Finished.
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His back was on fire. Pain raced through his body, making his blood boil with a fire he hadn't known before. A roar ripped out of his mouth. A hand settled on his forehead, soon replaced by a cold, damp cloth. Porthos opened his eyes, his vision blurred with tears he hadn't known he had shed. Pain ripped through him, a constant ache centred in his back. A face appeared in front of him, dimly recognisable from another life. The features became clearer as he blinked, even that simple movement causing pain. Then it suddenly all became clear. Aramis. He was safe. He was home. He'd been rescued.
But he was the only one.
A sob racked through him, emptiness making him forget the pain. He sobbed again, and felt a hesitant hand against his. He held on with all his might, a lifeline. Aramis squeezed back. They were gone. They all were. They had died in front of him, they had suffered beside him, and he didn't even know their names. Not one. He didn't know where they lived, couldn't go to their funeral. They had family crying over them, or worse, frantically looking, trying to hold on to hope. Waiting for them at the end of their journeys, only for them to never come. They had families, wives, children. Then there was the woman. The woman with the bruise on her face. She had died and saved him. She was young, noble, the world at her feet. She had a life she would never get to live. They all did. Family they would never see again, family they hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to. What right did he possibly have to live when they couldn't?
He had come from the gutter, his mother had died when he was five years old. He abandoned the friends who took him in, left his childhood sweetheart in the hands of another. People still sneered at him, thought him unequal.
They always would.
Sobs racked through him, tears he had held for years flowing out. He hadn't cried for a long time. He hadn't cried when his mother died. He hadn't cried when he had left his brothers. He hadn't cried when he abandoned Flea, after he swore he would always keep her safe. He hadn't cried when he had been hurt countless times after that. It was a rough world for any son of a slave, and there was no room for weakness. But now the dams had broken, and there was nothing he could do to stop everything flowing out. He cried like he hadn't for a long time. He sobbed, feeling Aramis's hands holding him, great gasps not seeming to get quite enough air to his lungs. He sobbed for the agony in his back, he sobbed for the people who had died beside him. He cried for the woman who had breathed her last in his arms. He cried for the mother he had never known, for the friends he had left behind. He cried for the lady he could have loved. He cried for the life he just perhaps could have lived. He cried for the brothers who had welcomed him, who had been with him every dam step of the way. He cried for the relief of being out of that place, he cried for the relief of knowing he would never face that pain again, not on his own. He cried for his brothers, and his Captain, and the god dam country for saving him. He cried for the journey he had lived, and the journey still left to live.
When his eyes dried he lay against Aramis, not trusting himself to speak. Aramis apologised a thousand times, tears appearing in his own eyes. Porthos forgives him, doesn't even think about it. They sat in silence, just enjoying each other's company.
They had both suffered, and they would both take a while to recover. Porthos injured his bed rest with lots of wine and playing cards. Aramis sat by him, just absorbing his company. They sprung Athos out of the cell, Treville managing to convince the king that "The torturer must have felt terribly guilty and stabbed himself". Athos had never murdered a man in cold blood, and when Treville mentioned he only said that the torturer was not a man, he was a being of the devil. Porthos healed slowly, the scars fading. The scars on the mind do not heal so easily, but they had each other. The other to pick them up, to drink the worries away with, to sit and talk to from dusk till dawn to beat the nightmares. And Porthos does not hide his feelings any more, he doesn't force himself to be strong purely for survival. They are together now, and nothing would ever tear them apart.
They live. They fight, they drink, they get themselves in a thousand difficult situations and somehow survive it. They fall in love, and get their hearts broken, but they carry on. They are inseparable, until the end.
Until the very end.