This is salvaged from an old draft and I'm afraid it doesn't have a beginning. For context, after a long day of fighting on the frontlines, and apparently a longer time of unspoken tension between Athos and d'Artagnan, the latter finds resolution as they wait for a wounded Porthos to wake up. Needless to say, angst ahead.

Later in the tent, as he sits by the head of Porthos's bed, wearing out his knuckles and trying his hardest to simply not think, a familiar hand settles itself at the back of his neck. The bouncing leg stills, and the stiff, aching shoulders begin to thaw under the touch. Suddenly d'Artagnan finds that he can close his eyes, and breathe.

This is Athos, standing silently behind him. Having his back. This is Athos, his best friend, the man he'd come to consider a brother. The Athos he needs, the one he misses.

And by God, does it feel good to be reminded that he's still here.

These burdens they carry – they get heavier the longer they stand still. But when he has to stop and take a breath, they're easier to handle if there are helping hands.

Every man has his demons.

d'Artagnan's hand creeps up and grabs Athos's on his neck, his head bowing down to his chest. How many of those is Athos carrying on his back?

He takes a breath and stiffens again, bending his sore back as he bows even more and curls onto himself, forehead pressed to his knees. This is one reason d'Artagnan never stands still. His hand tightens on Athos's, securing its grip as a thought comes to him, and shakes him: in this, he doesn't want ever want to be like Athos. And that's there, the truth of it - God forgive him - Athos forgive him - d'Artagnan fears tasting the depths of the grief that Athos dwells in, and all he can do to avoid it is to run.

Not to run away from demons.

Not to run away from fear.

But to run to avoid them. That's why he's always on the frontline.

They talk about fear and they talk of courage – what is courage, then, if not keeping oneself one step ahead of fear and dread? What is bravery, if not trampling them when they stand in the way? d'Artagnan refuses to be shamed for it, and he refuses to be called a hero because of it: it is not easy, but to him it is simple, being the way he is - being who he is.

It is a strange lesson to learn in life that accolades are only ever for other people.

A hero? Him?

No.

Other people are heroes.

Porthos is a hero – he glances down at his sleeping friend, reaching for Porthos's wrist even as he holds on to Athos with his other hand. Perhaps he, d'Artagnan, too, is a hero, for other people. But he will never – can never see himself as one.

It almost brings a smile to his face to think how much Porthos loves being lauded. He loves the glory that accompanies victory, and he's never been ashamed to show it. That he's a man that is so well-liked in the ranks speaks to the conflictual fact of his lack of hubris despite that. Humble would not be the first word d'Artagnan, or anyone, would use to describe Porthos, but he knows that deep down, Porthos doesn't, and never will, believe himself to be a hero any more than d'Artagnan considers himself one.

The two of them are always on the frontline. People are calling it valour, bravery. For them, it's survival. A way to preserve their sanity in the long haul. Lingering back is the worst thing they can imagine.

Athos's hand sliding off from his grip brings d'Artagnan back to himself.

"Did you eat?"

Athos's voice is like ash. Crumbled and dead.

d'Artagnan coughs out a chuckle. "Did you?"

Behind him, Athos stiffens.

And at that instinctive reaction of Athos to his question, d'Artagnan suddenly finds everything he's been trying to hold off crush into him in big, merciless waves: thoughts and feelings and images rush and attack and get jumbled like a replica of the morning's damned fight; of the frontline and the roars and screams of dying men, the clashing of metal and cries of rage, beast and men warring in a veil of thick smoke and - Porthos – but in that mayhem, Athos is not there. He's not there. The realization is cold, so cold and startling. D'Artagnan can't see him, his vision is so badly blurred now he can't tell if Athos is still standing next to him in the tent – but he's not there in the field by their side, as the Captain, one of the two remaining officers left on site, had left it to Porthos to lead the men into battle. And d'Artagnan wonders now for the first time, in horror-

-how long has Athos been forced to linger behind?

How heavy is the burden he's carrying, not having spoken a word of it in all this time, and how has he, d'Artagnan, never realized it-

"Breathe, d'Artagnan."

What?

"Breathe."

Somehow, he's on his feet and he's holding on to Athos like a lifeline.

Athos has a firm hold of him that makes him want to just let go and weep.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. Then he grips the man even tighter for a moment before forcing himself to let go, step back and run a hand across his eyes. Perhaps he's apologizing for not realizing sooner how difficult it must be to keep sending men out to fight while having to remain behind. To be forced to remain on the defense for so long, not against men - for that is easy - but against worry and fear and doubt. To have to sit still and steep in them as the stretches of waiting get too long, and d'Artagnan and Porthos -and Aramis- aren't around. Damn it, perhaps he's merely projecting; the most outwardly sign he's ever seen in Athos of those dreadful feelings is a few lines on his brow, and creases in the corners of his eyes. But isn't it strange that now, as d'Artagnan really looks at him, he notices the strands of silver on Athos's temples for the first time, and how much weight he seems to have lost, and how pale and gaunt he looks. It's in times like these that d'Artagnan remembers those cryptic words from many years ago, in response to his childish declaration of not being like Athos outside the Bastille on that rainy night – "You are. More than you know."

After all this time, he's still not clear on what Athos had meant by that. But in time, he's grown used to molding it in whichever way he pleased.

And oddly, it's become a comfort, those words. For good or for worse, it's a comfort, having a bit of Athos in him, always.

Flustered as he is now, he misses the way Athos's eyes narrow at his apology. When he looks up, the gimlet eyes are searching his face, concerned. d'Artagnan meets that gaze with practice ease, with relief at not having anything to hide, not having to hide from Athos, in moments like these.

"I'm sorry," he says again, calmer and looking him in the eye this time. For not being stronger. For not noticing what you're dealing with sooner.

"So am I," Athos mutters, after a long stretch of time.

It is an agreement reached. Damned if d'Artagnan knows over what, but something's been agreed to. They sit, their low stools next to Porthos's bed, their knees nearly touching. They quietly sip from the bowls of soup Athos's aide brings, and wait.

It is, d'Artagnan realizes, the first time he's ever felt any peace in this hell.

He cannot wait to share it with Porthos.

Thanks for reading, if there's still anyone here! It's been a while, and I really must re-watch the series, I'm sure it'll inspire me all over again. Perhaps there'll be time in 2022.