He could remember precisely the last time he had begged.
He'd begged God to wake up from what he'd hoped was a nightmare.
He'd been refused.
Now he is begging again, years and a different life later, in blissful forgetfulness of the time he'd been denied, because begging feels like the only course of action that is left. Begging, begging unconsciously, begging silently, begging relentlessly, please, please, one more breath - please, let me -
"Easy - easy, come 'ere. Come 'ere. Rest 'ere now. Rest a bit like this, there you go.."
Please.. please -
"There.. there, stay like that.. Don' move, hm?"
The rumble and the rubbing hand on his back. One breath, easier, a second breath.. easier..
"Good. Good."
He shivered, pressing his forehead harder against Porthos's shoulder.
A breath cut short on Porthos's own chest as Aramis beat him to pulling the blanket up over Athos's hunched back. Freezing - he was freezing and he'd folded his arms around himself and sweat and tears had long mixed together and he pressed his face against Porthos's solid chest once more, seeking, searching, scared beyond reason and age and experience and anything else that this fragile balance, this delicate moment of reprieve will be gone, and he'll be tossed right back into the storm, helpless as a ragdoll between the jaws of a rabid dog.
He shivered again, violently, and Porthos's arms tightened around him.
He moaned, low and long.
A cough.
A trigger.
Here it comes again.
"No- don't tense up now - you're doin' good, real good, brother.. Easy now -"
"Porth-"
No breath.
No breath-
Porth-!
Let this end.
Please-
Please, God, let this end.
/
"Is this it? Is there really nothing else to be done?"
" ... "
"You cannot possibly be telling me that we'll just sit here and watch until he - until he dies!"
"d'Artagnan-"
"There has to be something! There has to be something to help him - if nothing else, to - to ease this! To ease-"
- his suffering.
Suffering?
His passing.
Athos is dying.
He'd been dying before their very eyes for the last two weeks.
He is dying.
There's nothing to be done?
No.
No.
All that can be done has and is being done.
There is nothing else.
/
"Give him the laudanum."
"I don't dare -"
"Give it to him. Give it to him."
"You don't understand. It will -"
"It will help. It will give him relief. It will give him some reprieve from this - please, Aramis -"
"Don't you dare beg me! Don't you dare. Is this for him or for us, hm? Who do you really want this for, did you ever stop to think?"
"Aramis -"
"I may as well speed this up. I may as well contribute to my friend's death - is this really what you want?"
"No. No, I'm sorry -"
"Don't you dare force me. There are things beyond forgiving on this earth, d'Artagnan. Don't you dare force my hand."
/
"We're still 'ere."
"We all are."
He knows.
He still feels the touch of their hands.
Feels them on his forehead, pushing his hair back, feeling his fever, with never-diminishing hope.
Feels them on his face, holding his head so he can try to sip whatever they give him.
On his body, holding him, holding him this way and that way as he twists and jerks and arches with each relentless, cruel bout; holding him and trying to find which way to keep him that will give him a moment of relief, one easier breath, one full draw of air through the closed, infected throat, down into the drowning, starved lungs. A single inhalation has become the highest mountain to climb. A single whiff of freely taken air - they take it as one when Athos is granted one, and they hold all of their own for the rest of the time.
All for one.
/
Athos is all but gone.
d'Artagnan... all but gone.
Is he the one that is feeling dead inside or is this the death that has been stalking the corners of this room for the past three weeks, sneaking its way steadily into the young Musketeer's soul, sinking its claws, taking tasting bites, settling down for that unfathomable cavity that will be left behind once Athos is truly gone?
He is watching, silent and alone from a corner of the room. A rare moment of being left alone.
Cold.
He is cold, cold from the very core of his soul, stiff and tired and empty in a way he recalls from a time long ago. This feeling of standing upon a brink, of something he does not know. There will be a break between the before and the after and things will, soon, never be the same as they are now. He'd only been fourteen when he'd first felt this. Fourteen when he'd crouched in the corner of his parents' bedroom and watched his mother die. This is not how the death of his father had felt like.
That had been different.
This, too, is different.
Maman -
Snapping his eyes close, he draws two fingers onto them to rub away the images - the image of her mother on that last day, her sunken cheeks, her long, disarrayed hair, her chapped, quivering lips. He shakes his head, angry at the unexpected rise of these memories - he doesn't want to see this. Like uttering a curse he drops his hand sharply and looks up.
Athos.
Athos, dying.
Maman had been a brunette. Beautiful, tanned skin; she'd wear her raven hair in long braids, and strands would escape and she would swipe them back with her forearm while she'd knead the dough. The white of the flour and the black of her hair would make a bright, mischievous pair and in d'Artagnan's young, eager mind, the two had subconsciously come to symbolize siblings. Siblings like the older sister he could barely remember but for a laughter of delight in his ears, or the baby that soon would have come, the one to whom he would have been the best big brother. Flour on maman's jaw. The strand of hair curling behind her ear and the glint in her eye as she'd laughed and told him to go fetch his father - she'd gotten so big she couldn't get up from the ground without help. He'd smirk, noticing how maman would want father's help now, not his.
Athos..
What are these memories now - why is he recalling maman now?
He's walked to the bed somehow and taken hold of both of Athos's arms. The wrists in his grasp are so thin, they require special care to not accidentally snap. "Here, lean on me," he says, pulling the struggling man half-awkwardly to his lap. The words are a formality. Holding Athos this way or that way makes not the slightest difference to him now; d'Artagnan swallows hard, very hard, to push down the waves of anger rising even as he holds Athos up, the due gentleness all gone. Why is this happening?
Why has this happened; why is he forced to just be here, to watch, utterly unable to help? This inability to act is like a living creature sneaking its way through his insides, searing him and branding him- why, why has this happened, why? Uncaring for the tears rushing down his face he sniffs and twists the man in his arms none-too-gently in an effort to get him to look up. Athos - he needs to see Athos. Where is he? This isn't him - this wasted body he's holding, this sack of bones wrapped in sickly-translucent skin; no, he needs to see Athos, to ask him to come back, to make sure he's still here - "Athos. Athos - where are you," he whispers, pleadingly, desperately, shaking the sick man as though he's deliberately hiding Athos, "Athos-"
"D'Artagnan?"
He looks up, finds Aramis's inquiring gaze too close and only then realizes that he's holding Athos in a way that that cannot possibly be restful for the ailing man. The green eyes are blown wild, utterly confused, terrified. Horrified, d'Artagnan abruptly lets go. He rises, only to have Porthos quickly take over, and leaves the room, without looking back.