I don't own a single Musketeer, let alone four.

Title from a poem about an Earl dealing with the loss of his brother.

Please review, I'd love to hear what you think.

A Musketeer lives life on the edge.

He dices with death by day, and drinks away his worries by night.

That is what the songs say.

He is brave and fierce and daring and strong.

He is clever and quick and witty and happy.

That is what the songs say.

And that is usually the case. Usually. But when it is dark, and all adrenalin has worn off, he is not that man. It finds every man, it's icy fingers in ticking them into its trap. Dispair. Because it means everything to you, the job you do and the people you fight with. And when your everything is at risk every day, you cannot run forever. You win some and you lose some, and just hope that the former will make you forget the latter. And it usually works. Aramis usually spends his nights basking in glory alongside his friends, downing drinks with a beautiful lady on his arm. But the day had left him tired, and now, when he was alone on the dingy streets, he let his emotions show through.

His friends meant the world to him. His best friends. His comrades. His brothers. There were four of them now. D'Artagnan was young and innocent, and Aramis liked him a lot. Athos was talented and his leader, and he trusted him with all his heart. He would drink himself unconscious, and they would make sure that he got home safely. They were his brothers. But with Porthos it was different. He was different. He wasn't ashamed of his emotions beside the large man. He wasn't afraid to appear long after dark when his nightmares had awoken him. With Porthos he didn't trust him to get him home safely, he trusted him to wake up beside him with a pounding hangover and lipstick smeared over their faces. Porthos meant everything to him.

And he had almost lost his everything.

Aramis was sick and tired of pretending everything is fine. Sick of joking about funerals and pretending that they had everything under control all along. That they had all believed all along that they would rescue their friend, that it had never once occurred to them that he could have died. He was sick of wearing a mask of joy and mirth when really he was screaming inside. Porthos had been sentenced to death by the noose. Then he could have died at the Court. So easily. It could have been. He could never return again.

Long ago he had fallen in love with Flea. His path was carved ahead of him to rule that place, to never be sneered at again because if the colour of his skin. To have respect, to grow old with the woman that he loved. He could have had that.

Or he could have died. He could have died. He could have died. Suddenly he had the overwhelming urge to punch his friend. His blood ran hot, a boiling volcano ready to explode inside of him. Then a dark shape appeared in front of him.

Porthos.

Standing there, that infuriating concerned look on his face. Aramis stood frozen, struggling for anything it say. Anger raced through him. Porthos stepped forward, clearing his throat. Aramis stepped forward, his hand moving towards Porthos's stomach. The larger man caught his wrist, then the other. He trapped him against the wall, the whole of Paris seeming to hold his breath. "Breathe with me." Porthos murmured the words, his face full of understanding. Aramis lunged again, but Porthos easily sidestepped. He pressed him harder to the wall, till Aramis could feel his chest moving against his own. Deep breaths. In, out. In, out.

Aramis was not aware how long they stayed there. Maybe for a second or an hour, it felt like an eternity. Just the deep, steady breathing of his friend and the warmth he expels. Aramis felt his blood gently cool, his face lose his flush and his mouth lose his scowl. Porthos looked on in that caring way. He understood. He trusted him enough to know that he'd got through it. Just like he always had.

Aramis leaned his head on the wall behind him. Tears slid down his cheeks, leaking through the dam he had built around his emotions. Porthos held him close, and Aramis wondered whether he was holding himself together as well. It had been a hard day. A hard day for them all.

"I killed him." The words flew out of his mouth before he could think to hold them back. Now wasn't the time to talk about Charon. That was for the morning, when they had clear heads and a good nights sleep. That had been the plan. But the words had rushed forth and there was no taking it back now. Porthos stepped back, and Aramis immediately missed his warmth.

"Don't, don't, it's just," He rubbed the back of his neck. He had never been good with words. He spoke with actions, and that was what Aramis admired about his comrade.

"No, it's fine, I'll go. He was your friend, I hurt you." Aramis set off down the street. He let the tears stream down his face. Life without Porthos was bleak, but he didn't deserve this man's friendship. To think he had tried to punch him because he had almost died. He would sleep on it, then think in the morning. Though he knew sleep would not come, the day would be reflected in his dreams.

A hand landed on his shoulder, spinning him round again. "Don't go, please don't go, I need you." Porthos. He had followed him, and his words were frantic. He looked desperate.

"I killed your friend." Aramis bowed his head, not daring to even look into the other man's eyes.

"He tried to kill me, and you stopped him. He tried to kill so many people, and you helped stop that. He wasn't my friend, my Charon had died years ago. You're my brother Aramis, don't go because of this." The words tumbled out of Porthos's mouth in tumbled, hurried mess. Porthos grabbed hold of Aramis's arm, pulling him closer.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Relief waved through him, like a summer breeze in the middle of a desert. Porthos didn't hate him, still considered him a brother.

"Don't be." Porthos's tone, though still heavy, now seemed lighter. He held his brother close a moment longer, before letting go of his arm. They set back to the Garrison, and for once they both slept soundly, safe in the knowledge that all would be fine in the end.

The next morning their masks were back on.

Everything was normal. Apart from Porthos's three friends kept arriving slightly bruised, where as anyone who had thought Porthos guilty kept mysteriously having their noses thoroughly broken.