Athos can't see straight, let alone think straight. He doesn't mean to get so drunk, but all he can see is Thomas Thomas Thomas and it is drowning him. He is too drunk to hear the quiet crying in the corridor, nor the repeated cry of a child's voice.
François sniffles. His coat hangs on the peg in the corridor, and he hovers near it, wondering if he should put it on and run to Unca Mis, or even Unca d'Art. He knows Foss is drunk. His mother got drunk all the time—he doesn't wanna risk Foss being angry at him. He pulls the coat over his small body, trembling as he tries to fasten the buttons. Even though they're big, his hands are shaking so much he can't fasten them. He hurries out of the door, rain soaking through his hair.
The closest house is Unca Mis's, and he bangs desperately on the door. Tears are rolling down his cheeks, and a bleary, half-asleep Aramis answers.
"François?" he asks, and then quickly he beckons the child inside. "What are you doing here at this time? Where's Athos?"
"Foss is dwunk," he says, bluntly but timidly. "He's scawy."
Aramis is stony-faced, but he masks it well. François is frightened enough as it is. "Go in the kitchen, kid, and I'll get you something warm to put on."
He retrieves a pair of pyjamas from the spare bedroom; he's glad Milady thought of giving him clothes for François, otherwise he'd be frantically searching for something. Aramis takes them to the shivering boy, and gently helps him peel off his soaking wet clothes. He puts on the pyjamas, and Aramis finds a towel to dry his hair with.
Two minutes later and he finds himself with an armful of François. Aramis picks the boy up and takes him upstairs to bed.
"Unca Mis, I wanna sweep wif you," he whines, head buried in Aramis's shoulder.
"I'm not going to sleep yet," says Aramis, "but you're welcome to sleep in my bed."
He tucks the little boy in, and after a few minutes he is asleep. Aramis pulls on a pair of boots and leaves the house as quietly as he can.
The rain seems to have stopped. Aramis doesn't stop to knock before entering the house.
Athos is drunk. Athos is so, so drunk.
"Athos," says Aramis, loudly and clearly.
"Huh?" Athos turns to the sound of the voice, and as he does so, Aramis slaps him across the face.
"Wha' w's tha' for?" he slurs.
"Your son is at my house," Aramis bites back. "He was knocking at my door, sobbing his heart out. He's staying with me tonight. When Milady comes back in the morning you can explain to her where your child has gone."
Aramis hardly sleeps that night.
Against all odds, the next morning is bright and sunny. "I'm gonna spwash in da puddwes," says François enthusiastically through a mouthful of pastry.
"That sounds good," says Aramis, but he cannot keep his mind off of Athos. The boy seems to have forgotten about the night before, but he will never forget.
The door opens, and both Aramis and François turn their heads. "An'nee Connie!" squeals the three-year-old in excitement.
"I came as soon as I heard," says Constance. "What was he thinking?"
"I daresay he wasn't," says Aramis, "but could we please not have this conversation here?" He nods to François, who is eagerly finishing off his pastry.
"I'm going to take him home," says Constance. "You are in no mood to talk to Athos right now. Milady should be home around lunchtime."
Aramis sighs. "You're right," he admits. "It's probably best if you take over—I am not the greatest when it comes to caring for children."
"Don't say that," she says gently. "You've done well with him. I'm simply taking him out of your hands."
Constance takes François home, dresses him, and leaves him to play with his wooden sword and hobby horse. Athos is sleeping off his hangover, and Constance leaves a glass of water at his bedside. "What have you done?" she asks. Athos snores.
She busies herself with cleaning the house and taking care of François for the rest of the morning.
Milady arrives home at half-past twelve. "Hello, Constance. Where's Athos?"
It is not Constance who answers, but François. "Foss is asweep. He got dwunk wast night, so I went to Unca Mis's house."
Milady's eyes widen. "Oh, baby," she whispers, immediately sweeping the three-year-old into her arms. "I'm here now—did he scare you?"
François nods, and melts against Milady's chest, crying softly as she murmurs comforts to him.
Athos wakes at around three o'clock, and Milady is sat next to him. Immediately she hands him a glass of water, which he sips gratefully.
"Do you remember anything that happened last night?" she asks bluntly.
"Thomas …" he says drowsily. "The door went, twice—I'm not sure who it was …"
"You scared our son," she snaps. "So much so that he left and went to Aramis's."
Athos freezes. "He what?"
"It's lucky he made it there! He could've been out on the streets and we wouldn't know!"
"Aramis hit me." He remembers bits and pieces.
"Yes," says Milady. "And you deserved it. What were you thinking?"
"Thomas …" Athos looks wearily at his wife, who is clearly angry and trying to hide her worry for both husband and son. "Seven years ago now …"
Milady suddenly understands, and she is no longer angry at Athos but at herself. She left him alone on the anniversary of his brother's death—what a fool she is.
"Athos, I'm sorry …"
"What?"
"I never thought," she admits. "I left you alone—let's make a rule, hmm?"
"Rule?" Athos is still confused.
"You are never going to be alone on this day," she says. "Even if it's not me with you, it'll be Aramis or Porthos, or d'Artagnan or Constance. I am a fool for forgetting."
He smiles at her, the scent of alcohol still on his breath. "I love you."
Milady laughs. "I love you too," she says, "but I'd love you more if you'd brush your teeth."
Athos is more than a little nervous approaching François, but the boy beams at him. "Hi, Foss!" He buries himself into Athos's chest. "You smeww wike mint."
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry—I never meant to frighten you. You're always safe here, François. Don't forget that."
"Iss okay," says François earnestly. "I fowgive you." He pulls away, grinning. "Foss, can you come pway Musketeews wif me?"
"Sure," says Athos, and almost instantly a small hand slips into his, and tugs him in the direction of François's bedroom.