Athos was well acquainted with the pain of losing a sibling and prided himself on the ability to recognize the same loss from some distance away. It was not unsurprising to see the same ache of hardship suspended over d'Artagnan's head, but Athos had assumed it had been from the loss of a father, not the loss of a brother. He was, like he was on many other occasions, very wrong.

It was not he who realized it at first, however; it was Aramis and his quick witted mind, not Porthos's Court wired one or Athos's wine muddled one. It was on a rather unremarkable day late in autumn when the three had entered the garrison together early, as d'Artagnan had had nightshift (and they all well knew the misery that accompanied it the next morning) so Porthos came bearing bread, Aramis a smile, and Athos the wine.

D'Artagnan's form looked...wilted, for lack of a better word, and he was bent over slightly, his arms around his waist as if he were comforting himself. Athos's heart dropped straight out of his chest when he saw the desolation written across his friend's face.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis questioned, his brows furrowing in concern as d'Artagnan walked towards them with his head down, "what's the matter?" He knew better than to jest at the look on his youngest brother's face.

D'Artagnan brushed past them, his expression stormy, and they watched his back as he all but ran from the garrison and his friends.b

Aramis frowned. "What was that about, do you think?"

Porthos shrugged, but his brows were furrowed in concern. "well, you know d'Artagnan. He'll come to us later, likely, and tell us if he feels the need." When Aramis looked unconvinced, Porthos clapped him on the shoulder. "He knows he can talk to us."

Aramis shook his head but ripped off a chunk of the bread and stole the wine out of Athos's hand, pouring each of them a cup at their usual table.

But now that Aramis had pointed it out, Athos could recognize the look on his friend's face; it was a look he saw every time he glanced in a mirror, and it haunted him wherever he went.

It was guilt. More importantly, it was loss.

"I'm going after him," Aramis declared, standing, but Athos put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

"Leave it to me," he murmured in explanation, sweeping to his feet and from the garrison.

He followed d'Artagnan a few blocks, watching the young man stomp through the streets with his head down, his hair hiding his face. Athos knew that action- knew that that was d'Artagnan did to shield himself from the world.

He saw his young friend duck into a quiet pub that he liked to frequent when he was alone and, after waiting a few moments, entered too. He couldn't immediately see his young friend, the interior dark but cozy, the only lights from the fire in the corner and the lanterns overhead. Once his eyes had accustomed to the new lighting he scanned the room, finding d'Artagnan's hunched form in the corner, his back to the door.

The shock of brown, shaggy hair was hard to miss, though, and the curling act, like d'Artagnan wanted nothing more than to disappear.

He walked over to a maid and quietly asked for two mugs of their strongest, to deliver it to the table in the back, and she nodded as he walked away, taking even steps. D'Artagnan didn't acknowledge his presence, staring down at his full mug, so Athos sat down heavily across from his friend, maintaining the silence.

The maid delivered their drinks off after about five minutes and retreated, and still silence reigned.

It was d'Artagnan who broke it first, but Athos did had more practice at keeping his contemplative quiet. "It's today." It was a disorientated sounding murmur.

"What's today?" Athos' was equally as soft.

"The day that he died." D'Artagnan swirled his mug around a little, watching the liquid in it slosh around. Athos swallowed, his mouth dry. He hated it when he was right sometimes.

He didn't press, merely sat there across from his friend and took a sip of his drink, watching as d'Artagnan refused to even consider doing the same, at least to calm his nerves. Athos took another and watched as the younger man's shoulders slumped in a sigh, and wasn't surprise that when he looked up, his eyes seemed lost.

"Why can't I be good enough, Athos?"

Then, almost like a child, d'Artagnan ducked his head and hid his face as it crumpled, pressing it to his shoulder.

Athos was silent for a few more moments, and obligingly, d'Artagnan took a deep breath and continued. "I...there...there was another Charles, once. Another Charles d'Artagnan. And...he died." Another shuddering breath. "And then...I was born, and the Lord knows why my mother and father thought to name me after him, or maybe they just ran out of names or, or panicked, but…"

Athos swallowed again, going to wet his pallet and realizing he'd already drained his cup. He waved the maid over for another, and d'Artagnan forged on.

"And I- all my life it's been "oh, you'll make as fine a lad as your older brother" or "best you live up to the expectations set before you, boy. Your brother was a good soldier, one of the finest." And...I try to do that, still, even though there's no one to really live up to anym-" he stopped short, eyes wide as he took a few calming inhales. Exhale. Inhale.

Exhale.

"And I just didn't know how to deal with his death. I'd never met him, but I knew him through the stories that my parents and siblings told, and to me that seemed like enough. But part of the reason I wanted to become a musketeer was to finally live up to my namesake, and now...I guess I feel like…" Hesitation. "I know that I became a musketeer for me, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels like another person's goals and another person's life."

Athos sat in contemplation, debating with himself on his response. Finally he sat forward, wishing he had more wine, and said, "d'Artagnan...you do not have to live up to anyone." As he opened his mouth to argue, Athos held up a hand, and d'Artagnan grudgingly fell silent again. "It...If you do not want," there was a lump in his throat that he swallowed with difficulty, "if you do not wish to be a muskete-"

"No!" D'Artagnan growled, running his fingers through his hair and mussing it up in frustration. "That's not what I'm saying at all! I just-" he cut himself off and scowled, finally taking a sip of his drink. Athos folded his hands atop the table and gazed at d'Artagnan's eyes, which refused to meet his own.

"Then what is it, d'Artagnan?" Athos asked quietly but gently, flattening his palms out so they were pressed against the tabletop. "We wouldn't be...disappointed, if that's it. If you don't want this, then you don't want this. It won't make you any less."

To us went unsaid.

D'Artagnan shifted. "That's...not it, either," he attempted to explain, and Athos was relieved that his ploy to get his younger companion to calm down had worked, "I want to be here. I'm a natural at it. I have talent. I've settled down; I have my duties and my role. And...people who care about me now."

He took a deep breath. "Sometimes, especially today, I feel as though I'm…" More hesitation.

"You are not weak, d'Artagnan," Athos reminded quietly, and d'Artagnan took another heavy breath.

"I don't know, Athos. I feel...it is not sadness," he said, brows drawing together, "even when it should be. Does that...make me a bad person?"

"D'Artagnan," Athos said firmly but not unkindly as he forced the younger man's eyes to meet his own, "listen to me. You are not a bad person. You're a very good person. If you weren't, you wouldn't be a Musketeer, you wouldn't have won the King's favor, and you would not have us."

"Then why is that so many bad things happen?"

"I cannot presume to know why good things happen to the bad and bad things happen to the good," Athos said. "All I know is that you are upset and have not yet told me what is truly wrong."

D'Artagnan's anger drained away as soon as it had come, making his slump and take another melancholy sip of his drink. The quiet pub remained quiet, no one noticing (or kindly choosing not to) the outburst enough to look their way.

"It is the day of his death," d'Artagnan continued in a small voice, and Athos was reminded all too much that although d'Artagnan seemed like a man, he was barely out of boyhood. "And I do not know what to feel. I am saddened he is gone but happy to have lived up to what I believe his expectations might have been. It does not drive a knife for me to have never known him. My father would be ashamed, of course, that I didn't...feel anything for him, but I have never met him, and…"

More silence, but Athos didn't press, and sure enough d'Artagnan went on. "I don't miss him because...I have you now."

Oh.

Oh.

D'Artagnan, believing in him, Athos, believing he could protect him, enough to call him an older brother, enough to tell him without words he felt safe, enough to let him sit across a table and mourn, enough to let him into d'Artagnan's secret world, enough to let him see his pain.

It perhaps should not have been so surprising to the older Musketeer, this realization, but he'd been little brotherless, truly without a little brother (because although Porthos and Aramis acted like children, they could be just as mature as he, and had their own jaded webs they'd weaved) for so long that he'd forgotten what it felt to be...idolized. To be admired. To be looked up to.

He must have been silent for too long because d'Artagnan hung his head in shame, his bangs once again hiding his face.

No no no no no. Don't you see?! Don't you see it too, d'Artagnan? Athos thought, a smile bursting from his lips. Don't you see it too?

D'Artagnan must have glanced up and seen him smiling, because his head lifted and canted. "Athos?"

Athos smiled at him, this time softer. "D'Artagnan," he said. "The moment you came charging into my life, I was responsible for you. You had me when you turned your back on what you thought was right, saving someone you believed had murdered your family. You had me when you came storming into the garrison, challenging anyone and everyone. D'Artagnan," he smiled again because how do you not see how good a person you are? "You are a good person. You brought me back from the dead."

The smile that had formed on d'Artagnan's face as Athos had spoken faded. "You don't think he's very mad, do you? Charles? The other Charles?"

Athos sighed. D'Artagnan, you are a good person. Stop trying to find fault where there is none. "I don't think anyone could be mad at you for long, d'Artagnan, especially your brother. To be perfectly honest, I think he'd be glad that someone's looking out for your sorry ass when he couldn't do it for you."

That earned him a weak chuckle, and so he continued, a little more soberly. "But d'Artagnan, I will say it as many times as I need to, and I need you to hear me. His death is not your fault. You are not a replacement. You are a good person."

D'Artagnan's face crumpled and he turned away.

"Will you come?" He asked, voice wavering. "To…"

"Church? Of course."

What are brothers for, anyway? Athos thought, and smiled.