The prompt for this one was "Self inflicted"
Athos hated himself most days. He truly did. He hated himself for not protecting Thomas. He hated himself for abandoning his father's – his – lands and title. He hated himself for loving Anne and then hated himself for killing her.
He drank to forget all the reasons he loathed himself.
And then loathed himself for being a drunk.
It was a vicious, destructive circle, but one he had no real desire to pull himself out of.
Not until he'd met them, at least. Aramis and Porthos – two beacons of light in his dark and dreary world. Some days, their presence alone was enough to pull him out of the shadows of memory.
But some days it wasn't.
He sat now, on one such day, with a belly full of wine, pleasantly feeling nothing at all.
It was with numb regard that he watched Aramis duck into the tavern, shaking snow off his hat and bundled in his blue cloak. His brother searched the tavern with his eyes, but Athos made no effort to draw his attention.
Aramis would find him easily enough without help and Athos was in no hurry to expedite being escorted away from the wine.
He watched Aramis spot him, but still only stared.
Aramis' gaze narrowed, head tilting slightly as he studied Athos from across the room.
Then the marksman moved, but not towards Athos as he expected, towards the fire burning in the hearth on the far wall instead. Athos downed the rest of his cup and watched Aramis spend several minutes hunkered close to the flames, hands outstretched to absorb the heat. Athos wondered if it was Aramis' hands that were shaking or his vision.
The snow was likely bringing up all sorts of traumatic memories for the marksman, but in his current apathetic state Athos couldn't bring himself to care. Instead, he tipped the wine bottle to pour more of the contents into his cup and waited for Aramis to make a move.
His brother was here to collect him, of that he was certain.
This ritual was a practiced one. Usually the tavern keeper waited until Athos was practically unconscious before calling in one of the others, though. So Athos was curious as to how the whole process would proceed when he still had some of his faculties in order.
"Athos?"
A hand waving in front of his face, made the swordsman blink and draw his head back. He stared, dumfounded at Aramis, who peered down at him in concern. Athos frowned, wondering when Aramis had moved.
"How much have you had?" Aramis asked, taking away the wine bottle even as Athos reached for it.
"Too much," Athos replied blandly. "And at the same time far too little."
Aramis rolled his eyes and passed the bottle off to a passing barmaid.
"I was drinking that," Athos objected, clumsily reaching after her. Aramis caught his arm with unreasonably fast reflexes and used the grip to haul him up.
"Come on, let's go."
"No," Athos objected, pushing against Aramis with his free hand and attempting valiantly to stay in his seat.
"Athos, let's go." Aramis pulled on him again.
Athos glared and remained stubbornly seated.
Aramis sighed, looking incredibly weary and rubbed at his eyes.
"Athos, I'm tired and I'm cold. I want to go home. Get up or so help me, I will knock you out and carry you."
"You wouldn't dare," Athos challenged confidently. His sluggish gaze was unable to track the fist as it flew towards his face, but he felt it with perfectly clarity.
When Athos woke again, it was to find himself vomiting violently into a bucket. When he was done, a cup pressed against his lips.
He hoped for wine, but tasted water.
He spat it back out.
There was a loud, frustrated curse in what his muddled mind vaguely recognized as Spanish. Then the sound of something slamming down onto a table and a door opening and shutting sharply.
As Athos drifted back to sleep he hardly noticed the quiet click if the door opening and closing again.
The next time he woke it was morning.
He squinted against the meager light spilling in through the partially covered window and looked around. He was in his old quarters at the Garrison, a room once shared between he, Porthos and Aramis until he had sought a private apartment in the city. Aramis and Porthos both still resided here and had never bothered to have Athos' bed removed.
His mouth felt dry and a bit like something furry had died in it and his head pounded mercilessly.
Still, he forced his eyes to remain open and searched for what he knew would not be far.
Sure enough, Aramis was slouched uncomfortably in a chair near the bed. His arms were crossed over his chest and his feet crossed and propped on the edge of the mattress.
And he was staring right at him.
Athos stared back, blinking dumbly.
"Why do you do this to yourself?" Aramis asked suddenly, voice scratchy and rough.
With a stirring of guilt, Athos noticed the dark circles under his brother's eyes and the exhaustion lining his posture. It had been snowing last night, Athos remembered. Less than a year after Savoy, the first snowfall of the winter had led to a resurgence of Aramis' struggles to recover from that trauma. Weeks into winter now, it had gotten a little better, but not much.
"It doesn't matter," he replied lowly, guilt and worry churning his gut as he wondered if Aramis had slept last night. And if he did, had he had nightmares? With Porthos away and Athos more or less unconscious, there would have been no one to ground him in reality.
"Maybe it matters to me," Aramis shot back. "Maybe picking you up off the floor of taverns has gotten a bit old."
The worry and guilt faded quickly in the face of the sarcastic jab.
"No one asked you to," Athos snapped.
"That's the point of us: me, you, and Porthos. We don't have to ask."
"If it bothers you so much, just leave me there next time."
Aramis shook his head in frustration and looked away.
"Would you leave me?" he asked, still turned away. "If I were drinking myself into oblivion because of Savoy, would you leave me?"
Athos frowned.
"Of course not," he answered.
Aramis finally looked back at him.
"Would you try to stop me?" he asked.
Athos knew where this was going.
"It's not the same," he insisted.
"I suppose I wouldn't know," Aramis replied flippantly. "While you know my demons, I've not even gotten a passing introduction to yours."
"I've told you," Athos defended.
"Ah yes, there was a woman and she died. How did she die?"
Athos pressed his lips together and didn't answer.
"When?" Aramis went on.
Athos remained silent.
"How long did you know her? What was her name?"
Athos looked away.
Aramis sighed and stood.
"I've volunteered for grounds patrol at the palace today. I've told Treville you took ill last night and would be a few hours delayed in your duties," he informed Athos stiffly. It wasn't until Aramis was at the door that Athos realized his brother was fully dressed, winter cloak and all. Aramis pulled the door open, but paused before stepping through.
"I'm glad you're not dead. But if you wouldn't mind waiting for Porthos to return before trying to drink yourself to death again, I would appreciate it."
Then he was gone before Athos could decide if he was angry or not. Before he could ask why Aramis had volunteered for an outside patrol when the snow would only set him on edge. Before he could volunteer to join the patrol and go with him.
Instead Athos was left alone, hating himself once again.
Athos' drinking could have been so destructive. I can't imagine the others were always so okay with it as they seemed later on. I also imagine that he was much worse in their early days together.
Somebody tell my kids to be calm and quiet so mommy can write lol JK - they're 3 and 5 months so calm and quiet don't exist unless they're sleeping. Hopefully more later today!
