A/N: A commenter correctly pointed out that I did not issue an appropriate content warning. That was my oversight, as this fic is crossposted and I tagged it correctly there, but not here. So this message is going on both chapters: CW/TW for self-injurious behavior and very Catholic ideas of guilt/penance. I have tried my best to not make the self harm graphic, but please note that it is an integral part to the fic.

The next morning dawns with the chirping of birds, and Aramis blinks grit from his eyes, the daylight coming both too soon and not quickly enough, as it always seems to after a sleepless night. All night long he tossed and turned, smearing his sheets with pink as he desperately sought a position where neither the heat nor the pain would assault him. Perhaps he snatched half an hour or so of sleep amidst it all, and his head pounds, needles behind his eyes.

He rises clumsily, the entire upper portion of his body aching miserably, but when he stands he glimpses the discipline cord in a slack bundle on the ground. With a grim smile he picks it up and places it back in its drawer, reminding himself that the pain he feels now is as necessary as it is temporary. It will set him to rights, and for that he can endure.

Aramis dresses himself lazily, lethargically. He, Athos, and Porthos have the day off, which is why they had gone to the godforsaken tavern the night before, and so Aramis can reasonably make himself scarce around the garrison. He feels shaky and not altogether in control of himself, and he cannot not trust his behavior around his friends until such feelings have waned.

More so than that, though, Aramis cannot bear to see Porthos again, still stewing in anger, cannot bear to feel the tension thrumming between them, raising a rift in their friendship entirely of Aramis's own making. He knows he should see it, needs to see it as both a chastisement and a reminder of why he must renew his devotion to discipline in the first place, but he is too weak, too scared. He spends the day milling aimlessly about Paris, pacing the filthy banks of the Seine, going anywhere where he is sure he will not see or be seen by those who could tempt him.

That night when he goes to a tavern for dinner far at the north end of Paris, where he knows Musketeers never frequent, he almost slips into his accursed habits when the serving girl grins coquettishly at him, brushes his shoulder as she refills his cup. He gazes at her, grins at her in that way, the way Porthos calls that smile of yours.

When Aramis realizes what he has done, he sinks his teeth so hard into the inside of his cheek that his next bite of bread leaves red stained on the crust. Perhaps he should have reconvened with Porthos that day, to fortify the self-control which so easily extinguishes itself like the most piteous of flames. As such, all Aramis can do is replay the events of the previous night over and over, focusing in on the cut on Porthos's sleeve, his stony avoidance of Aramis's gaze, the way he sneered his displeasure at saving Aramis's sorry skin again and again. He lets the memories wash over him until he is trembling, sloshing his wine so terribly that the serving girl comes again to check on him.

This time, though, he remains rigid at her touch and does not look at her, assuring her in clipped tones that he is quite alright. She backs away, sounding almost hurt, and Aramis takes a bleak sort of satisfaction in the way she shrinks from him, for it means all is not lost. Not yet.

Back in his rooms, Aramis draws the shutters and removes his clothing, the cold sweat of foreboding slithering across his spine even as the preparatory motions already feel familiar. He opens the drawer to retrieve the Bible and the cord, but sets aside the former. He needs no more encouragement from Scripture tonight to do what he must.

The cuts from last night have started to scab over, and Aramis regrets momentarily that he will have to reopen them. He takes one long, low, steadying breath, before snapping the cord down across his shoulders, releasing a cascade of fire as new and old wounds open and reopen beside each other. An involuntary, garbled scream sneaks out of his throat, and Aramis quickly stuffs his shirt between his teeth to stifle any further noise.

He strikes himself again and again, until hot tears stream down his cheeks, until his back burns so ferociously the pain is almost numbing, until his arms are sore and heavy he can hardly raise the cord. Aramis has lost count of how many lashes he has given himself, his world going gray and hazy as he floats in a trance, but still he finds the strength to deliver himself one more blow before his arms give out entirely. The cord slips from his limp fingers onto the desktop, and Aramis takes two steps toward his bed before collapsing face down upon it, pain and utter exhaustion dragging him under.

A raucous banging on Aramis's door, followed by Porthos's voice, drags Aramis from his soporose state to find it is morning, and he has far, far overslept. The banging grows louder and louder, the door rattling as Porthos works against the brittle, worthless lock, and Aramis feels all too keenly his lack of clothing, his wounds exposed to the air, and knows he does not have the time to dress to cover them. Frantically, he urges his sore and aching muscles to cooperate, working to scramble upward, turning his back to the wall and hitching the bedcover up to his chest with shaky fists as Porthos busts through the door, sending the wood rattling on its hinges.

"You better be alone in here, and you better start dreaming up a damn good reason why you've missed muster or I'll help Treville string you up from the–" Aramis knows he has been too slow to move, when Porthos pauses, sucks in a breath as though he has been punched in the gut. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Porthos!" Aramis cries. He presses his back up against the wall, working steadfastly to ignore the way the rough plaster digs like nettles into his abraded skin. Porthos stalks over to him, and he tries to shift away, winces as he does so. "My apologies, you know how irresponsible I can be when it comes to my beauty sleep, of course let me–Argh!" The rest of his words are choked off in a strangled cry as Porthos's firm hand grabs his neck, pressing down exactly on the rawest point of pain, as the man forcibly leans Aramis forward.

"You're hurt," he growls, voice jagged. "Aramis, who did this to you?"

Aramis shrugs him off. "No one did it to me."

He looks away when Porthos's eyes grow wide with a dawning realization. "Do you mean…"

Porthos is not stupid; Aramis would be foolish to think the man would not piece together the facts which lay strewn, clear as day, before him. Still, Aramis can try to distract him from his deciphering, or at the very least, not be there when everything clicks into place. "If you'll excuse me," he says quickly, throwing the covers off his chest. "I can't very well report to Treville looking like this, and I'd hate to keep him waiting any longer."

Porthos grabs his shoulder, palm splayed across his wounds, and pushes him back. "You're going nowhere looking like this."

Aramis hisses at the burning contact. "Will you please stop touching it?"

"Sorry," Porthos says, dropping his hand immediately. But then a critical, resolute look creeps into his features, and he narrows his eyes at Aramis, and hovers his hand above Aramis's shoulders once more. "Only if you tell me what happened."

Aramis lets out a strangled, humorless laugh. "I never took you for such a cruel man, Porthos." When Porthos's gaze remains staunchly grim, Aramis sighs and abandons his attempt at levity. "No one did this to me, my friend. Rest assured there is no one in Paris whom you need to track down and strangle, unless of course you wish to wrap your hands around my neck."

Porthos's hand drops again, this time hanging limp at his side. "Aramis?"

Aramis looks away, not caring to see whatever change is becoming written in the lines of his friend's face. "I got a bit… carried away, is all." He raises an arm to brush through his hair with his fingers, an annoyingly nervous habit, but stops when the action coaxes out an involuntary wince. "I was foolish, and you of all people should know that such a thing is very much in-character for me."

"You mean you did this?" Porthos's voice is low and soaked-through with a horror altogether inappropriate, as though Aramis has just admitted to something lethally serious like discovering a plot to poison the king, and not just this–a few cord-strokes too many. "Why?"

"It's an old trick I learned as a boy in the seminary," Aramis says, his voice almost wistful as he thinks of the raucous boy he once was, before being taught the manner of keeping at least some of his baser urges at bay. "A cord of discipline, they called it. A reminder to keep our focus on God when worldly matters try to pull it away." When Porthos still gapes at him, Aramis adds, "The monks used it after praying Compline every day. As a preventative, they said."

Perhaps this addition–meant as a palliative, for Aramis was never one to use the discipline cord so frequently–was the wrong thing to say, for Porthos is nearly rendered speechless. "But I… You…" The man splutters, veins pulsing in his temple and at his jaw. His hands clench to fists, and unclench again. "Aramis, you… God's sake, you're not a monk!"

"Perhaps it would be better for all of us if I had been," Aramis replies quietly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His voice is so hot that Aramis can nearly see sparks flying from his lips, and for a brief moment Aramis has to school himself to keep from shrinking away, has to remind himself that Porthos is his brother, and no matter his anger, he will not hurt Aramis. Porthos stomps over to the desk, where Aramis has so foolishly left the offending instrument, flopped and curled like a thick bundle of hay.

"There's blood on this. It's fresh." Porthos holds the handle disdainfully between two fingers, as though the act of touching it more fully might contaminate him. "Do you use this every night?"

"No, no." Aramis rushes to reassure him, wishing he could wipe away these sad looks which crawl like somber shadows across his friend's visage. "I hadn't used it in years."

Porthos lets the cord go, and it flops to the desk with a thud, like the limp body of a dead animal. "Why now, then?"

Aramis stares intently at the wall, at a point just beyond Porthos's head. "My focus, it seems, has drifted far off course, and it appears no amount of admonishments, nor brawls, nor threats to the lives of those I love has been enough to correct its deviation. So I had to resort to other–tried and true–methods."

"Is this about…" His voice becomes so strained and wretched that Aramis simply cannot help but to look at him, and the sheer agony which fills Porthos's eyes makes Aramis wish he could gouge out his own, just so he never sees such a thing again. "Oh God, Aramis, I never should have said those things to you."

"Peace, my dear friend." He keeps his voice quiet and mild, and holds up a conciliatory palm. "You should have said all those things and more. I clearly needed to hear them."

"Needed to hear them?" Porthos is breathing heavily now, frantically, and Aramis knows he is losing ground fast. "Why, so you could whip yourself bloody without so much as telling one of us?"

Aramis scoffs, even as he turns beseeching eyes upon his friend, begging the man to see sense. "Please, if you call that a whip then what do you call the great behemoth they use against criminals in the town square?"

In one wild motion, like a swirl of wind in a tempest, Porthos sweeps his arm across the desk, sending the cord crashing to the floor, and drops into the desk chair. He makes a whining, growling noise like his very insides are being ripped straight from his throat, buries his face in his hands, and begins to sob, openly and vocally, his shoulders shaking.

Aramis is on his feet, and at his friend's side, in a moment. "Porthos, my friend, what is it?" He reaches out to place a hand on the man's trembling shoulder, but flinches back when the man wrenches himself away from the contact. "What have I done to upset you so?"

Porthos lowers his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks even as he grits his teeth. "You know what you've done, you fucking–"

"Yes," Aramis says calmly, even as his stomach roils. "Yes, and that is why I am taking steps to control it, to curb my urges."

"My God, you really don't see it, do you?" Porthos scrubs the heel of his palm hurriedly, irritatedly, across his eyes and gives a sharp huff. "I don't care who you spend your nights with, Aramis. Warm the bed of every half-decent woman in Paris, I don't give a damn! But what I do care about," he says strickenly, his voice going soft, "is seeing you hurt. I can't bear it."

Porthos continues, and the quivering note in his voice is infinitely more painful than any barb of white-hot anger. "That's why I said the things I said. Was I scared about us getting hurt?" He shrugs. "Yeah, I mean I don't like it any more than the next man. But you, Aramis… I was scared. That man wanted to kill you. He would've killed you, if we weren't there."

"Porthos, you have such little faith in my combat skills," Aramis says, giving a wet little smile.

Porthos is not baited by the joke. "Don't," he says, and it is likely meant to be a command, but in Aramis's ears, all it sounds like is a low keen of sheer desperation. "God, if we weren't there…" He chokes on his words, shaking his head, but before Aramis can jump in to reassure him, Porthos continues. "That's what scares me, Aramis. All the times when I–we can't protect you. After all that's happened, after Savoy, I can't stand the thought of you all alone, battered and bleeding, and to think just that has been happening because of something I said."

Now, the desperation has fallen on him, and Aramis shakes his head despondently. "It's not your fault, brother," he says, and it sounds like he is begging. "You didn't raise the cord to my skin."

Porthos doesn't look at him. "I might as well have."

"I won't use it any more if it upsets you so," Aramis promises hoarsely. He reaches out again to touch Porthos's shoulder, and is gratified when this time the man does not shrink away. "I just… So many have suffered because of me, because of my weakness. I could not let the same fate befall you or Athos."

"Who, Aramis?" Porthos turns glistening eyes up at him. "Who has suffered because of you?"

Isabelle, he wants to say. His father, who can no longer identify himself in the village, for Aramis's willingness to produce a bastard heir has stained the family name through and through, the way wine soaks a tablecloth. His mother, her very life forfeit because of the sheer fact of Aramis's existence. But Porthos knows none of these things, so Aramis can say none of these things, He provides the example which he can.

"Twenty Musketeers who can never return to their families spring to mind." His voice sounds so very far away, even to his own ears. "Twenty one, if you count Marsac, wherever he's got off to."

"Oh, Aramis." Before Aramis knows it, Porthos's arms have enveloped him, pressing Aramis's wet face to his broad chest. A hand rests firmly at the back of Aramis's head, near the base of his skull. "Oh, my brother. It was not you who sent in the Savoyards."

"But I should have helped them," Aramis grits out, hot tears soaking his cheeks and the cambric of Porthos's baldric. "Allemand and Leblanc, they could have lived if only I weren't so damn useless! If only I had known so much as how to sew a fucking wound properly!"

Porthos's cheek comes to rest atop his head. "You know I will tell you as many times as I have to that you are not at fault, but please, Aramis, don't work yourself up over this now."

For a moment, they stay like this, Aramis swaddled and bound to Porthos's chest as he tries bitterly and futilely to reign himself in. The man's presence, blanketing him, encompassing him in the surety of firm breathes–in and out, in and out–is almost too much to bear, for it reminds Aramis of precisely what he had been seeking not to lose in the first place.

"That was the last time I used it." Aramis pulls away from the embrace, even as he still gasps around choked sobs. "The cord. My mind kept drifting as I studied Lemay's textbooks. I couldn't afford the distraction."

Porthos lets him go, but takes his cheek in a warm, calloused hand. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"You were new to the regiment, the both of you. There was enough for the two of you to worry about that didn't concern me."

"Afterward, then?" Porthos rubs the bone of Aramis's cheek with a long, broad stroke of the thumb. "Or now, Aramis? Why did you not tell us you were doing this now?"

"Because it is my penance," Aramis chokes out. "My burden to bear alone."

"That is where you are wrong, brother." Porthos shakes his head, and lets his hand fall away. "You take the second part so well to heart that you forget the first, I think."

Aramis blinks at him, through tear-stained confusion. "What?"

"All for one," Porthos says firmly, "and one for all. One half isn't complete without the other, yet you're trying to live on half a promise. That's just self-sacrifice and foolishness." He shakes his head, a bit of long-awaited jocularity seeping back into his countenance at last. "And pigheadedness and idiocy, and a whole set of other things."

Aramis laughs, ignoring the dampness of the sound. "Flattery will get you nowhere, dear friend."

Porthos's face grows serious again. "Promise me, Aramis." He takes Aramis's hand between the both of his, clutching it urgently as though it is an amulet, a talisman. Porthos's eyes and his voice are carved of sheer earnest intention. "Promise me that you will let me and Athos care for you the way you care for us."
"I will try, Porthos." Aramis raises their conjoined hands to his lips, and presses a sober kiss to the man's knuckles. "For you, you know I will do anything."

"I know that," he says, and draws Aramis close to press a tender kiss to his forehead. "Now just let me prove the same to you."