What's in a Name

"Captain."

Treville had quite possibly never have been more lost in his life. His vision swam in front of him and his consciousness threatened to flee as he absentmindedly gripped the ring around his neck. His brain was throbbing and numb.

"Captain?"

Treville was dimly aware of the voice calling him. But the voice was not right. It wasn't his. A familiar lump formed in Treville's throat as he realized, it will never be his.

How had this happened? He had sworn to protect France and her peace, yet he could not protect her most valuable Minister in her time of dire need.

"Jean?"

At the use of his Christian name, Treville looked up, acquainted with the disappointment that followed when gazing upon anyone but him. No one had called him by that name since... since that awful day.

Treville looked down. "Please, Athos. I'd prefer if you'd refrain from using that name."

If Athos somehow guessed the reason as to why his captain was distancing from his friend, he did not show it. "Captain, you need to eat," he said instead.

Treville was somewhat grateful, but shook his head in reply. "I'm just not hungry."

Athos looked at him with an expression that Treville could not quite place. Resigned to his captain's stubbornness, Athos turned, only to stop mid way. He looked back hesitantly. "He wouldn't have wanted you to torture yourself this way," said Athos.

Treville looked up, slightly stunned; stunned at the fact that Athos knew, and partially mad that Athos dared to assume to know what they had had. Without waiting for a reply, Athos turned fully and strode out the door, leaving a tired and pained Treville in his wake.

"The Cardinal wishes to speak to you."

"Tell him I'm busy."

Guilt threatened to engulf him whole. He should have seen Armand that morning. He should have apologized when he had the chance. He should have ignored his damned pride for two seconds and done what his heart ached for him to do.

He should have protected him.

Jean halted to a stop when he turned the corner, and so did the person opposite him. Suddenly caught off guard, both could only stare before composing themselves and guarding their expressions with diplomatic masks. For a moment, all that could be heard was the splashing waters of the fountain.

"Cardinal," Treville found himself saying. The coldness and indifference in his own voice made him want to wince.

Richelieu nearly let his mask slip at his lover's coldness, and the flash of emotion had Treville wishing he could take the words back and soothe the worry from Armand's life.

"Captain."

Treville poured himself another drink of brandy and gulped it back down in one swift movement, the sourness of the liquid burning the walls of his throat in its descent. He could feel the tears threatening to fall once more. He was surprised that he even had more tears to produce.

He had been shoved to the floor in a haste as the chaos ensued. Gunshots flew over his head, hitting everything from the palace to the carriages, launching gravel into every corner.

Even at the height of their worst disagreements, Treville's first instinct right then was to grab Richelieu and run. When Treville looked to where the Cardinal had once stood, he could not find him. For a brief moment, relief overtook him as he realized that the Red Guards must have escorted his Eminence away to safety.

Why had he been so stubborn? What was pride when there was no one to share it with? What was honor when next to one with fiery, burning love and compassion?

Treville slammed the glass down onto the table in his anger. The pain barely registered through the burning in his heart. It was but a mere scratch compared to the emptiness he felt in his chest.

In a split second, Treville was shouting orders to his Musketeers, to the Royal Guards.

"Protect the King!" he barked, reaching around for his own musket, his eyes already searching the area swiftly. However, what he found was not a Spanish assassin. What he found made his body freeze on the spot and his mind go blank.

Blood dropped from his hand to the table, mixing with the light brown of the liquor. The blood forced its way out of the wound, like an opened dam. It dripped from the glass onto the floor, and all he could do was stare.

"Armand!"

A strangled cry died at Treville's throat as he hastily pushed himself off from the floor and sprinted the short distance to his lover; assassin and King be damned.

Treville stared at his shaking hands. The very hands that had caressed and smoothed the tension in his lover's back every night. The ones that punched holes in walls and had been cared for by Armand's long, gentle fingers. They were covered in blood. His blood.

Armand, at first, was not quite in focus and Jean found that he could hardly breathe. The Red Guards had not taken Richelieu to safety. Armand had been the one to push Jean out of the way of the musket range.

Aware that his lover was in danger of bleeding out, Jean was on the verge of panic. You fool, he wanted to say. Protecting was not the Cardinal's job, it was his.

Jean had shouted for a physician, then to one of his Musketeers. He did not know which one had come, but between the two of them, they escorted the almost dead weighted Cardinal to a safer place behind one of the main pillars.

"Capt-" started the Musketeer.

A pained groan from the Cardinal had Treville's full attention, musketeer all but forgotten. In gentle movements, Jean moved the Cardinal so that he was wrapped by Jean's arm and leaning on his chest while his free hand put pressure on the frighteningly free flowing wound on his stomach.

"Shh, Armand. I am here."

By then, Armand was fully aware of what was occurring, he was fully aware of the pain erupting in his stomach. And the pained expression which rested upon the Cardinal's face gripped at Jean's heart.

Armand grabbed at Jean's hand. His own were shaking. "J-Jean…"

The range of raw emotions swimming in Armand's beautiful eyes both captivated and frightened Jean. And all of the sudden he felt tears rapidly staining his cheeks.

"Do not speak, Armand. You're going to be okay," Jean managed to choke out. Here he was, crying like a newborn in front of his lover and friend, rival and enemy. "What were you thinking? Were you thinking at all?" He'd managed to avoid Armand for two weeks, yet now, he could not think of a life without him. How petty he was.

"Jean…" Blood stains were evident on the Cardinal's lips and he coughed up blood violently and painfully.

All Jean could do was hold him a bit tighter, cry a bit harder. How was this happening? Why? It seemed too cruel. Was he being punished for driving his love away so mercilessly?

He let his hand bleed. Looking up at the ceiling, Treville did not try to stop the tears any longer. In fact, he welcomed it.

Armand was moving his lips, his fingers straining to touch Jean's face. Words seemed too hard to form.

"I'm s-sorry," Armand's shaking voice felt like songs of birds to Jean's ears.

At his words, the Captain's heart wrenched and twisted. Even near death, even in a considerate amount of pain, Armand's only thought was on him. How could he think that he was to blame? Armand was the epitome of perfect in Jean's eyes.

The Captain frantically called for a physician once more. Above the shouts and gunshots, no one had heard.

Jean brought up a hand to grab the Cardinal's. They were trembling, a sure reminder of the agony that the wound was causing. Agony that Treville should be feeling instead. The Captain brought it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. It is I who should be sorry." His voice was near pleading. And he was. He was pleading to God that Armand de Richelieu would not die on that day. "I should never have avoided you, I was stupid." He caressed the Cardinal's cheeks, not caring if his lover could see his tears.

He was losing too much blood.

While Armand's face was twisted in pain, he gave a strained smile, and tried to shake his head. "I-I shouldn't h-have-" his voice hitched as a wave of pain hit him. He took a long shaky breath. "I'm s-sorry t-that I went a-against your w-wishes."

It was Jean's turn to vehemently shake his head. "You were doing it for the good of France. I know that." And he did know. For the past two weeks he'd known. "You do not need to apologize to me."

Neither were aware of the chaos around them.

Armand's hand clutched his lover's. "F-forgive me." His eyes were raw with emotions, naked for Jean, and only Jean, to see.

Jean leaned down to partially hide his anguish, and partially to place a kiss upon Armand's forehead. "Please, Armand. Please...stay with me." His lover's eyes were starting to close. Jean could see the struggle of trying to keep them open.

With their hands still holding on, the Cardinal gave a tight squeeze. "A-always be w-with you, my C-Captain."

A fresh wave of tears found their way down Jean's cheeks, threatening to wipe away their life together. Where the hell was that physician?

In denial, Jean shook his head. "You will not die. Stop talking as if you are."

Somehow, Armand managed a smile. "Delusional as … a-always."

In the back of Jean's mind, he knew that his lover was losing too much blood. He could feel the traitorous blood continuously seeping through his fingers.

Armand's eyes were closing. His breathing became more and more rapid. Jean panicked, rightfully so.

"No! Armand, stay with me. Stay with me, goddammit!" he shouted.

With tearful eyes, Armand gazed up at his lover. There was such pain in his eyes. Pain that he was causing. "I-I'm sorry, Jean." He could feel himself slipping. Keeping up with consciousness' demands seemed to be too hard at the moment.

It was abrupt. Harsh. Cold. He could still feel the cruelty of it.

Jean's eyes widened as his lover, his friend, went slack in his arms.

Everything had gone so wrong, so fast. Just weeks before, they had revelled in the stolen glances in between meetings, subtle gestures across the hall, and the last moments of the day when they would retire into the warmth of one of their beds. It was mostly Treville's.

Armand would do just about anything to make France a powerful nation. Hell, it was one of the things that made Jean so attracted to the man. Yet, he'd avoided him like an immature schoolboy because it had gone against his code of honor. He'd lost two precious weeks because of his arrogance. When Treville closed his eyes, he could see Armand's face. He could make out his sharp features, the calculatingly handsome eyes. The Cardinal's smile that made him forget his worries, the way he would fit so perfectly underneath the Captain's arms. It had taken the other man's last breath to show the stubborn Captain of what he had, of what he had taken advantage of.

They had lived a life of darkness, behind locked doors and closed curtains. It had not occurred to the Captain that that was the way it would ultimately end: a shroud of darkness in between themselves.

Treville slowly laid his head on his worn out desk, his uninjured hand cushioning the wood. His eyes still trained on his open wound, he wondered vaguely when the wound had stopped pulsing with faint whispers of pain.

I'm sorry, Armand.

The Cardinal would probably stand there and scold Treville at the time wasting away before his eyes, at the multiple empty bottles of liquor that lined the floor of his bedroom. He would be insistent that Treville remain to his duty as Captain of the Musketeers until the day that he drew his last breath.

Treville was tempted to make that today.

Louis had been devastated. When the initial brunt of the attack died down, when the King had been ushered into the closest building, away from musket balls, he had been furious and had a hint of fear. Who dared to think that they could harm the King of France? When Treville entered the room after the chaos had dissipated into distant shouts, his legs were heavy and hands drenched in blood. Expression passive, he heard the King shout for the Cardinal, unaware of the man's recent demise and Treville felt ice clench at his recently frayed heart at the sound of his lover's respected title. When Treville told the King about what had happened outside, about the fate of his most trusted advisor, he felt numb. When the King openly wept in shock and sorrow, Treville was rather jealous at the man's ability to mourn his death so publically.

Treville's eyes closed as he listened to the silence in his office. If he focused, he could still hear his lover's last breath, his last words. The soldier's Christian name hung heavily in the midst of particles of dust circling the enclosed space. The air seemed thicker than it was merely moments before.

Treville knew that he had to live. Armand had given his life so that his lover may live to survive another day. Armand had bled and endorsed pain for Jean to continue molding France into the most powerful nation in existence.

He knew that he had to carry on. No matter the situation, Jean would make sure that he followed Armand's wish, he would not let his lover's back-breaking work for France go to waste; not after everything they shared, not after every moment of joy that that the lean man of God had given the Captain, the only true joy he felt he'd come to know.