turned out any different? And would it have been for the better?)

Still, he decided to ponder these questions later, on his own, and worked up enough courage to prod Aramis about his life before Treville and the musketeers. 

"Oh, it's nothing interesting, really," Aramis gave him a tipsy grin and waved a hand, sloshing some of his ale around in its tankard until stray droplets flew out of it.

"My ma was Spanish, from Alhambra," his common French accent slipped into something foreign, melodic, as his tongue glided over the syllables of his hometown, and Porthos couldn't help but smile: Spanish sounded like song when Aramis spoke it. "A wealthy French nobleman was visiting to seal a trade agreement with the local governor, in whose house my ma worked as a maidservant. They met, and it was love at first sight. He promised her everything for her and the child he'd give her, and so she let him whisk her off in France... where he abandoned her after a few months, when he returned from another journey with a new mistress, this time from Italy. He left her on the streets to rot, even while she was six months along her pregnancy." 

Porthos winced sympathetically. "Ah. S'pose that was you?"

"You suppose correctly, my friend." Aramis took a hearty swig out of his mug as if the ale would strengthen his resolve for what came next. "She barely spoke any French, and so she couldn't find what many would call a respectable job."

He scoffed as he said that, which gave Porthos a good idea of what his friend thought of such judgment passed on women who made a living differently than what society expected of them.

"That's where I was born," Aramis said, smiling fondly just for a moment, and Porthos was somehow certain he wasn't really aware he was doing it, "a pleasure house named 'the Gilded Lily'. Quite a place to grow up in... But it wasn't all bad. I had a real family there, and we rarely went hungry." 

He paused to drink again, his smile gone and replaced by a somber expression, and Porthos took the opportunity to butt in, hoping to comfort him.

"We've a similar story, aye?" he started, finding himself anxious to wipe that fleeting shadow from his friend's normally cheerful face. "My mother had me with a nobleman too, or sum'n like that. He left her o' course, the bastard. She..." 

He cleared his suddenly tight throat, then decided Aramis had the right idea, and gulped some of his own drink as well. "She died of a fever when I was little. I hardly even remember 'er face anymore." 

"Oh, my", Aramis winced, immediately shoving his own demons aside and giving him a sympathetic glance. Under any other circumstances Porthos would have bristled, pushing even the mere thought of pity away, but he already knew Aramis well enough to be certain the other man wasn't pitying him- he genuinely felt bad. "I'm terribly sorry, Porthos, I shouldn't dig up such awful memories-"

"No, go on, I asked ya to tell me 'bout your story an' 'ere I am grumbling 'bout mine again." Porthos made a face, suddenly sheepish. "Sorry. I really wanna hear it, Aramis."

"...Oh" at that, Aramis looked legitimately surprised; he cocked his head a little, seemingly trying to discern whether Porthos' words were true or if he was just asking to make him feel better. Eventually, whatever the marksman saw in Porthos' open, honest expression must have been enough, because he gave a curt nod and placed his drink to the side, leaning a little closer to Porthos from across the table. 

"Well... I lived in the brothel for most of my childhood years, and it really felt like home. Hey- don't look at me like that! It was fine, really. It's like... having multiple mothers and grandméres , even older sisters. The women working there were like family to me, and I respected them all as I did my own mother." 

"Let's not look into the implications of that in yer adult life, eh?" Porthos joked, slapping him gently in the back and expecting Aramis, with his easygoing manner and bright smiles, to laugh along. It went without saying, then, that when Aramis recoiled slightly, he was more than a little bewildered. Then his dark eyes met Porthos', and the latter was taken aback at how hurt the younger man suddenly looked.

"That seems to be the general consensus every time I tell the story, yes," Aramis muttered, eyes quickly sliding away from Porthos' as if he couldn't bear to look at his companion. The previously relaxed, jovial atmosphere between the two fizzled out like damp gunpowder, and suddenly Porthos was faced with the terrifying realisation of having said the worst possible thing at the worst possible time, because he could almost physically feel Aramis drawing away from him. Aramis, sweet Aramis who wore his heart on his sleeve and never batted an eye at all the dirty looks and backhanded compliments slung at him, suddenly erecting a thick stone wall around him that Porthos didn't even know existed. 

"I grew up in a brothel without a father and surrounded by whores, so clearly I am desperately looking for female validation and the motherly love I never properly received. Tale as old as time." 

The words were harsh and heavy, cold as winter sleet, and Porthos wanted to punch himself because really, he of all people should have known not to make such assumptions about one's heritage and how that tied in to who they seemed to be. Aramis had never made assumptions about him, and yet here Porthos was, having opened his foolish mouth and fucked things up, effectively wounding the only person currently in his life that had never judged him for who he was and where he'd come from.

Great. Amazing. Perfect, even.

Y'er such an idiot, Porthos du Vallon.  

There was suddenly a newfound awkwardness between the musketeers, neither of them being able to meet each other's eye, whereas previously they'd never shied from one another. With little else to do now that conversation had been so masterfully shot dead, they finished their drinks in silence, and although Aramis casually offered to pay (he'd had the time to build a small reserve of savings that Porthos, having been in the service for only half a year, was still working towards), he still refused to meet Porthos' eye. They stumbled out of the tavern into the humid, oppressive June night, both of them sweaty and drunk and miserable as they started the painstaking way back to the garrison (God- Treville was going to yell at them until sunrise for returning so late, wasn't he? So that was also going to be fun).

They resigned to walking in silence for a while, until Porthos got so fed up with it that he decided, fuck it, he owed Aramis an apology, and he'd be damned if he let his one solid friendship go to hell just because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.

"Hey, Aramis..." He hesitantly nudged the other man gently with his elbow, and Aramis made a disgruntled noise but didn't move away, for which Porthos sullenly thanked the God he did not really believe in. The marksman still refused to look at him, though, and Porthos' chest tightened with guilt, but he resolved to plough on and just let it happen. " 'M sorry... 'bout what I said. It was stupid. An' wrong. I really don' believe a word of it, you know? An' if anyone does, they're dumber than a slug." 

For a few tense, agonising seconds, Aramis didn't reply. Then, suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks and Porthos almost tripped and fell flat on his face in his attempt to stop and look at the other man. When he finally managed to right himself and straighten up, eyes flying to Aramis in confusion -and, fine, a little bit of anger, because what the fuck?- he saw a small but genuine smile gracing the other musketeer's sharp, handsome features. 

"The hell?", Porthos blurted out, apology momentarily forgotten, and that familiar smile spread just a little bit. 

"Payback for earlier," Aramis replied with a small shrug. "A gentleman cannot possibly let such scathing insults go unpunished. But I think we're even now, eh, mon ami?" 

"A gentleman now, are ye?" Porthos grumbled, gently punching Aramis in the shoulder- or rather trying to, because he was still quite drunk, and he missed spectacularly when Aramis quickly swerved out of the way. Of course, being just as smashed himself, he ended up tripping too, uttering a Spanish curse when he barely managed to catch himself, and Porthos barked out a sharp, amused laugh. 

"No less than you, Porthos," Aramis breathed a moment later, having regained some semblance of dignity, as they both stumbled on towards the garrison, "and no more, either." 

Just like that, they were laughing again, trading half-hearted nudges and dodging playful blows, and so, Porthos knew he'd been forgiven.

"So, how did ye end up in the Captain's care?" 

"Huh?" Aramis looked up from his breakfast -gruel yet again, but Porthos had learned by then to not lament about it, lest the cook, Sarge, overhear and take it to heart, and deciding to pour too much salt on their lunch as vengeance. The younger musketeer's eyes were somewhat sunken in, his hair even messier than usual, and Porthos couldn't hold back an amused chuckle. For all his puffing up his chest like an oversized peacock and bragging of his many talents, Aramis was such a lightweight. Porthos himself only barely felt the aftereffects of the previous night's indulgences, but Aramis was so hungover it was a miracle Treville had yet to notice and proverbially whoop their backsides about it.

"Paris to Aramis," the larger man teased, waving a hand in front of his friend's face to secure his undivided attention. "You never told me last night, wha' happened to you that landed you here?" 

"Oh!" Aramis blinked in sudden realisation, then rubbed an eye with a gloved hand, and regarded his mug of water as if he were seriously contemplating pouring its contents all over himself to achieve full sobriety. "Of course, yes. Well- my ma somehow came in contact with my father and pleaded with him to take me from the brothel, calling upon the love he supposedly once held for her and asking him to give their son a better life. That happened when I was twelve. My father didn't even come himself- he sent his valet to pick me up like I was little more than a stray dog, can you fathom?" 

"I've an idea, yes", Porthos replied with a small snort- he was no stranger to being treated like misplaced property, especially by the rich and mighty of Paris, although whoever his father was never came looking for him. Porthos reckoned the man was likely not even aware that he had a son out of wedlock (or maybe he simply didn't care).

He said as much, and Aramis made a face.

"If it's any consolation, mine wasn't too fond of me either", the marksman replied with a shake of the head, and Porthos caught the hint of a bitter smile beneath his carefully trimmed moustache. "I stayed with him for five years, until I was seventeen. At fifteen I, ah... I fell in love with a girl. Isabelle. We were good friends, and it seemed she loved me, too, because... I, uh, I may or may not have gotten her pregnant."

Porthos was, predictably, unable hold back the loud cackle that burst out of his mouth at that, although he felt the tiniest bit guilty when he noticed Aramis hiding his flushed face behind his cup. " 'course you did! I take it 'er parents weren't happy?"

"No, not really." Aramis sighed, setting the tin cup back on top of the table and idly running a finger along the rim. His eyes bore a strange, fragile sadness as he stared at the grainy wood, momentarily lost in his recollections. "We were to be married within the year but... she lost the baby. Her parents used that as an excuse to send her off to a monastery, and after that things between me and my father got even worse. He had always strived to remind me I was a bastard, a nothing, a piece of driftwood he was kind enough to pick up from the streets and shape into a proper man, or whatever. But after Isabelle, it was as if he made it his personal daily obligation to remind me how much of a disgrace I was. How I barely deserved to be alive, let alone a bearer of the d'Herblay name." 

... Lord . Porthos felt a sudden burst of bitter gratefulness that his father never sought him out. Many times had he heard he didn't deserve to live, that he should be put out of his disgraceful, miserable existence. But never by the lips of someone he loved, or even just respected. Never by his mother. For Aramis to have been told such harsh things by his own father ... Porthos was overcome by the sudden urge to track that Comte d'Herblay down himself and make him regret those very words. 

Still, he said nothing- he would never want Aramis to pity him, had it been him talking, and he knew the sentiment went both ways. They were both foolishly proud like that, so he just offered an encouraging nod, urging his friend to finish the story. 

Aramis did.

"There's nothing much after that. A year or so after, I just... sort of snuck out of the estate one night and ran away." Aramis snorted, shaking his head with amusement at his own recklessness. "Went straight to captain Treville. I'd heard about the newly formed musketeer regiment from one of my father's guests and I realised, that was it, that was the life I wanted. The danger, the adrenaline, the thrill of it all... Anyway, I pestered Treville until he gave in. He said I was too young to be a musketeer yet, but I could be his steward, and if I showed enough promise, I could enlist as a recruit as soon as I'd turned eighteen. I'd train as hard as everyone else did, and if I showed promise, he'd petition the king to grant me the commission of a musketeer."

"Guess that worked out for ya, eh?" Porthos commented with a smile. "The Fates smiled on us both, it seems."

"God's grace is abundant, indeed," Aramis agreed with a smile, seeming a little livelier than before (although he was definitely still hungover. Porthos could tell, and it was hilarious). "As were the floors I scrubbed, the swords I polished and the letters I delivered for the Captain for a year, before I was finally granted a commission. But, I suppose it was worth it." 

"And you'll both be scrubbing a great many more floors, if you do not present for morning patrol within the next thirty seconds." 

Porthos jumped at the all-too familiar gruff voice, and looked up just in time to see Captain Treville himself lean toward them with both palms splayed against the table between them, looking from him to Aramis and back. All things considered, Porthos didn't have to be a genius to know the man was pissed. 

"Ah, Captain!" Aramis, ever the charmer, stood up with no small amount of wobbling and took off his hat, executing a deep, if somewhat unsteady, bow. "We were just going, if you'll excuse us-" 

"Not so fast, young man." Treville didn't even have to move his gaze from Porthos as his left arm shot out, leather-clad fingers curling around Aramis' elbow and pulling him back to the bench. Aramis doggedly remained seated, looking very much like a cat caught in the act of stealing food off the table. "You seem a little worse for wear. I do not suppose it is due to drinking your way through a night preceding patrol duty, hm?" 

Porthos watched the Adam's apple in Aramis' throat bob up and down as the younger musketeer swallowed thickly, eyes darting above Treville's head as if he was suddenly extremely interested in the sparrows darting across the sky over the training yard. Treville seemed to await his reply -or, more likely, his pathetic excuse-, but it proved to be one of the extremely rare occasions during which Aramis was at a loss of words, and Porthos decided it was his turn to scamper to the rescue.

" 't was my idea, sir!" He stood up straight, tucking his hat underneath his arm. "We were celebratin' my commission an' I lost track o' time, an' we came back much later than we should've. 'e will make up for it."

"In whatever manner you see fit!" Aramis added, catching on quickly. It wasn't the first time they were scrambling to cover each other's arses.

Treville' face contorted slightly as he tried to keep up the stern expression, but under his moustache his lip twitches in amusement. 

"That, you will, gentlemen. You'll take over Bernard and Saussure's guard duty tonight, and if I catch you in such a deplorable condition again, you'll spend a week in kitchen duty under Sarge. Have I made myself clear?"

Both musketeers nodded quickly, falling over their feet and each other in the process of assuring their captain that this was a mistake they would never again repeat, showering him with apologies for their flounder and gratitude for his mercy. Treville shook his head just a little, exasperated with their antics, then sent them off on their way with a pat on each shoulder -the gesture feeling a bit like both a warning and a show of affection. Porthos half-dragged a stumbling Aramis along towards their waiting horses, both laughing hard enough that they begun to attract glares from their older, more disciplined comrades. 

Patrol was uneventful (to the surprise of absolutely nobody), and they spent it trying not to catch each other's eye all throughout their rounds, lest they break into uncontrollable laughter and make even bigger fools of themselves. 

Just another regular day for the two of them, really.

Athos, albeit the oldest among the three of them, was the last to join the regiment. 

He came to them with grief in his eyes that not even the unhealthy amounts of wine he seemed so intent on consuming could disguise, and he kept to himself despite Aramis' valiant efforts when it came to recruiting him in the little merry band.

(Porthos once joked that Aramis had a weak heart for lost causes; Aramis fired back that Porthos, of all people, should be grateful for it, and so they ended up verbally sparring right over Athos' head, until the latter pointedly took his drink, got up, and slunk away to the furthest bench he could find, his back turned to them with the message behind the gesture as clear as day. Aramis and Porthos exchanged guilty glances and acquiesced that, fine, maybe they'd fumbled that one up. Certainly there would be no shortage of opportunities, though.) 

Except after that particular incident, Athos seemed hellbent on avoiding them at any and all costs. Having apparently come from a noble family and having experience with leading his house's small, private force, he was not obligated to start off as a cadet and had been immediately taken in as a low-ranking musketeer, despite his insistence to the opposite. He still trained and worked as hard as any cadet would, so it was hard for Porthos and Aramis, two commissioned musketeers with a full duty schedule, to xatxh him alone. And so, the next time they were able to actually exchange more than a word and an annoyed, dismissive nod -the latter strictly from Athos' perspective- was during a sparring session. Aramis had gone up against Athos, who was decidedly not putting up with the marksman's casual chatter as they crossed swords, and so he was already riled up by the end of their round. When Aramis shucked off his leather coat on account of the late spring heat, carelessly draping it and his sword belt over a nearby stool and plopping gracelessly on the dusty ground to take a rest, Athos seemed to finally reach the limit of his patience. 

"I do not know where exactly you come from and what manners you were taught there, monsieur," he snapped, turning to Aramis and advancing towards him as if he were about to wage holy war on the other man, "but this is France, and we're in the King's most elite regiment. Perhaps if you cannot muster the diligence required of your position, you should scamper back to your home like the spoiled noble brat you seem to be, rather than be such a disgrace to us all." 

Silence hung suspended in the air between them like a taut wire ready to snap and unleash hell, as the three men looked at each other for a long, endless second that felt more like an eternity. And Porthos was about to tell Athos to just bugger off if he was going to be such a poor sport, and drag Aramis away so they could take advantage of the rest of their day off. But then as fate would have it, his eyes landed on Aramis' face, and there was such plain, open hurt in those dark eyes as Athos' words sunk in, that Porthos swore he could feel his own heart shattering into a million pieces.

The next thing he knew, he was roaring, and his clenched fist was colliding with Athos' jaw with enough raw power behind it that the impact reverberated up along Porthos's entire arm to his shoulder. Athos stumbled to the side with the force of the strike, and Aramis sprang up from his perch, alarmed, though he made no move to catch the other man as he went sprawling across the ground with a rather pronounced 'oomf!'. He immediately raised himself up on his elbows, though he looked momentarily confused, and Porthos took advantage of that to loom over him in all his massive, muscular glory, jabbing an accusatory finger down towards him.

"You will not speak to Aramis tha' way gain, you hear me? Or I'll send you home crawlin' on your backside!" 

Athos stared up at him, one hand massaging his jaw -already swelling- as the other elbow held him up. Aramis glanced between the two again, hands held halfway up in what Porthos assumed to be a placating gesture, should Athos decide to immediately cash in his right for revenge. However, the older man just sat on the ground a while longer, blinking thoughtfully.

"...Alright," was all Athos graced them with eventually, moving his jaw this way and that in an attempt to straighten the affected bones out. "I suppose I deserved that, indeed." 

Porthos snorted, but he couldn't hide a mild trace of surprise from crossing his face. Evidently, he did not expect an apology- certainly not a concession. He was about to demand Athos apologise directly to Aramis, but just then the somber newcomer turned his attention to the marksman and gave him a clipped nod.

"Do accept my apologies, Aramis." Aramis startled a little, seemingly surprised that Athos even recalled his name. "It was unbecoming of me to speak such. Perhaps I've grown too old and sour during the past few years." 

"Apology accepted," Aramis said quickly, then cocked his head in that owlish manner of his, thinking. "You can't be much older than us, can you?" 

Porthos momentarily considered punching Aramis, too, but Athos simply shrugged a shoulder. "Life tends to age us prematurely, let's just say." 

Aramis stretched out his hand, then, offering to help Athos up, and to Porthos' surprise, the latter took it and climbed to his feet. Melancholy gray eyes landed on Porthos, and be frowned a little, though not maliciously. "You pack quite a punch. Remind me to never insult your friend again in your presence." 

"Or out of it," Porthos warned with a growl, protectively shouldering his way halfway in front of Aramis. " 'e's like a brother to me, you understand? I won't let you treat 'im like rubbish." 

His father has done enough of that already, he thought darkly, but didn't say out loud. Athos didn't need to know, and anyway, it would only serve to humiliate Aramis further. That, more than anything, Porthos wanted to avoid at all costs. 

"Porthos..." Aramis hedged, placing a gentle hand on his companion's shoulder, "it's quite alright, I can defend myself. Not that I don't appreciate your efforts of course, but I've accepted his apology. The matter is settled." 

That made Porthos relax just a little- Aramis didn't look nor sounded as rattled anymore, and if he were simply hiding it then Porthos would just have to wait and inquire about it later, when it would be just the two of them. He relented and took a step back, nodding at Athos. "Fine. Let's call it quits, then." 

The three of them stood there for a few seconds longer, awkwardly looking at each other, and all of them wanting to extract themselves from the uncomfortable situation but none being all too eager to be the first to retreat. Eventually, Aramis gave a loud, long-suffering sigh, and grabbed Porthos by the arm. 

"Come, Porthos, let's ask the Captain if we're permitted to go out for a drink this time around-" 

"Excuse me," Athos interjected, and both the younger men swerved to look at him with identical expressions of surprise (and, in Porthos' case, no small amount of apprehension). Athos straightened up and cleared his throat.

"I know I've apologised already. But if the Captain allows us leave, permit me to treat you to drinks myself. There is a new tavern near the Seine owned by an acquaintance of mine, I can vouch for the quality of the wine there."

Porthos opened his mouth, ready to shoot the idea down like a fowl from the sky- but Aramis got there first, and tipped his head to Athos. 

"That would be quite lovely, thank you. Not to mention, it would be un-gentlemanly of us to refuse such a kindly made offer." 

When Porthos saw the small, telltale troublemaking grin light up Aramis' face slightly as he spoke, he realised there was no getting out of this- but at least, his friend seemed to be back to his old, nonchalant self, no matter how badly Athos' words might have shaken him. 

Athos didn't smile back, not exactly- but something in his expression softened just a little bit, with what almost looked like relief. 

"It is settled, then. I shall come with you to talk to the Captain- lest he strikes the two of you down. I hear you have quite a reputation as troublemakers around here..." 

Aramis faked a gasp and placed a hand upon his heart, looking affronted, but the gesture was exaggerated enough that Porthos could tell he was not actually insulted this time around. They started off towards Treville's office together, and that was when the realisation hits Porthos in earnest.

Aramis had done it, the madman. He had actually gotten Athos to hang out with them.

It was easy, just so damn easy, after that. The next morning, Athos offered to help Aramis with stable duty since he had the day off and, in his words, "it's not like I have anyone else to spend it with". Aramis appeared reluctant, at first- he was quick to assure Athos everything was settled between them, and that he didn't have to continue playing nice if he didn't want to, but Athos just shrugged and shook his head.

"It's got nothing to do with our quarrel- even if you are a menace to the regiment." He said that with a small smirk, and thus Aramis knew it was meant in jest. "I could use a bit more adventure around here, though. Let me help."

So Aramis relented and, eventually, even Porthos started warming up to the living, breathing wine casket that was Athos of the King's Musketeers. The three of them started doing their chores around the garrison in pairs, even if it was just one of them that had been assigned to a particular duty, and Treville, ever-watchful, started putting them in the same patrol groups. Saussure, Aramis and Porthos' usual patrol companion, eventually decided he'd had enough of the two rascals and, taking advantage of their new camaraderie with Athos, readily offered to switch with the latter so all three of them could 'raise hell together and finally let him have a break'.

("What a bore you are, Saussure".

"Ha, ha. To the devil with you, Aramis.")

Only a full year after Porthos first joined the regiment, the three of them had become an inseparable trio. So much so, in fact, that it was what everyone in the garrison, including Treville, had begun to call them- they'd been dubbed Les Inséparables, the title frequently spoken in mixtures of exasperation and affection, but one they would forever carry with pride.

In each other, they'd found a family, a life full of adventure they indulged in and danger that they vowed to always come back from, because they had each other.

And then, one quiet evening of lounging in the courtyard and stealing freshly baked bread right under Sarge's nose, a shout echoed from the far end of the garrison, over the closed wooden gate. The musketeer currently standing watch atop the crudely fashioned oak battlements urgently waved an arm in what Porthos realised after a moment was distress.

"Open the gates!"

He himself had just returned from patrol duty at the palace, and Athos had earned a couple of days off after he'd been lightly injured in a skirmish, and it had been one of those extremely rare occasions during which their little gang of three had been split- Aramis, close to getting promoted to the rank of lieutenant, had been dispatched to a training exercise with twenty-one other musketeers in Savoy, so it was just the two of them at the garrisson, lamenting their boredom. Porthos felt guilty about that for a moment, but Athos was already moving, heading for the lever positioned near the exit, so the taller musketeer had no more time to wonder whether he'd jinxed the relative calm that had befallen the regiment of late. He jumped up with a slight delay and followed Athos somewhat sluggishly (they'd pilfered some wine along with the bread, and while he wasn't anywhere near drunk, his head felt oddly light), but soon the both of them were pulling at the lever and slowly, ever so slowly, the gates began to creak open. 

Porthos didn't really know what he'd expected- perhaps a citizen having fallen victim to the ever-rising crime rates of the streets of Paris. Maybe a messenger from the border with Spain. One of their own being hunted by the Red Guard because the cardinal had grown bored of not riling Treville up. Anything.

Anything except Aramis, barely holding himself up on top of his black mare, head hanging low enough that his chin nearly brushed his chest. There was a filthy strip of fabric wrapped around his forehead, but blood had seeped through and was sluggishly dripping down his left eye; his leathers were torn almost beyond recognition, and the once-white linen shirt underneath was shredded and stained so dark with crimson blood, it appeared to be almost black. 

And, most shockingly, he was all alone. No other member from his squad seemed to have returned with him.

Not Emíle. Not André, not Saussure, not Alexandre. Not Marsac. 

Porthos had questions- many of them in fact, most of which began with "what in the devil's damned name", but just then he noticed the way Aramis was listing slowly to the side, and he lunged forward in pure instinct, his body reacting before his mind. He caught the wounded man just in time as he slid off the saddle, arms wrapping tightly and securely around Aramis's slender frame. His friend - brother - let out a small, pained sound, and Porthos whispered quick, hushed apologies as he adjusted his hold- he had not a single idea where or how bad the wound was, and with all the blood covering Aramis almost like a second skin he had no hope of locating the source at the moment, but he slowly knelt to the ground until Aramis was lying against him, the younger musketeer's head resting against Porthos' shoulder. 

"I have you", Porthos mumbled reassuringly, sweeping a lock of dark, matted hair away from Aramis' forehead in an attempt to check the wound there, but the makeshift bandages were covering it, and Porthos feared that removing them may do more harm than good. "I have you, 'Mis." 

Athos, who had, as always, kept his wits about him and had already jogged off towards Treville's office as soon as he'd laid eyes on Aramis, returned now with the captain in tow. He lowered himself next to Porthos, eyes quickly skimming Aramis. 

"What happened?", he started, and Porthos wanted to snap that this was very much not the time to ask , but Aramis blinked hazy, dark eyes open, although he stared at the cloudy sky above, unable to move his head to locate his friend.

"Ambush... dead... they're all- dead -", he stopped abruptly, body convulsing with a cough, and Porthos' heart clenched as he saw a trickle of fresh blood dripping down the corner of his friend's lips. 

"Hush, don't talk", Treville said quickly, tone curt but father-like even amidst this new crisis. "Athos, go get the garrison doctor. Porthos, help me get him inside." 

During the last two years, all three of them had suffered their fair share of injuries- mostly light ones, usually acquired during scuffles with the Red Guard, or the occasional musket wound during a tête-a-tête with bandits at the outskirts of Paris. They'd seen other musketeers, older and more experienced men that were often sent to the border or to the occasional militia skirmish, return with far worse; some not pulling through, even. But never one of them- one of the Inseparables. And so Porthos could now feel himself slowly go into a sort of shock, experiencing it all occur around him as if he were outside his own body, watching himself half-drag Aramis to the infirmary.

He felt Aramis' blood seep into his own uniform, saw the way Treville' eyes were filled with worry as they supported the wounded musketeer between them on the way to the infirmary. The captain looked almost bereaved, and Porthos felt his breath catch- was Aramis' condition truly that bad? 

By the expression the medic's apprentice greeted them with, he supposed the answer was probably yes . 

"God almighty", the boy muttered as he pushed the door open, letting the men in. "S-Stay here, I'll call for doctor Lupin-" 

"Athos went to look for him already, they'll be here soon", Treville interrupted, slipping into the role of an experienced commander, who had seen too many of his men fall prey to such injuries. "Help us get him to a bed instead."

The boy clamped his mouth shut with a small bow and did as told, and soon there Aramis lay, pale and unmoving, at the cot closest to the window. Treville motioned for Porthos to stand back as him and the boy set to undressing the wounded musketeer, and soon Aramis wore nothing but his breeches, almost as bloodstained as his shirt. The apprentice disappeared in the infirmary's back room, presumably to fetch cleaning supplies, and Porthos made to help, unable to just stand there and watch, but the door slammed open just then, and in Dr. Lupin walked, closely followed by Athos. The doctor took one look at Aramis, lying still and broken, and pursed his lips. 

"Well, you don't see that every day." 

If it had been anyone else, Porthos would already be at his throat and choking the life out of him for his apparent indifference- but he'd grown to know Lupin, and he was aware that it was precisely this level of clear-headedness that had brought musketeers back from the brink of death time and again. He was excellent at his work, and had even been a combat medic for the corps before he lost his left leg to an infected musket wound. Now he limped around on a wooden stump, confined to the garrison, and yet he looked no less regal than he must have done during his prime. Even his limp still held pride in it, and Porthos decided he could be as cruel with his words as he wanted, so long as he got the job done. 

Treville and Athos stepped back, standing next to Porthos against the outer wall of the infirmary. The apprentice returned with a bowl of steaming water, rolls of bandages and clean washcloths, and Lupin got to work without missing a beat. The blood was soon scrubbed away from Aramis' bare chest so that the wound was visible- a long but shallow gash starting from his left pectoral and drawing a dark red line diagonally across his abdomen, only to stop just over his right hip bone. It was bleeding only a little, thank the Lord, but even Porthos, with his pretty much nonexistent medical knowledge, could tell it had gotten infected. No surprise there- Savoy was a good two days' ride from Paris, if the horse was good (as he knew Aramis' mare, Cherié, to be), but even that was too long for a wound to remain untreated. Now that Aramis' face was finally clear of blood and grime, Porthos could see the flush of fever on his cheeks, even as the rest of his face remained deathly pale.

Not to mention, the head wound was much worse; it was smaller but deeper and still bleeding slowly but profusely, not to mention just as infected as the gash. Lupin grunted in frustration, pushing his glasses up his nose with a bloodied hand, apparently without regard to the smear of fresh blood he left across his wrinkled cheek in the process. 

"This will need to be sutured. Arsene, the laudanum. And my needles." 

The apprentice -Arsene- bolted obediently to the backroom again to retrieve the requested items, and Lupin gestured to Athos and Porthos.

"One of you, hold him down. I don't want him squirming around lest I sew his eye shut instead." 

Fair enough, Porthos thought to himself, and he and Athos stepped towards their wounded friend at the same time. Their eyes met, and Athos' face melted into what was almost softness as he recognised the fierceness in Porthos' gaze. Without a word, he returned to his place next to the captain and waved a hand.

"Go", he said softly, and Porthos gave him a thankful nod before rushing to take his place right next to Aramis. The other man may have been a year younger than Porthos himself (approximately, at least- Porthos wasn't entirely certain about his own age), but the two had grown to be as close as twins at that point. He was well aware Athos cared about them both just as much, of course- but he also knew, if anyone was to help Aramis pull through this, it was himself. 

And he was immensely grateful to Athos for not begrudging him that. 

Arsene returned and carefully dripped a few mouthfuls of laudanum down Aramis' cracked lips, and Porthos saw his throat bob slightly as he swallowed with visible difficulty. Still, he did not stir, not even when Lupin started to carefully sew the gash on his forehead shut. He only whimpered a little, once, then fell silent as Porthos' hands cupped his flushed cheeks gently, keeping his head steady.

It was such a contrast to the chipper, flirty young man Porthos knew. It made him almost tremble in fury towards whoever had been responsible for his friend's suffering.

Lupin finished his handiwork only a short while later, and by that time Aramis had already fallen completely under- aided by both the laudanum and his exhaustion, no doubt. The physician drew back and simply pursed his lips again, then shook his head.

"Well, I've done everything in my power. Only time will tell, now. I'll leave him to rest, but call me immediately if anything changes."

And just like that, he was gone, followed by Arsene. Somehow, Porthos just knew the boy was scuttling away to find a secluded corner to throw up in- he'd only been recently enlisted for the apprenticeship, and this must have been the most gruesome injury he'd witnessed so far.

Treville cast a gloomy look at Athos and Porthos, then his eyes flitted to Aramis before he sighed, shaking his head. 

"Do call, if he comes to. Or if..." He caught himself and shook his head again, but Porthos tensed knowingly- he was all too aware of what the captain had been thinking, because the terrifying, unbearable thought had been grating against the back of his own mind as well.

If Aramis succumbs.  

Suddenly swarmed by panic, Porthos opened his mouth to protest, no doubt about saying something stupid in the process that may or may not have landed him in the brig for the night with the charge of insubordination. But Athos' measured voice floated up and cut him off a moment before he had a chance to get himself in trouble. Such an Athos thing to do, really.

"He will pull through, captain. If anyone can, it's Aramis." 

Somehow, even Treville looked grateful for the reassurance, if only for a fleeting moment. Then he bobbed his head in affirmation and was gone the following second, no doubt on a quest to figure out all he could about the circumstances that had landed one of his best men in what could very well become his deathbed.

And finally, the three Inseparables were alone- even if one of them was currently present in naught but body, the other two flanking him and looking at each other with dark, miserable gazes.

" 'e'll be fine", Porthos muttered between gritted teeth, plopping gracelessly on the wooden stool next to where Aramis lay, pale and still as a corpse. Athos followed suit, taking his place on the foot of the bed, albeit much more gracefully. His eyebrows were pinched as he gazed pensively at their wounded brother.

"He will." He sounded like he actually, truly believed it, for which Porthos was grateful, because for all his stubborn bravado, the fear of losing Aramis to this kept gnawing at the back of his mind like a hungry wolf that he, for the life of him, could not fend off.  

He just nodded at Athos once, but neither of them spoke further as they stayed the whole night, keeping vigil over their wounded brother.

It was five whole days before Aramis finally woke up, and Athos decided, right then and there, that they'd been the longest five days of his miserable life. 

He and Porthos had decided to sleep and eat in shifts, one of them always staying by Aramis' bedside while the other left to refresh himself and catch a few terse hours of sleep. They switched every ten hours or so, although every time it was Athos' turn, Porthos would beg for another half hour, just a little more time, because maybe Aramis would wake now, see, his eyes were fluttering beneath closed lids and Porthos couldn't possibly be elsewhere when his twin in all but blood finally returned to them. But Athos was a stubborn man in his own right, and eventually got what he wanted (in this case, Porthos putting at least a little food into his mouth and getting a few hours of uneasy, dreamless sleep). 

Athos spoke to Aramis when it was the two of them, his voice low and soft and monotonous, an eerie sermon in the dim candlelight of the infirmary. He told him stories of his youth, of hunts with his brother, of how he first decided to join the musketeers. He never mentioned that part of his past -a woman in white, slender fingers wrapped around pale blue forget-me-nots as a noose slowly tightens around her unblemished neck- but he still somehow managed to talk for hours. More than ever before in his life. probably. He wasn't a sentimental man anymore (had been, once, and it had cost him everything- his sanity most of all) but just this time he thought maybe, just maybe, his voice would serve to guide Aramis' spirit home. Back to his body. Back to them. 

Early into the third night, Porthos came to relieve Athos, although it was still a good couple of hours yet before they had to switch. Athos gave Porthos a knowing look, and the larger musketeer shrugged, looking the tiniest bit guilty but refusing to back down.

"Woke up early. Couldn't go back t' sleep." 

And Athos couldn't argue with that- because he could see the worry in Porthos' eyes, dark and foreboding, and anyway it would serve no purpose to demand the other man leave right now; Porthos would never fall back asleep, so nothing would be gained of his leaving, and Athos privately admitted he wouldn't mind the company.

"Sit", he assented, getting up from the rickety wooden chair Treville had ordered brought into the room as soon as he'd realised there would always be someone watching over the patient. Porthos made a noise of protest, but Athos reassured him with a wave of his hand. "I want to stretch my legs. Come on."

He watched his brother in arms take his place, and then he began to pace around the room. He hadn't lied about wanting to stretch- sitting still on that chair for hours had left his joints stiff and his muscles aching. As he took the first few steps he hissed, blood rushing back to his extremities in a sensation of pins and needles. Uncomfortable, yet necessary. 

They refrained from speaking for a while, Athos working his legs and back and Porthos fussing over Aramis, first checking the latter's dressings (even after Athos reassured him that he changed the bandages himself less than five hours ago), then tucking the thin, scratchy blankets meticulously around the youngest musketeer until the unconscious man looked like a swaddled babe. Athos couldn't help but snort at the sight, humoured.

"You'd make a great nanny."

"An' you'd make a great mantlepiece trophy."

Athos snorted again, dipping his head towards Porthos just slightly. "And I thought I was supposed to be the gloomy one, between the three of us." 

The corner of Porthos' lip twitched up into a small smile at that. "Yeah, well. Let the rest of us 'ave at it once'n a while." 

His tone was clipped, northern accent slipping in more intensely than usual. A testament of his worry, no doubt. Athos sighed, and finally allowed himself to sit back down, taking his usual place at the foot of the bed.

"He will come back," he said quietly, not for the first time during the past three days, his eyes lingering on Aramis' face. "He always does. We always do." 

The three of them were as one, tethered to each other by fate and brotherhood and their own spilt blood, and if Athos had any say in it, nobody would be breaking their little team apart. Not even Death himself- and if Death had any objections, Athos decided, he may as well take it up with him and Porthos, and see how that turned out for him.

An arrogant thought, perhaps, but one Athos wasn't going to easily give up on.

(He'd lost one brother already. Never again.)

In the end, it was perhaps the fierceness of their love and their faith in him, that finally beckoned Aramis to return to his brothers.

By that time, Porthos and Athos both had given up on their self-appointed shifts, passing their whole day in the infirmary together and keeping constant watch over their youngest brother. Treville assented to give them the days off, insisting that they could make up for the lost time when Aramis had awoken. He ordered meals brought to the two men in the infirmary, and when one of them had no choice but to succumb to sleep, it was on a nearby cot that they passed out, neither wanting to leave to go to their rooms.  

And eventually, their devotion paid off; during the evening of the fifth day, Aramis stirred and let out a small, pitiful whine that had both Porthos and Athos practically falling all over themselves as they rushed to his side, crowding the small cot and pressing their shoulders together in an attempt to get a better look at the wounded man. 

" 'Mis?," Porthos breathed, voice catching in his throat as he willed his heart to stop kicking wildly against his chest. "Can ye hear us?" 

"Aramis?" Athos repeated, quieter, his voice appearing to be under controll but for the slight tremble that overtook it at the last syllable of his friend's name. 

For a moment, nothing happened, and the two waited with bated breath as fear crept up on them again- that Aramis wasn't going to wake up yet, that he never would, that they were going to truly lose him. But then the youngest musketeer's eyes fluttered under lids so pale they appeared almost translucent, and he whimpered again, shifting his head to one side then the other.

"...'thos?" 

His voice was hoarse and scratchy and barely more than a whisper, but there could be no doubt that he was awake , he was talking to them, and Porthos all but sobbed in relief right then and there.

"Hey, no fair," the larger man gasped, the sound something between a sob and a breathless laugh, and Athos noticed the glassy wetness shimmering over his dark hazel eyes. "I asked ya first, not Athos."

The eldest musketeer allowed himself a small smile at the banter, and made no attempt to hide his own lone tear as it escaped the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheek. He reached for Aramis' hand and squeezed slightly, grounding their friend there, in the land of the living.

"Welcome back, brother," he said softly, and finally Aramis opened his eyes properly, although his gaze was dull and unfocused, pupils dilated as he blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling instead of them. 

"Where... am I?" Aramis whispered with a small, pained gasp. "Am I- dead...?" 

"No, no y'er not," Porthos replied, shaking his head from side to side as if to convince both Aramis and himself. "You're home. We're 'ere. Y'er okay, y'er safe, promise." 

"Porthos...?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, 's me. I'm 'ere, 'Mis, I ain't leaving ye." 

He meant it as comfort, of course, words of tender reassurance for his brother that has just come back from the dead. But Aramis' glazed eyes widened slightly, and he shivered abruptly, a sob tearing out of him. 

"He- he left me," he gasped out, tears welling up in his eyes as he threw his head from side to side, confused and disbelieving. "He left me, he left me ..." 

He suddenly jolted as if struck by lightning, struggling against Porthos' hold on his shoulder and flailing his arms as if he were trying to fight off invisible restraints. One arm slammed against the wooden wall next to his bed with a terrible sound, and Porthos instinctively flinched back as Aramis almost clipped him on the jaw with the other elbow. Athos was the sole one to keep his wits about him, and quickly but gently shoved Porthos out of the way so he could pin Aramis' arms down by his sides, lest he injure himself (or one of them) further. 

"Aramis, listen to me! You're okay, nobody's leaving you-" 

"They're dead !" Aramis sobbed, trying in vain to pull away from Athos' iron grip. "They're all dead, he left me, he left all of us- I LEFT THEM -" 

"Porthos, the laudanum," Athos muttered between gritted teeth, all his strength focused on keeping the other man still against the lumpy mattress. "We should knock him out." 

"What- no!" Porthos looked at him as if he'd just suggested drowning Aramis like a newborn kitten. "We can't knock 'im out, he just woke up! Wha' if he never wakes again?"

"It's that or he snaps his own neck," Athos didn't look at Porthos as he said it, because he, too, feared the same thing, but there was no other way to ensure Aramis didn't aggravate his wounds. The infection may have be gone and the fever broken, but Lupin was certain he'd suffered a serious concussion, and all this flailing and thrashing was surely going to set the healing process of his head wound back by a mile. "Come on, just- trust me ." 

Porthos didn't immediately reply, and for a moment Athos feared he wasn't going to comply, but the next second his friend was there, by his side, unscrewing the cap off the glass vial Lupin had left on the patient's bedside table and shoving the tip of the bottle between Aramis' dry, cracked lips with one hand, while he used the other to pinch his nose shut, forcing the latter to swallow. Aramis refused at first, briefly choking on the liquid, but instinct eventually kicked in and Athos released a sigh of relief as he saw his throat bob once, twice, taking in the medicine. In less than ten seconds his erratic movements began to die down, until eventually he stopped struggling altogether and went limp as a ragdoll, eyes closing once again. Porthos withdrew the vial, and Athos let his arms go, getting on his feet and taking a step back. Aramis' breathing was laboured and shallow, but he seemed to be asleep, no longer suffering from whatever terrors had him in their clutches. At least, Athos dearly hoped so.

Warily, he cast an eye on Porthos' direction and saw the other man having gone green in the face, hands gripping the vial of laudanum so hard Athos worried it may shatter and the glass cut into his palms. 

"I'm sorry, Porthos," he said softly, pressing his hand on the other musketeer's broad shoulder. Porthos sniffed, shaking his head in a mixture of guilt and sadness and frustration.

"Wha' if he doesn't wake up again?" he repeated, and Athos squeezed his shoulder harder for a heartbeat. 

"He will, brother. He will. Stay with him, now. I'm going to get Lupin and the Captain."

The next time Aramis woke up, he was much calmer, and at first Athos was relieved that they wouldn't have to subdue him again. But then he noticed how vacant his eyes looked, how broken- and something inside him shattered, too, because that wasn't Aramis, not his easygoing brother with a smile permanently plastered on his handsome face. This Aramis, he almost didn't know- a ghost, a shadow of himself with eyes sunken into his skull, his dark irises missing that lively, mischievous glint. The smile permanently wiped from his face.

And yet, it was somehow still their Aramis. And they were not leaving him, not even when Treville came in to tentatively ask for a report of what the hell happened- he'd heard some of it from hunters and travelers coming from Savoy, but the information was all fractured, pieces of it contradicting each other, and anyway nobody knew exactly what had transpired. Nobody but the lone survivor. 

"If you're too exhausted, lad, it can wait," Treville started, his expression the gentlest Athos had ever witnessed on him. "But His Majesty is awaiting a report, and the Cardinal is out of his mind about it. I would greatly appreciate it if you could tell us what you recall." 

Aramis lifted his eyes, meeting the captain's; he was sitting up at the moment, back propped against an array of pillows and hands folded in his lap. Athos, sitting by his side while Porthos paced the room, watches the younger musketeer's fingers twitch minutely every few seconds. Aramis was probably not even aware he was doing it- and so Athos places a warm, gentle hand over his, stilling the nervous twitching with a tender press of his own fingers. He felt Aramis stiffen next to him, but for a moment- the next he relaxed ever so slightly, and took a small, trembling breath. 

"We... we'd camped near the border with Savoy, just outside the woods," his voice was still scratchy and quiet, trembling, even with Athos' steady presence guiding him. "Everything went well, it was quiet and- and we thought there was no need to set watch. It was- it was only supposed to be a training exercise, we didn't..." 

He trailed off, lost in whatever memory plagued him, and Athos was surprised to see Treville's broad, callused hand join his on top of Aramis'. The captain squeezed both their hands, and gave a slow nod of the head.

"You had no reason to set a watch. As you said, it was a training exercise." Athos knew that under any other circumstances, Treville would've chewed their arses off about neglecting to set watch, even during something as innocuous and devoid of perceived danger as a training exercise. But he, like themselves, could see what the onslaught of guilt had already done to Aramis, to the one of them longest in the service and the one -Athos believed- he considered most to be his son. And Treville was no tyrant- he would not risk further wounds to his soldier's soul, wounds that unlike those of his body, may never truly heal. 

"Please," Treville continued with another reassuring squeeze of his hand, "continue." 

Aramis nodded mechanically, then winced when the movement seemed to cause him pain- the cut on his head was healing, but the concussion would take longer to, and he was almost constantly being plagued by debilitating headaches because of it. Still, he continued to speak.

"We... fell asleep. I don't know much of what happened, after. I woke up to screams... men, riders in black, razing our camp. Marsac and I, we fought, and... and I think I may have wounded their leader. But... something struck me on the head. The butt of a pistol, maybe? I don't remember much. Just... Marsac. He dragged me to safety. Blood in the snow... so much blood..." 

Athos saw his eyes go distant again, and he instinctively knew Aramis was not with them at the moment, within the safety and warmth of the infirmary, but sprawled across pristine white snow stained red, his brothers dying all around him, the cold and his wounds beckoning him to join them. 

And Athos got it, he really did. He knew what that did to a man.

He knew Aramis privately wished he had joined his comrades indeed. 

"Aramis. What happened to Marsac, after? Did he return to the fight? Did he...?" Treville didn't continue, but to be fair, he didn't really have to- because what else could have happened to Marsac, if Aramis was the only one to have returned to them? The answer was clear, and Athos' cold, cold heart ached for Aramis. The latter was closest to him and Porthos, but he had other friends- Marsac among them, who, other than Porthos, had been his oldest acquaintance at the garrison. Athos had never liked Marsac, but he'd tolerated him for Aramis' sake. To think Aramis had seen him die...

But Aramis' face suddenly grew cold, harsh, and with a sudden movement he pulled his hand away from those of Athos and their captain. 

"He left ," the wounded musketeer hissed between gritted teeth, shoulders tensing. "He stripped off his uniform, and walked away. He... he said he couldn't do this anymore. He could no longer be a musketeer."

Silence fell over the somewhat cramped infirmary like a frozen, heavy blanket. Porthos has stopped his pacing and was looking from Aramis to Athos to Treville, then back to Aramis, as if he didn't actually understand what had been uttered. But he did. They all did.

Traitor. 

Deserter. Turncoat. Coward. 

Athos would have been hard-pressed to imagine Marsac stooping so low, rather than choosing an honourable death in battle. It was no secret he wasn't fond of Marsac, but he'd never peg him as a coward. 

And yet there was no disputing the fierce disdain in Aramis's haggard face, and underneath, the sheer hurt. Athos recalled his mournful cries, the first time he'd woken up; 'he left me. He left all of us' .

Now, he understood.

Treville seemed just as shaken by the news, but Athos watched as he tried to mask it, doubtless for Aramis' sake. 

"I see," he said simply, deciding not to press the topic. "Is there anything else of use you may recall? Anything at all?"

Aramis appeared to ponder the question for a moment. Then he shrugged, so helpless it broke Athos' heart all over again.

"I don't think so. I... I don't know." 

It became clear, then, that Treville wouldn't be getting anything else out of him, so the captain dipped his head and slowly stood up, surrendering. 

"I will leave you to rest, then. Call me or doctor Lupin if you need anything, all three of you." He addressed the last part to Athos, eyes meaningfully darting to the other two musketeers. Porthos had already returned to Aramis' side and was helping him to a tin cup full of lukewarm herbal tea that Lupin had recommended for his headaches, and Athos assured him with a small bow of the head.

"I'll watch over them, captain," he promised quietly, earning an appreciative nod of the head from Treville. Then, reluctantly, he asked, "Should Porthos and I attend muster tomorrow?"

"No," answered Treville immediately, and Athos felt a twinge of both shame and relief intermingling within him. "Aramis needs you two more than ever. I will see if I can get Lupin to pen all three of you a medical excuse to send to the Louvre. The cardinal won't be happy, but I'll have a word about it with the King- he knows how loyal all three of you are, and doubtless he will not begrudge Aramis the healing benefits of his friends' company." 

Athos honestly doubted the king was so magnanimous, but what he did not doubt was Treville's influence on the young monarch. Louis scarcely ever decided anything for himself, Richelieu or Treville advising him this way or the other, and this matter would likely be no exception. 

"Very well," he agreed, "Thank you, Captain." 

Treville bid them farewell and walked out, leaving the three brothers to each other.

Aramis felt numb. 

No, more than numb- he felt empty , devoid of anything that had ever given him life before. Every time he closed his eyes he saw bodies strewn across the snow like slain cattle, their lifeblood painting the white expanse a dark, sickly crimson. Their eyes were glassy and white, pupilless, like those of ghouls out of a horror tale as they stared into his soul. 

Traitor , those ghastly eyes said, you abandoned us. You ran away while we bled, and you lived while we died. Why should you be saved when we perished? Come, join us, brother. You belong in the snow, in the cold and death. With us.

Marsac was walking away from him, throwing away his pauldron and rapier with such a broken expression marring his features. There was blood in his hands -Aramis' blood, and that of the rest of the brothers they'd not been able to save- and when he looked at Aramis, there were frozen tears carving up his pale face. 

Aramis had cried out with what little energy he'd been left- he'd begged Marsac to stay.

'Don't leave me!' 

But Marsac had abandoned him within a field of corpses, a sea of blood. And Aramis had resigned to his fate just then, until he'd felt the warm puff of breath against his bloody cheek- Cherié, his mare, whom he'd sent away from the fight ( the massacre ) as soon as it had become obvious there was no getting out of this in one piece. He might perish, but he would not condemn the poor animal to such a slow, agonising death as the rest of its brethren now lying side by side with their riders in the snow.

But such a loyal creature, Cherié was. She had returned to him as soon as the fight had quieted down, the only sound permeating the deathly stillness of the forest that of crows cawing and flapping black wings, already feasting on the corpses of Aramis' brothers in arms. 

Aramis clung to her soft, black mane and sobbed until there was nothing left in him but emptiness, and she'd waited, patient as a saint, for him to quiet down before slowly kneeling to the ground with her forelegs, just like he'd once taught her. Aramis, with the last of his waning strength, had pulled himself up to the saddle (thankfully they'd not had time to take the equipment off the previous night, before settling in their camp, or else he would have never managed to stay upright on top of the mare for more than a few minutes). He'd clung to her with whatever life he had left in his frozen fingers, pain lashing across his wounds like hot pokers branding him as his shame at being alive did. His chest burned, but his head was worse, and his vision was swimming, his temples throbbing with the beating of his broken heart. More than once he thought he'd be sick, but there was nothing in his stomach left to expel but bile and blood. So he settled for dry-heaving painfully as Cherié set off at a slow canter towards Paris, towards home. 

And home he now was, although it scarcely felt like it. Sure, the walls were the same, as were the scents and the sights, the dim afternoon light driving searing bursts of agony inside his head every time he so much as blinked. The tea Porthos had been forcing him to drink was helping, but only just- the pain always returned, sooner or later, and then Aramis would lie down beneath the covers, hiding his face from the light his deceased comrades no longer saw. And wishing he was down in the dark of the underworld with them, where his shame and guilt would not matter. Where there'd be nothing but silence and peace. 

Porthos and Athos, however, seemed to be of a different opinion.

"C'm on," Porthos urged gently, rubbing slow, comforting circles on Aramis' shoulder where it poked out from under the nest of blankets he'd made for himself. "Ye need t' take some actual food if ye wanna regain yer strength." 

But what if I don't want to , Aramis wondered quietly. What if I want to stay here and waste away, rejoin the ghosts of those I couldn't save? Couldn't even die with? 

He knew Porthos, though- well enough, in fact, to be aware this wouldn't be an acceptable answer to the larger musketeer. And Aramis was tired, so damn tired of fighting. Fighting to go home, to stay alive, to so much as stay awake. He had no strength left to argue with his twin in all but blood, and so slowly, ever so slowly in trying not to jar his still aching head, he pushed the blankets off him and sat up. He even went as far as to chance a look at his companion, and immediately, Porthos' handsome face broke into a toothy grin.

"Tha's it! Look, Athos, 'Mis is up all on his own again!" 

He sounded so proud of that. So happy that Aramis was there, mending, alive instead of rotting in a cold, freshly dug grave at the back of the garrison. It broke Aramis' heart- not for himself, but for Porthos, who was trying so hard to keep him there with them, when all Aramis wanted was to succumb to the ever-encroaching darkness. 

Still, he couldn't do that to Porthos and Athos. To the two men that were as much a part of him as his arms and legs were. 

He couldn't leave them like Marsac had left him. 

So he let Porthos feed him spoonful after spoonful of watery chicken broth, swallowing obediently if with difficulty at the ever-present nausea roiling in his stomach. It was getting better along with his head, but slowly; today was only the second day that he'd managed to keep some semi-solid sustenance down instead of throwing it up only minutes after he'd swallowed it. 

The bed dipped slightly as Athos settled next to Aramis' legs, looking at him with such a soft expression that for a moment, Aramis wondered if he was still dying.

(And wouldn't that be nice; wouldn't it be nice to know he could give up and let death claim him.) 

But, no, Athos was smiling beneath his overgrown beard, if only a little.

"I see it, Porthos," the eldest of the three said, responding to Porthos' earlier remark. "And I'm so glad for it." 

He placed a gentle, reassuring hand on top of Aramis' knee, and the younger musketeer felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes at the contact. He did not deserve his brothers, he really didn't- not after having left so many to die. 

"You'll be okay, Aramis. I promise."

And Athos sounded like he truly believed it, like he was so certain of Aramis' inner strength that he'd never doubted him, not even for a moment. 

That, more than anything, was what drove the youngest musketeer over the edge. He curled in on himself, hiding his face in his hands as he started crying, unable to hold the tears back any longer. He heard Porthos make a startled, worried sound, and he wanted to tell the other man this wasn't his fault, it really wasn't and it never would be, but he couldn't- Aramis could barely catch his own breath as his shoulders shook with wracking sobs, hot tears pooling between his fingers and dripping onto the old, scratchy blankets beneath. 

"Oh boy," Porthos muttered, hastily placing the still-half full bowl on top of the nightstand with a careless clack. " 'm sorry, 'Mis, 'm sorry-" 

"No, no, you- it's not-" Aramis tried, he really did, but the words came out warbled, and he knew he was making no sense. He didn't even know exactly why he was crying, utterly shattering only now, after days of clinging to the comforting numbness of the void within. But the dams had broken, and so had he, and he knew he couldn't stop the wrecked, tortured sounds ripping out of him even if he wanted to. 

And he didn't want to, he realised. It felt good to cry, finally, letting it all out; the regret, the guilt, the shame, the wish to die, the fear of being alone. He was filled to the brim with a kind of soul-deep pain that no laudanum could ease, and finally he could hold no more of it, as it came spilling out in burning waves that threatened to drown him. 

They're dead. Marsac left me. I let them die. I should have perished with them. Why am I still alive? Why does it hurt so? Make it end, please, God, make it stop.  

Dimly, over the sobs wrecking his body and soul, Aramis picked up the grating sound of wood shrieking against wood. A moment later, he heard bed springs creak, and a tight, unrelenting embrace pulled him close against a solid hunk of warmth. He pulled his hands away from his tear-streaked face for a moment, confused, only to realise Porthos was sitting next to him on a second cot he'd pushed next to his, arms wrapping around Aramis and pulling him so close he could feel the other man's strong, stout heartbeat against his own shoulder. 

"I 'ave you, 'Mis," Porthos was murmuring comfortingly as he held him close, tucking his chin over Aramis' head. "I 'ave you." 

"We have you," came Athos' voice from his other side, and then Aramis felt his own bed shake and creak as Athos gracefully climbed over him, between him and the wall, then came to add his own sure, steady arms around Porthos'. Suddenly, Aramis found himself comfortably nestled between the two older men. "And we always will. We're here. We're with you." 

And just like that Aramis was wailing again, nestled between the arms of his brothers, his family. He sobbed and cried out, clinging to Porthos and burying his face in the other man's linen-covered shoulder as he surrendered to the overwhelming grief within him. Athos had his back, and Porthos gently nudged his head with his, comforting in his solid presence. 

"Don't leave me," Aramis managed between wracking sobs, "please, don't leave me." 

Not like Marsac did . 

"Never," he heard both of them reply immediately, in perfect sync. 

"We'll never leave you, 'Mis". Distantly, Aramis realised this was the first time Athos had used the affectionate nickname on him. Porthos had come up with it a few months earlier, and it had all but replaced his actual name in casual settings, but Athos had only rolled his eyes fondly every time, never perusing the diminutive himself. 

Except now. 

Somehow, if such a thing were possible, it made Aramis cry even harder. But this time there was a spark of light in the darkness, a sliver of hesitant relief worming its way between the grief and agony within him. 

A kind of warmth. 

He didn't know for how long he cried, nestled between his brothers' sure, protective arms. He lost track of time, until finally the tears seemed to run dry and a deep, overwhelming exhaustion settled over him that had nothing in common with the resignation he'd been feeling ever since he woke up, safe within the walls of the infirmary. This was different- and while the pain was still there, it was accompanied with a sense of finality. The knowledge that he'd done all he could, that there was nothing else, and that while he hadn't been allowed to die for his comrades, he could try living for his brothers. 

"Thank you," he murmured hoarsely, throat ravaged by his sobbing and crying. "I... I think I needed that."

"Clearly you did," Athos agreed without bite in his voice, giving him a small pat on the shoulder. Porthos snorted.

"Ye all but turned the room into Venice, ye know." 

Aramis let out a weak, wet chuckle at the easy banter his friend slipped into as if not a moment had passed, between today and the last time they were all out together, laughing and drinking with not a care in the world. "I'll be sure to mop it up, then." 

"Ah, ah. Treville said no getting up for at least another week," Athos reminded him sternly. "And even then, you'll be skipping heavy duty. Lucky you." 

"How boring," Aramis blurted, and felt Athos' chest vibrate against his back with a quiet chuckle. 

"How absolutely like you ." 

Aramis had half a mind to counter, but then felt Porthos' strong, warm hand pushing him down against the mattress. 

"Aight, enough o' this. Ye need to rest." He gave a small, knowing grin at that. "I bet y'er exhausted." 

That, he was. Aramis could not deny the heaviness dragging his eyelids down over eyes swollen from crying. Now that all the grief and tension of the past few days had left him, he felt as drained as if he'd run all the way to Spain and back in one breath. So he didn't fuss, allowing Porthos to help him lay down and tuck the blankets around him as if he were a child. 

"Wait..." Aramis managed, his eyes already at half mast. "Please... stay ." 

"Of course," Athos assured him without missing a beat, then punctuated his promise by lying down on his side next to Aramis and stretching an arm over the latter's torso. "Porthos?" 

"Wha' do ye think?" the other musketeer answered, mirroring Athos' position until Aramis found himself once again pressed between them, two arms now pinning him comfortingly down onto the mattress and blanketing him with warmth. 

He hadn't felt warm ever since Savoy. He'd forgotten he could be anything but frozen cold down to the marrow of his bones, the snow covering him even with a fire blazing in the hearth. 

Suddenly, the frost that had encased him for so long seemed to thaw. The wonderful warmth that surrounded and filled him seeped down to his very soul, chasing away the shadows. 

He made a content little noise, abandoning all pretenses and making himself comfortable between his best friends. His brothers. 

"Thank you..." 

All three of them were fast asleep before a single minute had ticked by. 

Much later, after the clock had struck midnight, Treville quietly pushed the door of the infirmary open to check in on his Inseparables. And when he saw them huddled together, all of them sleeping more soundly than they had in weeks, with Porthos and Athos' arms draped over Aramis as if to guard him even in slumber, the corners of his mouth twitched up into a tender smile. 

He knew his boys would be alright, then. Because no matter what, they'd always have each other.