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In hindsight, perhaps he was not as alright as he’d have wanted others to believe.
Aramis artfully stifled yet another small, choked-off groan when his horse stumbled onto something on the uneven ground, the vibration jostling his entire body and sending flashes of hot pain all across his right leg, his spine, and up to the back of his head. The pain in his leg was centered somewhere in his thigh, just above the knee joint, so it was probably a pulled muscle or something of the sort. But he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the pain in his back originated; most likely, he was bruised all over from his little impromptu trip out the third-storey window. The canvas tent that had -unbelievably- arrested his fall, had saved him from certain death, but from that height hitting the tautly stretched fabric hadn’t felt much different than crashing against hard pavement. Everything hurt, and his head spun, and he was certain there were still shards of glass stuck inside the gashes at the back of it, tangled into curls matted with blood. He’d likely have to ask one of the others to help pick it out, not to mention stitch the cuts closed, which meant he’d have to admit he was hurt sooner or later, and…
God, the others were going to kill him for hiding an injury. Again . And the worst part was, he couldn’t even blame them, because he would have certainly come for their arses, had their roles been reversed.
But it’s not the same , a stubborn part of his mind (the largest part, really) muttered petulantly. He was their medic, and it was his job to know what was wrong with his brothers, so he could fix them up, but he could take care of himself since, as already mentioned, he was the fucking medic . Besides, he’d already troubled them enough; Athos with a secret that could get him hanged, and Porthos with having to watch his closest friend, his brother, fall to his death.
Well, at least he hadn’t actually died, but Porthos had spent a good deal of time not knowing that, which couldn’t have been easy on him. And if he found out Aramis was hiding his injuries on top of it all, he would be so mad… Aramis was likely going to wish he’d broken his neck, after all.
This time, Aramis couldn’t hold back a small, tormented groan; his mind was running in circles in the manner of a dog chasing its tail, possibly because his damned head was also spinning like a windsock in a gale. Great , the last thing he needed was a concussion to go with the rest of his troubles, not to mention the migraines it was most probably going to spark. They’d thankfully grown sparser as more and more years separated him from the events of Savoy and the injuries he’d sustained there, but the slightest knock to the head would usually bring them back with a vengeance, and he was most certainly not looking forward to the experience. Especially if the rest of his body also felt like a blacksmith had been striking it over and over with his hammer, to begin with.
He just wanted to go home and bury himself in his bed for the rest of the evening, he decided. There would be more things to attend to, such as presenting to the palace and reporting on the day’s events, but surely Athos could handle that last part on his own, and everything else could wait till morning, couldn’t it?
He just felt so tired…
“Aramis?”
Somewhat belatedly, the marksman noticed Porthos’ horse having trotted up next to his own mare, its rider lifting himself up on the stirrups to get a closer look at his companion. Porthos was staring at him with his eyebrows scrunched up in worry, so Aramis quickly put up one of his usual disarming smiles in an attempt to appear normal.
“Everything alright, my friend?” He asked casually as he twisted in the saddle to meet his brother’s eyes. He regretted the movement a moment later, when it sent agony raging up his leg, and his smile faltered just a little at the edges as he tried to keep it from showing. Porthos, of course, with his eagle eye and constant vigilance, didn’t miss the change, no matter how infinitesimal.
“I should be the one askin’ you tha’,” he replied, slowing his stallion’s pace to a casual trot and forcing Aramis to fall into step beside him. “You’ve been slouchin’ on your saddle for the past thirty minutes, y’know. Almost looked like you migh’ fall right off.”
Aramis forced himself to chuckle dismissively. “You’re exaggerating, Porthos. I’m merely tired. Falling three stories and saving the queen and future king of France is mighty hard work, after all.”
“Okay, first of all, we saved them together,” the taller musketeer pointed out fiercely. Under any other circumstances, his eager and competitive spirit would have caused Aramis to laugh and poke kind-natured fun at him about it, but as it were, the marksman barely had enough energy left in him to raise a teasing eyebrow, which of course Porthos steadfastly ignored. “Second, this is exactly why I’m worried. Don’ think I didn’ see you favourin’ your right leg back there. You’re ‘hurt. An’ once again, you’re hidin’ it.”
There was such open hurt in Porthos’ warm, dark eyes, at the thought of his heart’s twin hiding his pain from him, that for a single moment Aramis was almost tempted to give in, tell him where and how bad it hurt, nestle into the love and warmth and care Porthos offered so freely, so selflessly. But the horrible secret he was keeping from him and d’Artagnan needled at the back of his mind like a splinter left untreated, festering and spreading like disease. He’d already burdened one brother enough with his recklessness, with his inability to keep his mouth shut at literally every single opportunity, and having Athos’ dark, accusatory looks cast his way every time he as much as breathed in the queen’s direction, was enough of a burden on his conscience. He couldn’t drag Porthos (and likely d’Artagnan, because it would be unfair to keep just him out of it) into this mess, too, and then of course he couldn’t bring himself to accept his brother’s help when he was not being honest with him.
No, Aramis deserved this. He deserved the pain as punishment for his many sins; the sin of keeping such secrets from Porthos, most of all.
Besides, he was fine . He could handle this.
So, he spread his arms with a flourish, forcing down the cry of pain as his back twinged in response, carving his expression into a wide, mischievous grin that he had mastered through years of hiding all his suffering behind an easygoing mask.
“Look at me, brother. I’m nothing but a little sore. I promise I am not going to collapse into a pile of wood shavings when you’re not looking, alright?” A small wink, just for good measure. “You shouldn’t worry so much. It’s not good for your complexion.”
Porthos snorted, shaking his head in exasperation with the younger man’s antics. But to the latter’s relief, the other musketeer smiled a little, and he sat back down on his saddle in defeat, seemingly persuaded.
“I guess you’d know, spendin’ time with all those lady friends o’ yours,” he quipped, and Aramis limited his reaction to a small shrug, although the mention of ‘lady friends’ did little to assuage his guilt over the mortal secret he and Athos were bound by. If only Porthos knew.
“Such advice is why I look years younger than my true age.”
“Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that.” Porthos flashed him a toothy grin, and despite the pain and guilt, Aramis relaxed a little; it felt good, slipping into the familiar, easy banter with his closest friend, with the added benefit of providing a small distraction from the torments of both his body and his mind.
“Porthos…” He put up a surprised frown, drawing his eyebrows together, “are you implying I look old?”
“I’m not implyin’ anything, just speaking straight facts is all” Porthos fired back with a challenging wiggle of his brows, and Aramis let out an exaggerated gasp of mock offense.
“Why, good sir, you wound me!” He pressed a hand over his heart. “I challenge you to a duel to reclaim my honour!”
“Oh?” Porthos straightened up, that sharp grin turning into something slightly darker, more predatory. It reminded Aramis of a wolf showing his fangs before pouncing in for the kill. “What sort o’ duel would that be, then? Shall we say… who can drink a bottle of wine the fastest? Tonight, at the garrison?”
Most certainly not , Aramis thought grimly. It would do little to help his head settle on his shoulders, and anyway, he planned on being asleep way before that. Still, he couldn’t let the ruse drop now, or Porthos would see right through him, so he simply pretended to consider it for a few moments, before responding with a very serious nod.
“Very well then, monsieur, I accept the proposition.” He bowed slightly atop his saddle, and this time he didn’t bother to hide a wince, knowing the current angle of his face would obscure it from Porthos. “I’m sure Sarge will indulge us after today’s misadventures.”
“Indulge what?” Athos called from ahead of them, where he was riding behind the royal couple’s carriage. Aramis automatically snapped his mouth shut, realising the swordsman had been listening in on their foolishness all this time. Athos turned around to peer at his companions over his shoulder, and Aramis barely restrained himself from cringing under those assessing eyes. Was it just his idea, or was Athos glaring at his direction in particular?
“Uh… nothing of importance!” He cleared his throat, glancing a sideways glance at Porthos that conveyed the need for secrecy; with Treville dismissed, Athos was practically the next in line to fill in the role of captain of the musketeers. And while there had still been no official announcement, Aramis wasn’t at all eager to give the other man even more reasons for being cross with him. Already, Athos’ constant cold shoulder stung, and his rejection of Aramis’ abundantly offered affections and attempts at reconciliation didn’t help matters.
Thankfully, Porthos understood the need for secrecy, although of course he was far from aware of the true reason behind it. Athos looked at both of them for a moment longer, but since neither seemed keen on providing any more information, he simply sighed and shook his head.
“Fine, then, have it your way,” was all he said, before he snapped his stallion’s reins and galloped onward to meet with d’Artagnan, who had been riding right next to Constance ever since they’d set off. At any other moment, Aramis would have found it adorable, and would have spent the ride home plotting with Porthos on how to make the pup’s life hell for it later.
Now, however, it barely even crossed his mind. There was little space left in it for anything other than managing his pain and trying not to think about the growing rift between him and Athos.
He just wanted to be home already.
By the time they made it back to the garrison, the sun had already begun its descent towards the edge of the horizon. The shadows were growing longer, and the chill of the early spring evening was making everyone grouchy and eager to get everything over with. Thankfully, d’Artagnan had offered to help Athos with the reports after the latter had chewed his arse off for being so distracted during the return journey, so Aramis had used his newly acquired freedom to slip off to his room, unnoticed. Lady Fortune seemed to finally smile at him because Porthos, too, had gotten distracted with detailing the day’s events to one of the cadets that was on stable duty and was eager to know what had occurred. Their ‘wine duel’ seemed temporarily forgotten, and Aramis wasn’t in any hurry to remind Porthos about it, so he simply slunk off as fast as he could.
…Which ended up being not very fast at all . His room was on the second floor, and he had to make it up two entire flights of stairs to get there. At that point, even walking on smooth ground was a challenge, and the climb up the stairs proved excruciating. Every step was like a knife being twisted into his thigh, and by the time he finally made it to the second floor Aramis was drenched in cold sweat, and had bitten his lower lip bloody in an attempt to stifle cries of agony in every step. He barely had enough presence of mind to close and lock the door behind him before he simply let go and collapsed on his bed, another pained whine slipping past his lips as the crudeness of the movement jostled his aching body again. At least his leg hurt enough that it obscured the pain in his back and head, and so he took advantage of that to quickly run his fingers through the matted curls on the back of his neck, wincing as he pulled at the tangles of hair that had been plastered to his scalp with blood. A few shards of glass came free and plonked on the wooden floor, and Aramis decided that since he'd made sure he wouldn't sleep with glass still embedded in his scalp, everything else could wait until morning. At least the gash had stopped bleeding, so even if it would eventually require stitches, it wasn’t imminent. He could rest, first.
Rest… yes, sleep sounded wonderful right then, even with the persistent throbbing in his leg. Aramis reckoned that he was tired enough that he could sleep through the blasted thing being sawed off his body if necessary. Let it wait until tomorrow.
Let everything wait.
Darkness closed on him, quick and silent as death itself, and he sank into an exhausted, dreamless slumber.
Morning arrived, a tad too early in Aramis' opinion, and to his dismay, everything felt even worse than it had the previous night. The pain in his thigh had woken him up a little too early, and it had been impossible to ignore it and fall back asleep.
Part of him cursed himself, because he was a medic, and he was supposed to know better. Had he been patient enough to treat his injuries before falling asleep, at least on a basic level, he wouldn't be feeling nearly that bad right now. But pain and exhaustion had addled his mind, and now it was too late to whinge about it, so Aramis just resigned himself to the idea that he was going to have a very bad day, and decided to just get on with it.
Except his leg was suddenly feeling extremely weak and heavy. The muscle was twinging so the entire limb trembled, and it couldn't bear any of his weight when he finally mustered enough strength to try and lift himself off the bed. He bit back a cry of pain and frustration as he toppled back onto the mattress- okay, so, this was bad. He wouldn't be able to hide an injury this extensive, and the rest of the Inseparables weren't going to be happy with him shying away from them in the first place. Porthos, especially, was going to skin him alive for lying to him through his teeth the previous afternoon.
Considering the amount of pain he was currently in, that prospect sounded somewhat less terrifying than it should. At least it would stop his leg from throbbing like that.
Slowly, Aramis lifted his leg back onto the bed with another hissed curse in Spanish, and reached out to pull his braies up and over his knee, which ended up being a lot harder than so simple a task was supposed to be; the slightest pressure on his thigh, even the slight brush of linen, felt like fire flashing through the entire limb, which couldn't be a good sign. Combined with the shivers he could feel running through the muscle, and the heat emanating off the skin, it was easy to surmise the extent and severity of the damage. That was to say: bad . The muscle was at least strained, if not outright torn.
Well, fuck. He had no idea how he was going to make it through the day like that. Not to mention his head was very much still spinning, and if he looked up too quickly or if he jostled his head, his eyesight went watery at the ages. At least he didn't have a migraine (yet), but at that point it was only a small comfort. His back ached, too, although it was probably just the bruising. Small mercies.
Still, he somehow had to make it to morning muster before Athos came to physically drag him out into the courtyard. He didn't think Athos would actually force him, should he realise Aramis was injured, but that was just the thing- Aramis didn't want him to know. Especially not now. It was just going to complicate everything more, and Athos would be even angrier and more disappointed with him, and Aramis was so damn tired of disappointing the people who relied on him. Who cared for him.
'What if Athos doesn't care anymore? Well, he shouldn't, that's for sure. I'm a failure and a libertine and everyone would probably be better off without me around to fuck everything up and drag them into my messes.'
He rapidly blinked the sudden pinpricks away from behind his eyes, refusing to cry. He didn't deserve to cry, not when everything was his fault. And anyway, he could wallow in self-pity later. For now, he just had to make it to muster.
He'd thought going down would be easier than going up, but of course he was wrong about that, too. He quickly discovered his leg would crumple under his weight if he tried to stand on it, so he had to lean almost wholly onto the wooden banister and hop down each step on his good leg, which put more strain on his back and worsened the discomfort there. The morning was chilly, but by the time he made it to the outer staircase in front of Treville's old office, his shirt was damp with sweat underneath his leathers and clinging to his back, and his breath came out harsh and laboured.
His heart sank when his eyes drifted blearily over the courtyard and he realised that he was, in fact, quite late. A few other stragglers were rushing to take their place at the back of the rows of assembled musketeers, but they were all cadets, while Aramis was the only senior to be late. He cringed when almost every pair of eyes swerved to his direction, and he forced his shoulders to straighten and his chin to tilt up, unwilling show the slightest amount of weakness in front of the entire regiment. He ignored everyone else, too, other than his close friends. D'Artagnan, standing on the front next to Porthos, gave him a tentative smile, while Porthos raised an eyebrow as if to inquire about his delay. Athos, standing on the raised wooden platform in front of the men, gave him a cold look over his shoulder.
"Kind of you to join us, Aramis," he said, in what Aramis decided was way too accurate an imitation of Treville. His voice was calm and quiet, but his tone was scathing enough to cut like a well-polished blade. A few chuckles echoed among the younger musketeers, and Aramis felt his face flush with heat for reasons other than extertion.
"Apologies," he murmured quickly. "I overslept. Won't happen again."
Athos nodded briskly and motioned for him to come down. Which was when Aramis remembered there was one last set of stairs to descend, this time in front of the entire garrison for an audience.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-
He was so screwed.
Still, he was nothing if not stubborn, and a small, antagonistic part of him refused to give Athos the satisfaction of showing humility. Athos wasn't the captain yet, after all, and no matter how badly Aramis had screwed up, he wasn't going to defer to him like he did to Treville. If Athos wanted a challenge, Aramis would give him one.
He schooled his expression into neutrality and bit into the inside of his cheek to make sure not a hint of pain would show in his face, and, steeling himself, took the first step. The agony was immediate and hellish, but he could endure it. He would endure it- he'd been through worse, much worse.
Except he managed to take all of three slow, precarious steps before his injured leg could take no more exertion, and his knee simply buckled from under him as he placed his foot on the fourth step. With a yelp more of alarm than pain, Aramis tipped forward and fell flat on his face, then tumbled rather spectacularly down the rest of the stairs and landed in a heap right at Athos' feet. His head slammed against the pole holding the platform up and his vision went white, his ears ringing and the world spinning. Distantly, he was aware of others laughing, and he wished for the earth to open up and swallow him rather than have to live with such mortification.
"Silence!" Porthos' angry voice boomed sonorously from somewhere above him. "Can't you see he's hurt?"
"Aramis!" that was d'Artagnan, his hand gently shaking the marksman by the shoulder. "Can you hear us? What's wrong?"
With monumental effort, Aramis forced his eyes to open. The ringing in his ears was slowly subsiding, but his vision was still swimming. Still, he could make out the blurry shapes of his friends crouching next to him on the gravel, and he could tell they were concerned, although he couldn't see their faces yet.
"Seems… seems I wasn't… quite as unscathed as I thought," he mumbled haltingly, trying to catch his breath. As his senses recovered from his unconventional trip down the stairs, the renewed pain in his leg made its presence all the more known, and he had to try with all his might to keep his breathing even and stifle the cry that was forming at the back of his throat.
He felt strong arms wrap around him, and then suddenly he was safely cradled against Porthos's broad chest.
"You. Absolute. Buffoon," the larger musketeer hissed. punctuating each separate word with rising anger. "I asked you yesterday, an' you lied. Again! Why?"
Aramis opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't. Not without spilling all his heart out, the fatal secret that hang over his and Athos' necks like the blade of an executioner's sword ready to come down upon them. And he couldn't do that, he couldn't put Porthos and d'Artagnan in danger, too, he had to protect them from his own failings and mistakes. Even if it meant lying to them, and losing them in the process.
He knew loneliness, was as familiar with it as with an old pair of gloves; he could survive it, if it meant his friends would be safe.
"I… didn't think it was that bad," Aramis murmured softly, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and fighting through wave after wave of pain. The exertion and the fall had, quite predictably, made it worse. "I was alright last night, it was only when I woke up that… that I realised how bad it was."
"Why didn't you call someone for help?" d'Artagnan looked even more hurt than Porthos, his big, luminous brown eyes overflowing with questions and betrayal. "We would've come for you, you know that."
Did he? Rationally, sure, he knew. But deep within him there would always be the fear. The doubt.
Athos hadn't yet spoken, but after he'd sent the men off to their assigned duties to keep them from gawking, he had come to kneel down by Aramis' side. The marksman mustered enough courage to glance at the other musketeer's way, and was surprised to find his severe expression somewhat softened. There was still anger and judgment in those stormy gray-blue eyes, but there was concern, too. When his eyes met Aramis', there was a common understanding between the two.
Athos knew exactly why Aramis had lied.
"Porthos, d'Artagnan. Help me take Aramis to his room." He said quietly, taking one of Aramis' arms and passing it over his own shoulders as he waited for Porthos to do the same.
"We should take 'im to my room instead," Porthos observed, glancing resentfully at the staircase as if it had been personally responsible for all of his brother's pain, "easier to get to in 'is condition."
"I'm right here, you know," Aramis interjected quietly, although he knew it was likely going to be of absolutely zero use. "I can make it up the stairs… with help. I'd rather be in my own room, if you don't mind."
"Shu' up, we do mind," Porthos barked at him, then his harsh expression softened a little when Aramis flinched slightly. "Hey, 's alright. You need anything from your room, I'll just get it for you. No need to climb all the way up there, eh?"
"...Fine," Aramis submitted, lowering his gaze. He could tell Porthos was still angry at him for lying about his injuries, even though the bigger musketeer was trying to put that anger aside for now and offer comfort instead, and the marksman didn't want to push his luck. He felt uncomfortable being in his brothers' care, especially Athos', but he didn't see a way through which he could convince them to leave him to deal with his injuries alone, so he simply gave up and allowed Porthos and Athos to help him to the former's room, while d’Artagnan hovered anxiously, then held the door open for them.
“There, ‘m sure you’ll feel a little better now,” Porthos reassured Aramis while he helped him lie down on the unmade bed. Aramis couldn’t help but smile just a little- Porthos seemed to have a personal affront against ever making his bed in the mornings, and this one had been no exception. He winced a little when he was laid back against a propped-up pillow as the bruises on his back protested, but it was nothing he couldn’t deal with. Lying down already felt better on both his leg and his head, and he was determined to settle for what he could get at that point.
“Thank you, Porthos.” His smile widened just a little, if only so his brother would be comforted that he was, indeed, feeling a little better. “I’ll be alright. I… I’m sorry. For keeping this from you.”
A shadow of hurt and frustration passed fleetingly over Porthos’ eyes, but in the end the other man just shook his head with a huff. “ ‘S alright. Just… try to take care o’ yourself, yeah? Please… don’t lie to us, ‘Mis. You know we wouldn’t leave you to suffer alone, so, don’t make yourself go through it. There’s no reason to.”
There is every reason , Aramis mused sadly, but he didn’t let it show on his face. In a sense, he was ashamed for that too, because it meant that he was once again lying right in Porthos’ face. But this time around, it really was for his brother’s own good- and Athos would agree, so at least Aramis wasn’t alone in this decision.
“You’re right, of course,” was all he said to placate the other musketeer. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Porthos regained some of his good humour at that. “You better. An’ don’t think I’ve forgotten ‘bout that duel of ours. As soon as you’re better, I’m gonna drink you under the table.”
Aramis raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge, and was ready to accompany it with a matching quip, but Athos’ voice cut him off before he could even open his mouth.
“As much as I’m happy to see you two back in a good mood, there are things we need to do.” There was a sort of cold calmness about him, similar to a general issuing orders to his men before battle. “I’ll stay with Aramis. Porthos, can you watch over the men for now?”
“Uh… sure. Will do.” The tall musketeer threw a worried glance at Aramis, then back at Athos, as if he weren’t certain it would be safe to leave them alone with each other. “Everythin’ alright between you two?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”
Aramis had to hand it to Athos; he was an excellent liar when the situation called for it. Even he would have been hard pressed to recognise the lie, and he already knew what was going on, for Heaven’s sake. Porthos and d’Artagnan had stood no chance.
“...Okay. Just shout if you need me.” Porthos relented after a few moments and stood up from the bed. Before he headed for the door, he gently squeezed Aramis’ shoulder with his large, warm hand. “Get some rest, you. Or I’ll be really angry.”
With that, he was gone, no doubt out for blood against the cadets who had made the mistake of laughing at Aramis’ creative way of descending the stairs earlier. Athos lost no time and turned to d’Artagnan next.
“D’Artagnan, can you go out and call doctor Lemay? I’d like him to examine Aramis, make sure there’s nothing seriously wrong with him.”
The youngest of their quartet nodded. “Sure, I’m on it. I’ll go get Constance too, she’ll want to help.”
“Oh- please don’t.” Aramis blurted before he could stop himself. “I can’t handle her scolding right now. But- you could just send Lemay here and stay with her, spend some time together? Athos won’t mind, I’m sure.”
Athos shot them both a look that said yes, Athos would actually mind very much , but the eldest man didn’t try to outright refute the claim. Instead he let out a small, resigned sigh, and gave his assent.
“Alright, fine. But send Lemay first, and make sure to be back before midday. We’re undermanned as it is, and I don’t want to give that scoundrel Rochefort another chance to berate us to the King.”
“Of course, I’ll be back soon, promise.” The lad was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet at the chance to meet with his lover, though, and Aramis felt a small swell of happiness for them; at least those two were going to be happy, no matter what. The thought gave him some solace.
D’Artagnan turned to him, too, before he left. “Okay, first of all, I will beat you black and blue in training about this, when you’re back on both feet. Second… like Porthos said, make sure to rest. And try not to worry us to death, Aramis. I’m too young to get a heart attack over your foolishness.”
For the first time in a few days, Aramis couldn’t hold back a small, genuine chuckle. One that was no mask. “Yes, okay, you’ve all made your point. Now go- it’s not proper manners, keeping a lady waiting.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you,” murmured d’Artagnan with a roll of his eyes, but he shot him a quick, fond smile before he, too, walked out of the room. Athos and Aramis were finally left alone, and the air between them was suddenly heavy with tension and things left unsaid.
“I’m sorry,” Aramis blurted quickly, before his courage would abandon him or Athos would decide to pursue another topic. “I- this is my fault. I had to open my stupid mouth and get myself tossed out a window, and then I lied to you all and- and now I’m causing even more of a ruckus, aren’t I? I’ve already given you all so much trouble, especially you, Athos, and it seems that no matter what I do, I can’t keep myself from messing up, and… I don’t want to drag you all down with it, so I’m trying to stay away. But it’s making everything worse, and I don’t know how to help, and- and…”
And my father was right, I am a failure, I don’t deserve you, I don’t deserve love and camaraderie, I am not worthy of your friendship and your care.
He forced his mouth shut suddenly, stemming off the abrupt avalanche of words before he could share even more and embarrass himself further. He didn’t want Athos to pity him, after all (he did not deserve such pity, especially not from Athos), but something within him had snapped, and he couldn’t stop himself from pouring his heart out at the other man. Athos could resent him, shout at him, punish him- anything, really, and Aramis would take it. But first, he had to tell Athos. Athos had to know Aramis was sorry , so sorry for everything, that he was trying to fix this even though he didn’t even know how. That he would keep trying, no matter what.
Still, he didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t further complicate matters, so instead he focused his eyes down at his hands instead, at his fingers fidgeting endlessly with a loose thread in Porthos’ blanket in a desperate attempt to ground himself, to remain firm and steady amidst all the turmoil of his emotions.
Aramis felt the mattress dip next to him, and chanced a glance up to see Athos sitting by his side. There was anger in his face, barely concealed; but there was regret, too.
“I’m sorry, too, Aramis,” the swordsman started quietly, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I… I am responsible for this, too. I know why you didn’t tell Porthos or d’Artagnan. Or me. It’s because of how I’ve been acting, isn’t it? I… I made you feel like a burden. Like you deserved this pain. And for that, I am deeply sorry, my friend. I really am.”
Aramis swallowed hard against the knot that had suddenly coiled tight in the back of his throat, cutting off his breath. “You- You don’t hate me, then?”
It sounded so childish, so petulant and immature. But Athos placed his hand on top of his, stilling the erratic twitching of his fingers.
“I would never hate you, Aramis,” he murmured softly. “No matter what you did. I am angry, yes, but that is because I worry. For myself, too, but first and foremost for you. If what you and the Queen did comes out, if…”
He paused, taking a deep breath and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again, seemingly having tried to shake a particularly gruesome image from his mind. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Or worse. I could never bear it. I lost my family, once, and I simply cannot go through it again. Not with you .”
The way he’d said that final word, the way his voice had cracked slightly at the end, was the final blow to Aramis’ carefully constructed wall. The marksman let out a small, choked sob and grabbed Athos’ hand, bringing it to rest over his own heart.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Please forgive me, Athos, for the love of God, I can’t do this anymore-!”
He dissolved into tears, and was vaguely aware of Athos pulling him close to his chest, until Aramis’ face was pressed against the older man’s shoulder. Aramis grabbed his companion’s leathers with both hands, clinging tightly to him for dear life as Athos held him, shushing him and gently running a hand up and down his back, mindful of the bruising there. Aramis, deprived of this touch and affection for so long, completely melted into it, still muttering apologies even as he cried.
“You’re forgiven, dearest,” Athos reassured him, tucking his chin over Aramis’ head, but not before pressing a tender kiss to his dark, tangled curls. “It’s alright. We’re alright.”
And somehow, Aramis allowed himself to believe it, just for a moment.
Just for that moment in time, he allowed himself to believe that he was worthy of redemption.