Chapter warnings: Heavy angst, self-harm and gore-y stuff (nothing too graphic, though).


T W O

… In our time together I have many bad ideas

The gravestone is made from white marble, golden letters glistening in the sun. They spell Aramis' name, d'Artagnan knows that, but fae can't look at them. Wouldn't be able to make them out anyway, because faer sight is blurred with tears.

I killed you. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Aramis. D'Artagnan tries to follow the priest's words, but fae can't focus, can't concentrate, not even for honoring Aramis' memory at his goddamn funeral. Fae keeps breathing, but not really. The deadness is omnipresent. Fae feels like fae is suffocating, like the guilt presses down so hard that fae gets crushed under the weight, ribs cracking, lungs bursting, death grabbing at faer heart. And while fae can barely bear the guilt, it's still better than Milady's empty eyes looking past everyone and everything, Porthos' broken expression and slumped posture, Athos' drowning their pain in alcohol until they pass out. The guilt is better than hearing Aramis' voice – ángel, a whisper that haunts faer dreams, making faer wake up in cold sweat, crying – and knowing that he's dead.

D'Artagnan bites the insides of faer cheek to stop faerself from bursting out in tears. Athos looks at faer with raised eyebrows: "You ok?" Their whisper sounds stone-cold sober, but d'Artagnan knows that they are drunk. Again. Still. Fae can't remember and it probably doesn't matter either way, so fae just shrugs. Athos nods curtly. They have been avoiding touch and eye contact since they met again at Treville's safe house, like they blame fae but can't bring themselves to actually say so. And so there's mostly silence. And loneliness. Fae is an outcast in faer own home now. Everyone keeps avoiding faer, at all times, and it's not like fae can hold it against them. Not after… not after everything.

It's Treville's turn to say a few words and d'Artagnan can see the tension in his face, around the corners of his mouth, making him look like he's aged decades in just a few weeks. The start of his rapid aging being the day of the reunion. Without Aramis. Because it's happened days after he was dead, days in which d'Artagnan had tried to contact the rest of the team, silently begging for a miracle, so they could at least retrieve his body, but of course the miracle never came. Fae's been alone during the wait, playing the fatal incident over and over in faer mind, until fae was sure fae would spiral into madness. The sound of faer own dry sobbing's been faer only company, until Treville had shown up. He didn't make things better. In fact, he made them worse. The accusation unspoken and yet overwhelming in the way he looks at faer. Vivid, burning. Treville can't even hide it now, standing in front of the small group, talking, looking at faer. His voice doesn't reach faer brain, it's washed out and meaningless, but the look. It kills d'Artagnan. It feels like a dream. But it's a nightmare that fae can't wake up from. Losing Aramis is making faer wish to be dead in his place, but fae doesn't dare tell the others, because haven't they been even more impacted by his death than faerself? Selfish. A selfish fucking murderer, that's all fae is.

I'm sorry.

D'Artagnan is losing track of time, too caught up in faer own mind to follow the ceremony, too stunned by the impact of Aramis' loss to even care, so that when fae snaps back into reality, they lower Aramis' coffin into the grave. Fae watches at the polished wooden box – empty, empty – disappears in the ground. The priest says something and throws earth into the hole. Porthos' cracks, shaking helplessly, and Milady lets go of his hand, turning around and leaving the cemetery without another word.


D'Artagnan stares at the ceiling. It's dark in faer room, dark and lonely. The funeral's been over for hours, and eventually they all have come home. Well, except for Athos. They have decided to sleep in the bureau. Again. It's a code for getting drunk and becoming numb, for being too wasted to dream – or at least too wasted to remember these dreams. They don't talk to d'Artagnan much anymore, they just silently exist in the same space. And not even that. Not lately. Fae knows, knows without a doubt, that fae is losing Athos. Day after day, night after night, drink after drink. They are drifting apart, slowly, but inevitably. And there is nothing d'Artagnan can do about it. Fae knows that, too. And it kills faer inside.

Outside, the clicking of heels on the floor passes by his door. Milady. Going out past midnight? D'Artagnan gets up, deliberately not touching Athos' side of the bed, and hurries to the door. Fae was right, it is Milady, who has changed the black funeral dress for plain black jeans and a black turtleneck pullover.

"Lady…?"

"Shh. You will wake Porthos," she says quietly. Her eyes are dark and tired, and she puts her keys on the shelf – why, why would she leave without her keys? -, before she folds her hands in front of her body. "Is Athos around, too?"

"No, they are still at work- but what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" A smile flickers over her face and it's nothing but pain and sadness, the ghost of a smile really. "I can't-" Milady's breath catches in her chest, her fingers trembling. "I can't stay. So I'm leaving."

No no no no no. No. Please. No. No no no. D'Artagnan makes faerself not scream at her, forcing faer voice down to a low whisper, and asks weakly: "For how long?"

"For good. My decision is final."

"But-"

"No. Whatever you want to say, just don't. I don't want to hear it. I can't."

"You can't leave Porthos. It will kill him." It will kill me. D'Artagnan's heart beats so hard fae fears it might actually explode through faer rib cage, explode into a million bloody pieces of torn flesh and ripped muscle and broken bones. "Please don't do this. I'm begging you."

"I have no choice."

Panic and dread fill faer body, as fae tries to work out something to say. Something that will make Milady reconsider her decision. And suddenly, the shadow of a memory crosses faer mind, and fae whispers: "What about the baby?"

Milady's face is a mask, hard and blank. "There won't be a baby. Not when it could be his. I wouldn't- I couldn't survive that." She shakes her head, ever so lightly. "Porthos wouldn't understand. He would hate me. And I'd rather he hates me for abandoning him, not for killing his or our dead partner's child." Her voice breaks off, and d'Artagnan pretends not to notice, because her mask breaks and she fights so hard against it.

"Porthos loves you. No matter what you decide to do with your body. He loves you. He will always love you."

"You know nothing," Milady hisses, suddenly sharp and angry and alive with disgust. "And I'm not going to listen to your shit any longer."

"Milady, please-"

"You killed him, d'Artagnan. This is on you. Everything. You wanted someone to spell it out, didn't you? I'll do it: I blame you. I blame you for Aramis' death. And there is nothing you can do to make amends. I will never forgive you. And if Porthos and Athos are weak enough to give in, to forgive you one day, know that I won't. Not in this life. Not ever." Milady is shaking and tears slip over her cheek, but her voice is calm now, composed, final. "Goodbye, d'Artagnan. We won't meet again."

She turns around in one fluid movement, grabs her coat, and leaves. She doesn't bang the door in anger, she closes it quietly, carefully, for the last time. D'Artagnan can only stare. Stare and stare and stare. Faer body remembers to breathe, to sit down, to breathe, breathe, but fae doesn't exist anymore. Physically, maybe. Fae can't tell. But Milady shattered something and it's lost forever.

She's right, though. And now half of his family is dead or gone, and the other half will follow soon. It's all faer fault.

D'Artagnan starts to cry.


When Porthos finds Milady gone he does not cry. He does not scream. He does not break things. He does not go after her. No, when Porthos finds that Milady is gone he holds her farewell letter between powerless fingers (I don't love you enough to stay. It's for the better. I'm sorry.) and sits down on the edge of the bed he used to share with his lovers. Who both abandoned him, both in their own way.

And then, Porthos becomes invisible.

Snap. Just like that.


"D'Artagnan!" Athos doesn't quite yell, but they're close, something urgent and worried in their voice. It takes d'Artagnan by surprise – Athos doesn't talk to faer, Athos doesn't call faer -, and faer first impulse is to run and not return.

D'Artagnan, now! Again. Fae gets up, trying not to shake, trying to sober faer head, while horror scenarios flood faer mind, each more hideous and cruel than the other. With Aramis dead, Milady gone, and Porthos barely existing there can't be anything good happen. Maybe Porthos killed himself. The thought turns d'Artagnan's stomach, as he enters the bathroom.

Athos is pressing a towel – a bloody towel – to Porthos chest, holding him in an upright position, cursing under their breath. There's a razor, blood-stained like the towel, in the sink, the white of the bath tub is spattered with red spots and… flaps of skin. D'Artagnan covers faer mouth with a hand because the gagging reflex forces acid into faer mouth.

"Take over. Don't let him lie down. I'll fetch the emergency kit and call an ambulance."

"No. I'm fine. Just… shaving," Porthos says softly, eyes unfocused and tired. "Don't call anyone. Please."

"Shit." Athos looks torn, shaking their head, and muttering something into their beard. "D'Art, please?"

Fae hurries to nod, changing places with Athos (the towel is warm and wet from Porthos' blood and faer heart skips a beat) and watching them leave with long steps. "Hey," fae says gently, but Porthos doesn't react. Now fae smells the alcohol. And it's not Athos who's been drinking. "What have you done…?"

"Shaving."

"Did you try to…?"

Porthos smiles and it's a smile of exhaustion and doom and pain. "No. I wouldn't do that to you." He removes faer fingers from the towel, and lifts it. There's a literal hole in his chest, a plane of raw flesh, bloody, bleeding, right above his heart. "I couldn't keep them."

Now d'Artagnan realizes, it's like a kick in the back, and the tears come too fast to hide them. Porthos cut them away. The tattoos of their names. Aramis and Milady are gone, gone from his life, gone from his body. Fae covers his chest with the towel again, because fae doesn't know what else to do, and the tears are hot all over his face. Porthos rests his head against faer shoulder now, and fae whispers: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It hurts. It hurts so much, d'Artagnan, I can't bear it anymore."

They both know he isn't talking about the wound.


Samara is a small woman, gentle yet fierce, but right now her eyes are furious and she seems like a giant as she looks at Porthos, who avoids meeting her gaze. "This, brother, is a sepsis. It can end deadly, just in case you forgot." She touches his brow. "What were you thinking?"

"I'm fine," Porthos says, "I told them not to call you. I'm sorry you're worried now."

"Oh, so you'd prefer me not to be worried now but to mourn your death later? How considerate, thank you." An eye roll. "D'Artagnan, get me my other bag, please."

"Of course." Fae leaves the room, passing Athos who's waiting outside, looking serious and absent, and grabs Samara's bag. It's heavy.

"We should've called her earlier," is all Athos says before they turn and go into their room. D'Artagnan hears low voices from Porthos' room, so fae decides to check up on Athos first. If they let faer, that is. Fae knocks softly on the door. Athos doesn't answer. The sting of rejection hurts, but it's familiar. D'Artagnan closes faer eyes for a moment.

Suddenly Porthos raises his voice: "I don't care, Samara, I don't care if I die, I don't fucking care, do you understand? I don't care, so just leave. Let me die. Let me fucking die, so I can be with Aramis. Just. Let me die."

The drop of the bag falling to the floor interrupts the silence that follows. D'Artagnan presses both hands to faer mouth, shaking violently, faer eyes filled with tears. Let me die. Faer heart races, races, races, blood pulsing through faer ears. Then Porthos' sobs become audible, underlined with Samara's voice gently speaking in Arabic.

D'Artagnan can't breathe, not anymore, not after this, because it will never end, it will never be okay again, nothing will ever be okay, and fae lets faer body sink to the floor. Let me die. The door opens, slowly, and then Athos sits down beneath d'Artagnan, carefully touching faer hair.

"I love you," they say softly.


The TV screen flickers, shedding light on the couch. Porthos has an arm loosely wrapped around d'Artagnan, not quite paying attention to the movie.

It's been a long process to see Porthos starting to heal. But with the blood poisoning gone, the wound beginning to scar, and him not reading Milady's note or visiting Aramis' grave daily, it's become better. Sometimes Porthos smiles, he even laughs like he used to. And he cries. Finally.

Since Porthos seems to get better, Athos does too. They still drink, but they drink less. More controlled. Not in secret.

D'Artagnan still feels like there's a gaping hole in faer chest, but fae does a better job of hiding it. For them, not for faerself. It's the least fae can do.

"Can I tell you something?", Porthos asks, without taking his eyes off of the screen. An ice-cold hand wraps itself around d'Artagnan's heart, but fae nods anyway. "I'm glad you're here. I don't know what I would've done without you. I should've told you earlier, but I didn't know how. I… Thank you. Truly, thank you."

D'Artagnan doesn't reply, wants to protest, to cry, to run away, to escape this kindness, because fae doesn't deserve any of it, but fae can't move. And then, suddenly, fae turns around and kisses Porthos. Desperate affection digs in faer chest, burning, biting, moving, and then it clicks – fae is kissing Porthos - and fae pulls away abruptly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-", d'Artagnan whispers breathlessly. "- I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry."

Porthos smiles in reply, small and private and happy, and takes faer hand, kissing faer knuckles.

As they start kissing, mutually this time, they become visible again.