"You're getting heavier with the years." Porthos huffed as he and Aramis gently lead the swordsman to one of the two tall beds that were made ready for them in the guestroom.

"Or maybe you're only getting weaker." Athos answered and sighed in relief as his throbbing leg finally made contact with the soft material.

"Doubt that." The tall man laughed and sat down on a nearby chair. D'Artagnan followed them into the room with a tray full of food and wine. "Justine prepared this for us." He explained and set the tray down on the table before he took a piece of bread to chew on it. "It's still warm."

Aramis handed Athos some of the bread and broth but none of the wine because of the blood loss. "Only water for you, mon ami." Athos rolled his eyes, but he knew that Aramis' was right.

"Now, let me see to the rest of you." The medic raised an eyebrow of the other two, asking silently who wanted to be the first to be examined. Porthos, who knew how much Aramis' liked to fuss over them, stripped of his shirt first to show the marksman that there were truly nothing more than a few bruises. D'Artagnan showed the medic a gash on his arm, it was not deep and didn't require stitching, but he knew that Aramis would have gotten furious if he had hidden it from him.

The medic cleaned the wound nevertheless and put on a salve against infection.

"And what about you, huh?" Porthos asked from his place by the fire, a bowl full of broth in his hand.

"I'm fine." The marksman told them and already started to put his medical kit back into his saddlebag.

"Show it." Porthos demanded and got supporting nods from his brothers. Aramis sighed, but striped of his shirt nevertheless, exposing the gash on his shoulder blade to their youngest, who stood right behind him.

"Why haven't you said anything?! That needs some stitches." The Gascon was nearly touching the wound as Aramis turned around to him. "Don't touch it with your dirty hands. I would have tended to it on my own, no need to worry."

"And how exactly did you plan to stitch your back yourself? Besides, this should have been at least cleaned right after the attack! You're a fool, Aramis." Porthos was now standing again and examined the injurie that still bled sluggishly.

"It's not THAT bad." Aramis was about to put his shirt back on as a rough voice stopped him. "You said that too after you had broken your arm. Or that time you was so bad concussed you couldn't stand up without vomiting for days." Pierre put down a bucket with steaming water. His face was an unreadable mask as he pushed Aramis down on a chair and took a wet towel. "I've seen the blood on your shirt earlier. Knew you hadn't changed being a bloody fool." He muttered and started to clean the gash, without being asked to.

It burnt, but Aramis didn't show the pain once – even though the hands of his father were far from the gentleness from Constance. He also tried to supress the surprise at his father's behaviour, but from the look in Porthos' eyes he could tell that he wasn't successful at this.

His brothers watched the scene with interest as they slowly ate from the broth and drank wine – except Athos, who nipped on some water.

Aramis tensed up as the needle pushed through his skin, but didn't dare to let out a hiss of pain – and also held back the comment that his father probably wasn't doing it very neatly. On the other side he had not much of a choice left, as neither Porthos nor d'Artagnan were much better at stitching. Justine, she was quite good at it, but after their fight earlier he wouldn't have dared to ask her. So Pierre kept going with stitching up his son without speaking a single word. As he was ready he left as suddenly as he had come.

The marksman couldn't hold back a sigh as the door closed. "So what's up with you and your family huh? There's this strange tension between all of you." Porthos raised an eyebrow at his friend, who put his shirt back on and poured some wine into a glass.

"It's … a long story." He sighed before he gulped down half of the glasses content and sat down on the second bed.

"We have plenty of time." D'Artagnan pointed at Athos, who was starting to doze off.

Aramis bit the inside of his cheek, he really didn't want to talk about this.

"My father and I fought – I went to Paris. That's all." The Gascon snorted. "It had to be quite a bad fight when you left home because of it."

"I heard what he said to you as we came. Can't believe you really dared to come back here, after all you've done. What exactly have you done?"

Aramis drank more from the wine an shook his head. "This, mon ami, is really nothing of your concern. You all should learn to respect another's private life. I'm not poking in your background stories either."

"But you can. Ask and I well tell you everything you want to know." D'Artagnan shrugged, he had nothing he couldn't tell his brothers and he started to get frustrated with Aramis. What did he hide from them? What could have been so serious that he couldn't even tell his brothers about it?

The marksman gulped down his second glass of wine, before he stood up suddenly. "Mind your own business, d'Artagnan, will you?" Aramis hissed as he walked out of the room as anger overcame him to supress the shame, guilt and pain that he truly felt.

Porthos was already in the doorway, ready to run after their brother, as a calm voice stopped him. "Don't. Leave him alone, he will tell us when he's ready." It was Athos, who apparently hadn't been as asleep as they had thought. He may knew best about background stories, you didn't want to talk about but do anything to forget.

In the meanwhile, Aramis had left the house and walked through the vineyards. He tried to get his thoughts clear, but all that came to his mind, were all the fights – with his brothers and Justine – the loneliness he had felt as he had left, and the memories of why he had left.

He felt the burning in his eyes and wiped away the tears that started to escape.

He knew he acted childish and that frustrated him even more. He just ran away from his brothers. He shouldn't have done it, but he got so angry at them. Why did they even have to ask?
No, this was unfair towards them. They only were worried, he knew that. He would have asked the same questions if roles were switched. He was not angry at them and not at Justine, he was angry that they had to return to his his childhood home. That all these long forgotten memories had to come up again and that he had to explain himself. Not only had he to tell the story to his brothers some time, no he had to make peace with Justine and talk to his father.

He laughed bitterly. Pierre and he rarely talked, as every conversation they had ended with shouting, fists and broken furniture.