Chapter Text
Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally Porthos breathed deeply and said, “you've come outta your sling.”
“Mm?”
“Your sling. You've taken your arm outta it.”
“Oh.” Aramis glanced down; he had indeed.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really.”
“Here.” Pulling back just enough to allow his motions, Porthos maneuvered Aramis' arm back into position. His hands, though they got the job done, were less than steady.
Only by the grace of God did Aramis have enough willpower to shift himself out of Porthos' lap and back against the wall. “How long did you sleep before I woke you?” he asked. The candles, he noted belatedly, had gone out.
“Dunno. Few hours.”
“I have no idea what time it is,” Aramis realized aloud.
“Mm. No clock.”
“I know what to get him for his birthday, then.” The hope in his words did not reach his heart.
This must have shown on his face, because Porthos sucked in a deep breath. “Aramis--”
“What happens if he doesn't wake up?”
“He'll wake up.”
“What if he doesn't?”
Porthos ran a hand down his face and stood. “What do you want me t'say?” he asked, and it sounded so much like pleading that Aramis berated himself immediately.
“Nothing. I apologize.” He went to where Porthos had settled himself, standing at Athos' side in what might have been a battle stance had it not been so loose and lopsided. Aramis was unsure of his welcome as he touched a hand lightly to Porthos' arm. But Porthos merely offered a weak smile and bowed his head, angling it a little bit in Aramis' direction. “He'll be all right,” Aramis soothed, trying with all his being to mean it.
“He'd fuckin' better be.” Porthos' voice was a whisper; Aramis suspected it would crack if he brought it up any louder. They fell silent.
“The sun's coming up,” Aramis murmured, after a minute or two of wordless vigil. “Who needs a clock?”
Porthos smiled sadly, but said nothing.
“Pray with me,” Aramis told him quietly. It was not a request; it was not for his sake, but for Porthos' own. Porthos nodded. Aramis pulled the rosary from his pocket and placed it carefully in the fingers of his left hand, leaving his good arm free to wrap around Porthos' shoulders. And they prayed. Aramis made no comment when Porthos stumbled over the words, skipped some bits entirely. He kept on stubbornly, though he didn't lose himself. Porthos leaned gradually more and more into him; eventually he stopped speaking altogether and let Aramis' voice go on unaccompanied.
Outside the window, the sun continued to rise. Inside Aramis felt nearly in a trance, aware of nothing save the prayers on his lips and the beads in his hand, and Porthos still and silent at his side.
The first time he heard the sound, he didn't believe it.
“Aramis,” Porthos murmured.
The second time he heard the sound, he still didn't believe it.
“Aramis.”
The third time he heard the sound, sick with painful hope, Aramis forced himself to look down at the bed where Athos was stirring gently.
And then--
Athos opened his eyes.
He looked up at both of them, and grunted in greeting.
Tears flooded down Porthos' cheeks. “Fuckin' Christ,” he huffed, pressing the heel of one hand to his forehead.
“Thank you, Lord,” Aramis panted; every muscle in his body had relaxed in an instant. “You frightened us, frère,” he scolded weakly, and Porthos could do nothing but nod his agreement. Aramis rubbed his back while he heaved a couple of shuddering breaths.
“My-- apologies.” Athos' voice was raw, barely more than a whisper. “Could I-- mm-- water?” Porthos nearly stumbled in his rush to go and get it, leaving Aramis to crouch down at Athos' side.
Athos lips curved up gently as Aramis' fingers found his cheek. Aramis said nothing, just stroked along the side of his face; then, reflexively, made the sign of the cross at his forehead.
Porthos arrived then, cupped a hand beneath Athos' skull as he sipped the water. When Athos was finished drinking, Porthos bent forward and pressed their foreheads together; Aramis rested his own cheek on Athos' chest and felt Porthos' hand slip into his. Then Athos' fingers threaded into his hair.
They stayed that way, the three of them, for one long moment.
“You should sleep,” Aramis said at last, pulling back. “Your body is still weak.”
“Actually, I think that I'm more hungry than tired,” Athos admitted. “And I'd like-- to wash?”
It was probably the first time Athos had asked them for something that wasn't absolutely necessary, and Aramis smiled. (Although, he amended, food was indeed important. And Athos sort of stank.)
“Breakfast first, eh?” Porthos was grinning, though his cheeks were still wet with tears both old and new. “Guessin' you don't have anything in?”
“Not on the best of days,” Athos replied.
Porthos scrubbed his hand over his face. “Right. Market's should be openin' up by now. Back soon.” After a long, open look at Athos, Porthos pushed himself to his feet and left.
Athos watched until the door closed. Then he began to struggle upright once more; Aramis protested only briefly before helping him up instead. Once Athos was sitting up against the wall, Aramis joined him. It was a greater comfort than he could put into words: the sight of Athos' eyes open; the sound of his calm breathing; the healthy, un-fevered warmth that seeped through their sleeves where their arms touched.
He wanted to say welcome back . Wanted to say never leave again . Wanted to say thank you . To Athos. To God.
Instead Aramis closed his eyes and breathed out: “fuck.”
There was a short pause. Then Athos drawled, “I concur.”
“This is how this all started, you know. You and me, against a wall.”
“Other way round this time,” Athos remarked. “I shall endeavor not to incapacitate your dominant arm.”
Aramis blinked down at their bodies, side-by-side. It was true he'd instinctively put himself at Athos' left, so that his good arm was the one between them. “How about we never talk about that again?” he offered, tightly. “We've both caused each other harm and-- and neither of us meant it. In fact I suspect we were both trying to protect the other. So let's leave it at that.”
“Still-- I hurt you. I fought without regard to our arms being bound. And I didn't-- notice.”
“Worse was what came after.”
Athos hung his head. “Then I have hurt you doubly.”
“No-- God-- Athos,” Aramis growled. “I was being-- sensitive. I haven't-- been myself, these months. These past few months. God, I wish you could have known me before-- properly, I mean.” He sighed. “Porthos says it's a sickness. He says the same of you and your wine. But I've never known a sickness so long as this. So long I-- despair of ever recovering.”
When Athos spoke, his voice was small and fragile. “I wish you could have known me as well. I was once a happy man, if you can believe it.”
“When you were with her?”
Athos said nothing, but drew his arms around his belly.
“Seems to me you're afraid of hurting someone,” Aramis said slowly. “Me, I'm afraid of being hurt. I believe they're equally paralyzing. But-- with us, between us, Athos, let's-- try to relax. You won't hurt me. I know that.”
“You don't know that, Aramis,” Athos murmured. “You don't know me. Not really. There are things about me--”
“What's your favorite color?
“Excuse me?”
“What's your favorite color?” Aramis repeated. “You never did tell me.”
“Eh-- yellow.”
“Yellow? Yellow?” Aramis smiled. “Really? Not black? Or grey? Blue?”
“My favorite color is yellow,” Athos said stiffly. “I despise blue.”
“Well then, I'm sorry for all the times I've said your cloak brings out the blue in your eyes.”
Athos' expression softened. Encouraged, Aramis leaned in closer, scrutinizing his friend's tired eyes. “Actually, there's bits of yellow too, if you look hard enough. 'round the center, there. Kind of golden.”
“You're ridiculous.”
Taking advantage of their proximity, Aramis landed a messy kiss on Athos' forehead before pulling back. “I've been told. And what's your favorite tree?”
Athos leaned in a little, though he looked away. “I honestly like them all.”
“There you are,” Aramis murmured fondly. “Athos, I know you. Perhaps I don't know your past, but I don't need to. It isn't the same thing.”
For a moment, Athos' expression suggested that he would press the issue further-- but he did not. Instead he let his head drop lower, ever closer to Aramis' shoulder.
Aramis stared down at his feet for a while as his good humor slipped away in favor of solemnity once more. “Do you ever think we might never recover?” he asked.
Athos nodded-- easily, as though he'd been asked if Paris were in France. “I think that fairly often.”
Aramis bit his lip, breathed in and out through his half-closed mouth. “So do I.”
A pause.
“Aramis?”
“Mm?”
“Do you ever think-- that we might?”
Aramis sucked in another breath, and somehow this one went deeper than the last had. Filled more of his body. Reached his fingers and toes.
“Yeah. Sometimes I think we might. When I'm with Porthos. When I'm with you.”
“I hope you're right.”
There was a pause. Aramis toyed with the cross around his neck, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Athos doing the same with his locket.
“You should know, Athos,” Aramis sighed, when he trusted his voice to remain level, “that even if you don't-- even if you never do recover-- I won't leave you. And neither will Porthos. I mean,” he added, “I may storm out occasionally. But never for good.”
There was a sudden movement; Aramis looked over in time for Athos to bow his head, pressing a hand to his brow.
Aramis pushed their shoulders together as Athos took an unsteady breath. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. He hadn't wanted to leave this unsaid, but it hadn't been his intention to upset his friend. Quite enough of that had happened already.
But when Athos raised his head, he was smiling despite the dampness in his eyes. “That's-- good to hear.”
“I hope you would have known it anyway.”
“You know that I need to be reminded.”
“Well, if I ever forget to remind you, remind me to.”
The smile on Athos' lips grew; it spread across his face, dimpling his cheeks, illuminating his shining eyes. “Of course,” he replied, then sobered. “I hope you know the same,” he continued quietly. “I will never abandon you. No matter how the pieces fall. This I swear to you.”
Aramis wanted to close his eyes at the sound of those words, wanted to fall asleep with their comfort wrapped around him. Instead he pressed on, as he knew he must. “Then you must live,” he said simply, staring straight at Athos, into the deep, pale oceans of his tear-filled eyes. “To die would be to abandon me as well.”
“Aramis--”
“No, Athos, listen-- I-- I wish you could have seen it.” Aramis was surprised to find his own voice steady, his own eyes dry. “I mean, it would have broken your fucking heart, but you should have seen it.”
“Seen what?”
“Us. After you had your fit. Thinking of a future in which you didn't wake up. I was-- well. And the only reason Porthos kept himself together, I think, was to look after me. If those demons come back to your head, if you want to leave-- please know, you have brothers who need you to stay.”
Emotions churned across Athos' face, one after another: gratitude then guilt then affection then anguish; tears quivered on his eyelashes. Aramis wrapped his good arm around him. “It's all right,” he soothed. “Let it come, frère .”
And at last, Athos' tears spilled over. He pursed his lips and shut his eyes; still the tears came freely, splashing onto his shirt, into his lap. “Let it come,”Aramis whispered again, as Athos' chin began to buckle. “You'll feel better when you're finished, I swear to you.”
Athos said nothing, but rested his head against Aramis' shoulder.
And then, softly but not silently, slowly but not gently, he wept.
*
It was a solid ten minutes before Athos finally pulled away. His eyes and nose were swollen and stained the same uneven pink, and his cheek bore a line from the hem of Aramis' collar; despite all this, he seemed calm. He passed a sleeve over his face. Then he sniffed quietly, coughed a bit, and sat back against the wall.
“Do you think me a coward?” he asked, after a moment.
“No.”
“Not for wanting to-- end my own life?”
“No,” Aramis repeated.
“Do you think me a sinner?”
“God alone can say.”
“Indeed.”
Aramis wanted to say more; wanted to know more. Wanted to ask what Athos had been thinking when he put the gun between his lips; wanted to ask what he had been thinking when he took it back out again, unspent.
But Athos had stretched himself far enough already. These were questions for another day. Instead, it came to Aramis' mind that he had never given Athos his new scarf; he dug into his pocket and produced it with a smile that wobbled nervously on his lips.
“Yours was a bit-- eh, it didn't hold up well, being my sling. I'm afraid this one isn't new, and it's not as fine as the other but-- it's yours. If you'd like it.”
Athos had accepted the scarf, but said nothing. He simply stared down at it, lips together.
“My mother made it,” Aramis continued. His smiled had died away now. “When I left to join the army. You don't have to wear it, if you don't--”
“You're giving this to me?” Athos' voice put an abrupt stop to all of the worry inside of Aramis; it was soft, nearly timid, and thickened by an audible lump in his throat.
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Well-- a neck such as mine is far too glorious to hide,” Aramis teased.
For a moment, Aramis was sure that Athos would weep again; instead he reverently fastened his new scarf around his neck. It hung there as if it always had. He smiled shyly as he looked up at Aramis for approval.
“Suits you,” Aramis assured him.
And then Athos' arms were around his waist, embracing him tightly; Aramis grinned and hugged him back.
It was then that Porthos burst back into the apartment, a loaf of sweet bread in one hand and a sack of berries in the other. He glanced between them. Then he pushed his lips out in a pout and spread his arms openly wordlessly.
Athos blushed, but Aramis chuckled as the two of them let go. “Didn't mean to start without you, mon ami,” he called. “But we couldn't contain ourselves.”
Porthos smiled, and came to settle himself on the bed at Athos' side. “C'n I--?”
But rather than allow Porthos to pull him in, Athos pulled in Porthos, letting his friend's head rest heavily atop his own. Porthos' eyes slipped shut. He sank into the embrace and breathed-- visibly, carefully, painfully reassuring himself of Athos' presence.
Aramis got up, moved to Porthos' other side. He draped himself against Porthos' back like a blanket, so that their stalwart defender was now the one protected on all fronts. Porthos sighed deeply. He nuzzled his face against Athos' messy mop of hair and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.
Then Athos' stomach announced its hunger, loudly. Porthos sat back with a chuckle, and Aramis found himself laughing as well-- Athos was smiling, looking composed and at ease and only slightly embarrassed.
“Right. Food,” Porthos said cheerfully, plopping the fruit on the blanket before breaking the bread in three. Aramis accepted his portion and bit into it with a noise of relief. He was ravenous, and hadn't noticed until the moment that the flaky crust broke between his teeth.
Athos was eating as well, though a bit more slowly. He finished his bread and a handful of berries, then sank back against the wall with a look of sudden exhaustion.
“Bath?” Porthos prompted questioningly.
“Mm.” Athos' eyelashes fluttered with the threat of sleep
“Bath later,” Aramis suggested.
“Yes,” Athos agreed. “I think I'm a bit of a drowning risk at the moment.”
“We wouldn't let that happen,” Aramis replied immediately.
Athos opened his eyes with an expression that was a bit touched, but also openly amused. “Just so I can prepare myself,” he drawled, “are we going to be taking everything that I say very seriously from now on?”
Porthos chuckled. “Won't last,” he assured him. “We'll be back pokin' fun at you before the week is out, on my honor.”
“But-- grant us one last indulgence?” Aramis ventured.
“Yes?”
“Let us stay while you sleep. Just this one time more.”
Athos hummed with drowsy consent, and brought his hand up to his neck. Aramis expected him to seize his locket, as was his habit; instead he rubbed absently at his scarf. “I suppose.”
Porthos scooped up the remaining fruit from the bed and relocated it to Athos' desk; once the bed was clear, Athos curled up tightly at the center of it. He could have just been soothing himself. But Aramis chose to take it as an invitation, and when he clamored back up in the empty space of the bed, his bent knee just at Athos' head, the man did not complain. Aramis glanced up at Porthos, who shrugged and took the other side.
The book of poetry had fallen to the floor at some point; now Porthos retrieved it, examined it. “What's with you two an' that one poem? With the hawthorn?”
“Athos' favorite poet,” Aramis replied, after a moment. “My favorite tree.”
Porthos gave a grunt that might have indicated that he understood, or might have indicated the exact opposite. He opened the book to the first page and settled back. Aramis watched him read, absorbing the careful, methodical way in which he seemed to savor every word.
Tucked safely between them, Athos sighed, rubbed his nose, and fell asleep.
*
There was a row of hawthorn trees on one of their typical patrol routes, near the palace. Crataegus monogyna, Athos reminded him, when prompted. Aramis rolled the words around in his mouth; they were a fresh and colorful change from the ecclesiastical Latin that had long since become bland and ordinary to him.
The trees bloomed white for another week or so. When the first wave of true heat hit, the petals browned and withered; the fruit swelled, still green but ripening every day.
It was finally turning red when Athos began to drink again. Not to excess-- well, perhaps to excess, but not as much so as that one particular night-- nevertheless Aramis couldn't help but feel a pang of anxiety the first time he saw Athos nursing a bottle of wine again.
“Every man heals at his own speed,” Porthos grumbled sagely, after they'd seen their drunken brother home for the second night in a row. Autumn had come now. The hawthorn berries were falling, exposing the tree's impressive thorns; Athos had not drank himself to the point of vomiting since the episode in spring, but had certainly ventured beyond full coherency on more than one recent occasion.
Aramis nodded. He thought of his own anxieties, his own nightmares-- certainly still with him, but lessening with the passing seasons-- and tried to take heart. Porthos reached over and rubbed his back briefly.
“Now, to life, gentle hawthorn,” Aramis murmured, as Porthos led him from Athos' apartment door. Porthos grunted in disapproval.
“Dunno why the two of you like that one so much. It's one of my least favorites.” Porthos, like the others, had read them all. The little book had somehow become communal property; Aramis wasn't even terribly sure whose possession it was in at the moment, as it had passed through all their hands at least twice now.
“Why?”
“'s not an ode. It's-- threatenin'. Now, to life-- life without which the thunder would not be able to hurl you to the ground. I'd like it better if all the life protected the tree. He says it makes it vulnerable.”
“But it does,” Aramis protested softly, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Oh Lord. You're thinkin' too much again. C'mon,” Porthos grunted, as Aramis began to drag his feet. “We'll see 'im for breakfast.”
Aramis nodded obediently, believing him.