Athos sits at one end of the couch, a glass of red wine in his left hand, his right hand supporting his head on the arm rest.
At the couch's other end is Porthos, a glass of the same held in both of his hands as he stares into its ruby liquid depths.
Seated in the middle is Aramis. His head is tipped back against the couch. His right leg is propped up on the coffee table, and his glass sits empty next to his foot.
Aramis' eyes slip closed when thunder rolls. The rain drops tapping on the window beat out a rhythm that invades the room's melancholy. Each man relaxes at least a fraction as the sound persists, but it's not enough to rectify the state of their hearts reflected in the dark grey clouds and continuous thunderstorms.
The TV's off. They flipped through the channels twenty minutes ago, and the number of romance films playing (comedic or otherwise) left them all groaning. You just don't fix heartache by prodding the wound, so the TV was promptly turned off and the wine was poured.
Athos is trying once more, and just as desperately as ever, to forget his wife. Her recent reappearance at Ninon's trial was a slap in his face. He'd been hoping that she'd only come around to burn their old house to the ground, but now it seems he can't escape her. He sips his wine and rubs at the pain in his temple.
Porthos feels a bit confused. Things with Alice seemed to be going so well. In fact, for the first time since Flea he started considering marriage. But just when he's worked up the courage to ask for her hand, she decides she could never marry a police officer. It's not the first time Porthos has heard such sentiments; he just wishes she'd been kind enough to tell him sooner. A glance at his wine glass informs him that there's not enough of that ruby liquid left, so he retrieves the bottle from the floor and refills his glass, refill Aramis' when he notes its emptiness.
Aramis takes a drink of his wine and drops his head on the couch once more. They'd just laid Isabelle to rest last weekend, and the events leading to her death weigh heavily on his mind and heart.
There's enough grief to go around. Aramis and Porthos know what it cost Athos to see Anne again. Athos and Aramis were overjoyed when Porthos decided to make Alice his wife. Porthos and Athos both loved Isabelle like a sister. Anne's return, Alice's departure, Isabelle's death; every man was affected by each occurrence, and so they found themselves piled on Porthos' couch drinking Athos' wine adding Aramis' wife to their list of sorrows.
Now Aramis has had this damn song stuck in his head for at least five minutes, and it's slowly driving him mad. Before he realizes what he's doing, the lyrics are slipping off his tongue.
"Ain't no sunshine when she's gone…" He's vaguely impressed that he actually sang the phrase.
"It's not warm when she's away…" Porthos continues.
"Ain't no sunshine when she's gone…" Athos adds, and all together they sing, "And she's always gone too long any time she goes away."
They continue on like this, trading lines, singing some of it together, and no one's quite sure if it's actually helping or not. It's just a song. It can't fix everything, but Porthos thinks that maybe, just maybe it ease the pain in some strange way.
Athos looks lost, and Aramis' cheeks are wet with the tears he's been shedding in silence, but none of them are alone.
The sun will come back in time. All the destructive force of the strongest hurricane couldn't change that.