Tissue warning, more of a suggestion, you might not need it but I'm putting it here because writing this chapter left me emotionally exhausted and I couldn't complete it in one sitting. There were too many points where I had to break away. So well, discretion is advised.
He squinted against the shimmer of sunlight over water but didn't dare take his eyes off the giggling torpedo splashing headlong towards him. How the boy was not tipping out of the inflated tube around his waist was a mystery to d'Artagnan, one that he couldn't ponder over as Raoul reached out to him with a laugh.
"Didya see that Unca Charles? Did you see me? I made it all the way round!" the boy waved about his arms in a rare show of bouncy excitement, nearly catching the young man in the face with the brightly coloured inflated armbands.
"I saw that buddy," d'Artagnan dodged the overblown polyester and wiped the dark hair out of the boy's eyes, "you'll be a pro in no time."
"Like you?" there was awe in those green eyes and d'Artagnan felt heat rising to his face that had nothing to do with the sweltering day. He rubbed the back of his neck and grinned down at the boy.
"You'll be better," he said.
Raoul's eyes grew rounder and d'Artagnan had to wonder if this was once the face of his mentor over two decades ago, could Athos have possibly looked up to someone like that. He stowed away the thought to wheedle Porthos over it.
"Really?" the boy grinned wide.
"Maybe even better than your Dad," d'Artagnan threw in, pleased to see the suddenly serious expression that came on the small face.
Raoul shook his head with a sobriety far from his age then declared something only a child could.
"No one is better than my Dad," he said.
The sliding of glass doors caught their attention before d'Artagnan could reply to that and both of them grinned as Constance stepped out, adjusting her straw hat with one hand while her other carried a plate of sandwiches.
"I thought I told you two to come in hours ago," she said as she perched on the border of the pool and dipped her feet in the water.
D'Artagnan grabbed the boy under the arms and plopped him on the edge of the pool beside his fiancé.
"We got caught up," he said, "this one here made it around the pool all by himself."
Constance smiled as she reached back and snagged a towel from the pool chair. She wrapped it around the boy's shoulder and grinned.
"You learn fast don't you?" she placed a smaller towel on his head and began drying his hair.
The child squeaked and managed to pull his face out of the folds. Raoul smiled up at Constance and shrugged.
"Uncle Charles makes it easy to learn," he said.
The proud look from Constance had d'Artagnan looking away, he was pretty sure she could see his ears turning red. Trying to avoid the teasing he knew was coming his way, he focused on the activity going on beyond the glass doors. His gaze flicked from the excited children to their father as he entered the room.
It dawned on d'Artagnan that if Senor Alvaro was home, so would be Aramis. He had assumed that his brothers would join them after collecting their wayward friend. Their absence pricked at the worry lurking at the back of his mind and he was silently grateful when the other man came out to greet them.
"The others aren't coming?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Your friends have gone out to look for Aramis," Senor Alvaro frowned, "and before you ask, no, he hadn't been with me."
That prick of worry became a rock dropping down his stomach and d'Artagnan hurried out of the water, going for his mobile phone. He called each one of his brothers in turn, cursing silently under his breath when no one picked up.
"Did they say where they were going?" he asked.
Senor Alvaro shook his head before brightening abruptly.
"But they did seem to know where Aramis was," he said, "they took off before I could I ask where."
He paused halfway while he pulled on his shirt, there was one place Aramis would likely be, where he usually went to alone but d'Artagnan couldn't imagine him staying out up there all day. With a shake of his head he got himself dressed and turned to Constance.
"I think I should check on them," he said.
Constance was about to offer to come with him, he could read it in her expression before she could form the words but he shook his head.
"You both enjoy the madness in there," he nodded towards the four children that were chasing each other round the furniture and got out of the way in time before they made a mad dash for the pool, their mother following with a trey of snacks.
As Constance went to help Senora Rosa, d'Artagnan slipped out into the garden beyond and hurried over the path to the main building. He toyed with the idea of going after the other three but decided against it, it wouldn't do to have all of them scattered.
He had been pacing in the shadow of the porch for over an hour when he heard the clatter of hooves before the two horses came in sight. Paying no mind to the stable boy who had come out at the sound of approaching riders, d'Artagnan jogged up to meet his brothers.
Athos dismounted first then turned to Porthos who was on the other horse, sitting behind Aramis, holding him up by the arm that was wrapped across the younger man's chest. Aramis' head was dipped low, his chin resting on the edge of Porthos' arm.
"Is he alright?" d'Artagnan asked.
"d'Art?" Aramis' head shot up; smacking Porthos in the face with the back of his head. The big man cursed roundly as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"P'thos?" Aramis tried to turn around.
"Quit moving," Porthos held him tighter, "you're gonna fall off the saddle,"
Aramis stilled and stared at the neck of the horse, blinking as though surprised to find himself situated atop the animal.
"Come here," Athos reached out to help his befuddled brother out of the saddle.
Aramis squeezed his eyes shut at the movement and held onto Athos' shoulder even as he came to stand. D'Artagnan stepped up to steady the man when he swayed, his own eyes widening at the sight of dust staining the clothes of his brothers and the tiny red flecks dried on Athos' shirt .
"Some things needed to be aired," Athos answered his unasked question.
Aramis' smile was soft and fleeting when he met d'Artagnan's gaze. His eyes were slightly glazed over and creased at the corners as though trying to ward off pain, but they were no longer evading.
"I stopped," Aramis said, "I was stopped,"
Vague as it was d'Artagnan was surprised how much it made sense to him. He glanced to the two men who had come to flank Aramis on either side before his eyes returned to the man in front of him. Everything wasn't right, not yet, but it was a start.
"You have no idea how happy that makes me," d'Artagnan told his friend.
He hadn't expected Aramis to reach across the small distance between them and pull him in an embrace. The younger of the two froze in surprise.
It had been the norm, before, before everything went into a tailspin. Aramis cuffing him upside the head, throwing an arm across his shoulders or leaning against him had been a common occurrence that he had only missed when his brother had pulled away.
This spontaneous embrace was like meeting his friend after months of absence.
D'Artagnan swallowed thickly, his eyes burning with sudden moisture, and wrapped his arms around Aramis in return; clutching the back of sweat soaked shirt in a bruising grip.
"I've missed you brother," he said.
He eased down in the chair, teeth clenched against the pain beating with the pulse in his head. The beep of the air conditioner switching on promised relief and he tried not to cringe when his chair was tugged to be shifted into the range of the cool air.
"Better?" Porthos asked.
"Much," he offered his friend a tight smile.
Porthos crouched before him, one hand coming to rest on Aramis' knee and the other on his arm as he studied his friend.
"Doesn't look like it," he said.
Aramis felt the tension in the joints of his shoulders melt at the concern in those dark eyes focused on him. He patted the large hand on his arm even as he took the glass d'Artagnan offered him. He drank the liquid in one go, not even realizing what it tasted like. It was wet and tepid and that was enough for his parched throat.
The younger man immediately refilled the glass and Aramis couldn't drain it fast enough; a whine of protest escaped him when the liquid was pulled out of his reach.
"You'll get sick drinking like that," Athos held the glass away.
There was truth in those words but that didn't mean he had to like it. Aramis licked his lips, flinching when he hit the raw spots that were cracked. Toeing off his shoes he let his legs sprawl before him and rested his head back against the edge of the backrest. Pulling in a steadying breath, he covered his sore eyes with his hand.
"I knew riding a horse was a bad idea," Aramis said, "I can still feel the pulse of their hooves beating against my head."
"That would be the wine," Porthos supplied as he pulled away the hand from his eyes and placed a folded damp cloth on them instead.
Aramis hummed in appreciation.
"And the heat," Athos added as he handed him back the glass.
Using the damp cloth to wipe his face, Aramis placed it on the back of his neck before he took a mouthful from the glass. He had to use some deep reserve of self-restraint to not gulp it all down, not with Athos glaring at him from where he stood beside him.
This time around he actually tasted the rehydration salts d'Artagnan had mixed in the water.
"That's awful," he said.
"You're welcome," d'Artagnan grinned.
Refraining from rolling his eyes in deference to his headache, Aramis settled on a glare instead and downed the rest of the contents of the glass. He let his head drop back again and pressed the inner corner of his eyes in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing behind them.
He could still see the scorching sunlight on the back of his eyelids, it ebbed and flowed, glowing and flashing against the darkness…
….the firelight ripples, the glow moves and shifts, subtle but there like an ocean current. He can see it in the dip of the shadows and in the flickering sparks of brightness. The roof beams crash to the ground and the spray of embers makes his brothers change direction.
He can't move.
They hold onto each other as they stumble to the door. A tug, a shove, it won't budge. They are trying to break it open, tripping over their feet before hitting the thick wood that would not give way.
Once,
Twice.
His throat is dry like he is the one breathing in the smoke.
They're giving up, they're sliding down and the door is still closed. Aramis reaches out, he has to help them, he has to open that door….
…A grip on his shoulder stopped him.
Aramis frowned when he found himself face to face with Athos and beyond him was Porthos who had grasped his hand. He looked from one man to the other and tried to hold on to the present. The fear was too close to the surface, it was trailing gooseflesh on his skin and the helplessness was a sour taste in his mouth.
He felt Athos' hand gently turning his face to catch his eyes.
"What's wrong Aramis?" he asked.
"The door Athos, it won't open," it unclogged from his throat and slipped past his lips before he could stop it.
He frowned when Aramis' hand shook as he raised it again to press the corners of his eyes. Out of the sunlight and drained of his fight his friend looked worse, as if the exhaustion at his heels had finally caught up with him and run him over.
Porthos knew he was hovering but he could not pull his gaze away from the man who was draped limp over the chair like a wet noodle. The image of Aramis asking them not to leave him was like a raw wound in his chest, he simply wanted to wipe that fear out of his brother's mind.
Despite his scrutiny he startled when Aramis gasped and surged to his feet, hand outstretched. Athos grabbed their friend by the shoulder lest he tumbled forward and Porthos held onto the seeking hand. Aramis had that faraway look in his eyes that had been common during his days at the hospital, his breaths coming shallow and choppy as he shook his head.
Athos placed a hand on the side his face and turned it slowly to meet the hazy brown eyes.
"What's wrong Aramis?" he asked.
A sound like a chocked sob escaped from the man as his fingers tightened around Porthos' hand.
"The door Athos, it won't open," Aramis said.
It hit him like a kick to the gut and Porthos clutched his friend's hand tight enough to feel the bones shift. But Aramis didn't even flinch; he pulled in a shuddering breath and buried his free hand in his hair, pulling at the loose curls. Tears clung to his eyelashes as he blinked and bit his lower lip.
"I can't un-see it," Aramis pulled away his hand from Porthos and clenched it in a fist by his side, "Every damn time, it just sneaks up – and I can't – I couldn't do anything –"
Porthos met Athos' gaze and saw his own horror reflected in his face. They hadn't told anyone about the details of that fire, if both of them had tended to leave the doors open of the rooms they occupied, if the click of a door lock made them sit straighter, none had noticed it besides the two of them.
"You were trapped – and I couldn't – couldn't help –" Aramis groaned as he rubbed at his chest and stumbled to sit on the edge of his bed, one hand still pulling at his hair.
It was d'Artagnan who stepped up to sit next to the man. Porthos realized his feet were suddenly too heavy to move and he glanced back to Athos to find him rooted to the spot. Their youngest rubbed Aramis' back as the man leaned on his fisted hands and bent forward in an effort to catch a breath.
"It's over Aramis, we're here, were safe," d'Artagnan murmured, "we're all here, we're all safe."
Porthos wondered if the younger man even realized that he had taken up the litany that he had often used to soothe a confused Aramis in his early days of recovery, days that left their brother wondering about reality where only d'Artagnan had been his proof of the truth. Porthos closed his eyes as a realization cut him to the quick; they had never asked Aramis why he was so convinced about their deaths.
Aramis nodded slowly, his hands fisted tight at his side and buried at the edge of the mattress he was perched on.
"I'm fine," he said quietly, "it passes; it's alright."
"It passes?" Athos' voice was sharp, "Are you telling me this had happened before?"
Aramis' small nod to the floor had Porthos clenching his teeth.
"How many times?" Athos demanded.
Aramis shrugged a shoulder and Porthos felt a lump rising to his throat. He couldn't believe how far apart they had drifted.
"Why did you not –?"
"Athos," d'Artagnan's soft reprimand stopped the inquiry.
Porthos saw the shake of his head that d'Artagnan sent their way before his eyes turned pointedly over to Aramis. The big man felt his breath hitch at the slumped shoulders and the dipped head that met his gaze; it was almost as if Aramis wanted to disappear.
Crossing the short distance between them Porthos sat down on his other side and wrapped his arm around the hunched shoulders. He took Aramis' hand by the wrist, swiping the pad of his thumb over the racing pulse in an effort to ease open the painfully clenched fist.
"We just wish you'd told us," his said softly.
"I didn't want you to – be reminded of it," Aramis breathed out.
"So you decided to hide the fact that you were having panic attacks?" Athos raised a brow.
Aramis' head shot up, eyes flashing. The change was swift enough to leave Porthos' head spinning and to his dismay Athos was meeting the challenging glare with his own.
"I had it under control,"
"Clearly,"
"How do you even know about the door?" Porthos had to ask.
Aramis closed his eyes with a grimace, swallowing a few times before he cleared his throat.
"There were cameras at the warehouse," he said, "after Senior – he had brought her there – after he –"
Porthos' arm tightened around his friend who shook his head as if trying to dislodge the image from his mind. He was about to tell him to forget about it when Athos crouched before the quivering man.
"You have to say it Aramis," his voice was infinitely gentle.
Their friend jerked his head like he was warding off an irritating housefly. Porthos saw the silent plea to let it go that d'Artagnan was sending the two of them, his hand clenched in a fist at the back of Aramis' shirt and wet eyes begging them to back off.
"Who did he have with him Aramis? What did he do?" Athos' voice was soft yet firm.
"Isabelle," it was wrangled out of his throat in a low groan, "he had Isabelle with him and he murdered her to punish me,"
Aramis swayed where he sat; head down and eyes clenched shut as he gulped air like he was drowning.
"And how did you know about us?" Athos prodded.
"He had a laptop," those brown eyes opened and stared past Athos, "it was my fault because I did not let him frame Porthos for murder,"
He remembered, Porthos could never forget the cold violence in his brother when had threatened Officer Poupart. His arm tightened reflexively around Aramis but the man had stilled, eerily so.
"I saw you two trapped in there. Saw you struggle. Saw you give in. Saw you minutes away from being burned alive," his head dropped again, voice coming out hoarse, "I couldn't do anything to help you and it was all my fault."
For long minutes no one spoke. The guilt and anguish and sheer helplessness that rolled off of Aramis thickened the air around them so much that Porthos had to audibly inhale in order to make his lungs work. There was so much he wanted to say it left his mind blank, Porthos searched to find words as he tried to unblock his throat.
It was Athos who reached up and grasped the side of Aramis' neck, easing his head up. The younger man had drawn blood from where he was biting his lip.
"Aramis look at me," Athos waited until his demand was met, "We are alive and what happened was not in any way your fault."
Although he nodded Porthos had a feeling the man wouldn't be so easily convinced. His attention was drawn to their youngest when d'Artagnan sniffed loudly and edged closer to Aramis.
"At least now I know why you were so convinced about their deaths," he said thickly.
The man between them stiffened imperceptibly.
" 'Mis?" Porthos did not like the way colour suddenly leeched from his brother's face, " 'Mis what is it?""
"It wasn't that," Aramis said, "after I – I went to the warehouse and I saw the – after the fire they rolled out – I saw the body bags –" he swallowed convulsively.
Aramis shot up to his feet and staggered out of their reach, for a second Porthos feared he was running away but then he saw the way his brother had his hand clasped over his mouth. Before any of them could react Aramis had stumbled out of the room and dashed to the bathroom.
The sound of his violent retching echoed out to them.
The lights were dimmed, the curtains drawn and even if the shower hadn't really helped with the wiped out quivering in his very bones at least he was clean. The other two had gone off to shower and change and he knew soon they'd be descending on him with food to make up for the meals he had missed. For now Aramis relished the comfortable haze he was floating in and frowned when he was poked in the side.
"Drink," d'Artagnan spoke from beside him.
Aramis obliged, automatically bringing the glass in his hand to his lips and taking a sip to appease his self-appointed nanny. He offered a sideways glare to the younger man who offered him an unrepentant smile.
"I think I'm intelligent enough to know that I have to drink to keep hydrated," he said.
D'Artagnan nodded as he squirmed against the pillow at his back. The two of them were sitting up against the headboard of Aramis' bed, legs outstretched and pretending to watch the movie the younger man had playing on his laptop.
Another poke;
"Drink,"
"You are the worst mother-hen there is,"
"Should I sic Constance on you?" d'Artagnan said, "I'm sure she'll find a way to lay her hands on an IV to get you to take fluids,"
Aramis huffed and straightened a bit, his sides were aching from the dry heaving that had finally stopped about half an hour ago. He took the ordered sip of water and regarded the younger man, noting the way d'Artagnan was pointedly avoiding looking his way.
He pulled his legs up and balanced the glass on his knee.
"I wanted to apologize," said Aramis.
"Don't apologize, just drink,"
"Not for that," Aramis placed the glass on the bedside table and turned his head to fully face his young friend, "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you found out about Athos' and Porthos' deaths."
D'Artagnan stilled.
"I'm sorry that you had to face that alone."
D'Artagnan slammed the laptop shut and glared at him.
"You want to apologize? What if I hadn't woken up when I did?" d'Artagnan said, "What if we never got to you on time? You could have died Aramis, bled out in your father's study. They weren't dead but you could've been."
Aramis looked his young friend in the eye, if ever there was a person to whom he owed an explanation of those events it was him.
"I knew about that possibility when I went down that road," he replied honestly.
"When you were sure they were dead, did you want to follow them Aramis?" d'Artagnan pinned him with his gaze.
He had to admit to himself, the brashness of his friend was a relief. Aramis knew if there was to be a chance of salvaging what they had, he would have to come clean. He did not look away from the hard dark eyes boring into him.
"It wasn't about if I wanted to," Aramis said, "I was a dead man walking and I was at peace with it."
D'Artagnan nodded, pursed his lips and looked away but not before Aramis could miss the wet sheen over his eyes. The way the younger man sat up and away from the headboard, crossing his legs and hunching over the laptop in his grasp broke something in Aramis. It was painful to watch the kid in pain and he found himself matching the younger man's shift in position to sit shoulder to shoulder with him.
"Do you remember what I told you about people like Marsac and I?" Aramis asked, "That we were different, we needed someone to light our way?"
A jerky nod was the only reply.
"Marsac lost his way after SAVOY and I was left in the dark with Athos and Porthos gone," Aramis forced himself to keep his thoughts steady; it wouldn't do to fall through the cracks that littered his mind, not at the moment. He dared not glance at the younger man who had tensed beside him and went on.
"I'm not condoning our actions but I want you to know how we got to that point," he said, "Athos and Porthos were gone–"
"And what about me?" d'Artagnan turned to him with red rimmed eyes, "Did you ever think that if they were truly dead that I would wake up in the morning in a world where none of you were alive? Did you consider the possibility that I may need you? Wasn't I worth it for you stick around?"
Aramis took a deep breath and met the accusing glare evenly.
"Athos and Porthos were gone but you weren't," he picked up his thought, "Senior had crossed a line, he was taking out the people in my life, my only thought was to take him out before he got to anyone else. You were in the crosshairs, so was Constance and Lemay and –"
D'Artagnan started to speak but Aramis shook his head.
"When I left, you were supposed to sleep through the night and by morning more people would have lost their lives," he looked down at his hands in his lap, "I saw no other way except the one I took to save everyone. If I knew Porthos and Athos were alive I might not have chosen that path. "
He looked up to meet his brother's gaze.
"I wasn't thinking straight d'Artagnan," Aramis said, "I had lost my way with those two gone but I didn't forget where I was coming from."
He hoped with all his heart that his friend could see that he mattered, that he hadn't stopped thinking about their youngest even in that pit of despair. Aramis hoped d'Artagnan could see that he had been the light he was willing to die for to keep it from extinguishing.
The arms that were suddenly thrown around his neck were a surprise but the sob muffled against his shoulder wasn't. D'Artagnan held him tightly, soaking his shirt with tears that fell hard and fast.
"Don't ever do that again Aramis, it was horrible," he choked out, "we didn't even know how bad you were hurt, and there was so much blood and then you heart stopped, you stupid idiot you died!"
"Still here d'Art," Aramis held boy flush against him, "I'm still alive, still here,"
"Don't do that again," d'Artagnan told him, "don't ever do that again,"
He could not, with clear conscious, promise him that. If there was ever again a chance to save the younger man's life at the cost of his own Aramis knew what his choice would be. The three of them had years to learn and accept what place they held in each other's lives and he knew d'Artagnan would come to the realization soon enough.
So Aramis didn't say a word and decided to just hold his brother up as long as the younger man needed it.
He knew it was a bad idea, had voiced it as much.
Board games had been and will always be a bad idea as far as Athos was concerned; he had learned this wisdom the hard way. As children he had found in Porthos an exciting companion to play chess with, the only problem in their rousing bouts was Aramis. He would sit enraptured for the first ten minutes and then start giving helpful pointers until Porthos would be strangling him amidst the board and the pieces.
They had tried to engage Aramis in a game many times but it was annoying the way he lost interest half way through. Be it chess or draughts, he'd be whining for something to do fifteen minutes into the board.
"Go to jail, move directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred," d'Artagnan read the card, placed it in the center of the board and jabbed it with a finger, "alright, how are you doing this Porthos?"
"Doing what?"
"Taking all the good cards,"
"It's called luck,"
"You have both 'get out of jail free' cards."
"And…?"
"And you don't even need them; I've been to the jail most,"
"And we're all so proud of you." Aramis spoke up from where he was lounging against the sofa.
D'Artagnan glared at him before chucking the card at his head.
"Can we get on with it? I believe its Raoul's turn," Constance adjusted her banker's cap pointedly.
Athos watched his son roll the dice then move along his piece to stop at the free parking; he was landing on his own property and avoiding the 'dangerous' ones with a scary precision. The neat division of money and the property cards splayed out before the boy reminded him of Thomas and to his surprise, for the first time after his brother's death, Athos felt a smile tugging at his lips at the thought of him.
He took his turn with that same smile and landed on the station.
"You're on my train station," Porthos announced happily.
"They're all your train stations," Athos pointed out.
He wasn't the only one paying to Porthos, Aramis followed him but the big man himself was picking up another chance card in the next move.
"Looks like I won at the Vanity Fair," he showed them the words with a grin.
D'Artagnan groaned as Porthos collected the prize money from Constance.
"Are you going to cough up the bail money or will you be paying in turns," she asked the young man.
Grumbling under his breath d'Artagnan paid the money and took his turn. In his third turn he met the policeman on the other end.
Aramis snickered.
Porthos laughed.
Monopoly pieces went flying.
And some expletives were echoed that had Athos covering his son's ears.
He plucked Raoul up from the floor, out of the accidental demolition crew and settled the boy on his hip as he glared at the two men rolling around in a mass of limbs at his feet. Constance and Aramis had wisely retreated onto the sofa and were making bets with the fake money. Athos would have broken up the fight sooner if it wasn't for the giggling mass in his arms, as it was he let his brothers sit up in their own time.
"I hate those pointy elbows," Porthos grumbled as he rubbed his stomach.
Aramis grinned when Constance rolled her eyes and handed him some fake cash.
"Did you bet against me?" Porthos asked.
"Never," Aramis shook his head, "but I knew those pointy elbows would get you,"
"Pup's a scraper,"
"Not a pup," d'Artagnan kicked his leg from where he was sprawled on the floor.
Athos picked up the quartet of stuffed toys lined on the sofa and turned to the men on the floor.
"Clean up the mess gentlemen, while I put Raoul to bed," he said.
"Bed time story!" Raoul gave a little jump.
"They're that good huh?" d'Artagnan sat up.
"Dad's the best storyteller," Raoul gave an enthusiastic nod.
He had imagined he'd be embarrassed in such a situation but Athos found out that he was not. The honest praise from his son, over such a small matter as this, stirred warmth in his chest and teased a proud smile out of him.
"Guess we're missing the fun," Porthos grinned, "can we sit in?"
"Porthos…"
"Can they?" Raoul's eyes were wide and pleading and Athos wondered if d'Artagnan was giving him lessons in this as well, "Can they listen to the story too?" Raoul asked tangling his fingers in Athos' shirt.
"The mess…"
"We've got this," Constance spoke up.
In record time the four of them had set everything right and stowed in its place. As Athos took his place on the sofa with his son curled into his side and he had to wonder when he had become such a pushover. His gaze traveled from Constance and d'Artagnan settling on the sofa across him and Porthos and Aramis getting comfortable on the floor with their backs against it; it dawned on Athos that he would always be a pushover for these people.
"Tell them the dragons' story Dad," Raoul grinned, "please? It's the best. Please tell it from the start."
Now that had Athos' face heating up. It was a story of his own creation and one that he would happily never share with his brothers. He was about to protest and redirect like the tactician that he was but the plea was picked up by his impromptu audience.
"Fine, fine," Athos shook his head at the grinning faces and braced himself.
"In a land of mountains in a far off village," Raoul prompted him eagerly.
Athos couldn't believe he was doing this.
"In a land of mountains in a far off village there were two young dragons who were best friends," he smoothed the hair from his son's face and settled back, "they studied together and played together and lived together in the highest cave of the mountain. And they were called A'sol and Petra,"
Athos dared not glance at his friends and forced himself to continue.
"Petra was the strongest in all the villages of the valley, his shimmering green scales could withstand any weapon and he could mow down armies of hundreds in a single swoop, but he was the gentlest creature at heart –"
"A big teddy bear actually," Aramis said, "fond of collecting strays and taking care of them."
Athos glanced his way and saw his soft smile, but he did not look to Porthos.
"Indeed, he was powerful but he only used his power to protect those who couldn't protect themselves," Athos said, "and he was best friends with A'sol, a quiet, blue scaled dragon fond of the cold of his cave –"
"Because he had had the warmest heart there was," Porthos spoke up.
"You know this story Uncle Porthos?" Raoul grinned at him, "Did you know A'sol loved his books so much that he had collected a mountain full of them?"
Athos could feel his ears burning and did his best not to shift his weight where he sat.
"I know the story a little," Porthos said, "I know A'sol acted like he enjoyed his alone time with his books but he was the most caring dragon of all and the most honourable,"
"He couldn't stand by and watch someone get treated wronged," Aramis said.
"And he was a great teacher too," d'Artagnan added.
"Would have been a great teacher if he had any students," Athos said pointedly, "which he didn't because he was still a young dragon with ways to go."
D'Artagnan made an 'oh' face and ducked his head.
Athos couldn't help but shake his head at the eager interruptions.
"Anyway," he said, "One day A'sol and Petra went to the academy for their daily lessons and found an odd hatchling there. It was a scrawny, excited little thing that was mostly feathers."
"And annoyingly cheerful," Porthos grinned.
"Clueless in its eagerness," Athos nodded to him.
"A bit wild," Porthos added.
"And irresponsible," Athos agreed.
"I think we know enough about this hatchling," Aramis rolled his eyes and slapped at d'Artagnan's foot that was nudging him. Constance giggled and Athos shared a grin with Porthos.
"It was a young phoenix," Raoul announced excitedly.
The silence was immediate; Athos tried not to think about it and made sure his voice didn't waver. He knew it was his son's favorite part and though he had never imagined to share this story with the rest of them, Athos knew what he said next would matter more than a bedtime story ever could.
"The phoenix," Raoul urged him.
"Yes, the phoenix, it was a fire bird, beyond the beautiful but deadly sharp red feathers was a healing fire," Athos kept his eyes on his son, "it could heal the ill, mend the wounds and repair broken hearts; and when that fire would burn through the phoenix to help those around it, that same fire would then spark the bird to rise back from its ashes. It was only natural that all the people in the village wanted to be near this hatchling."
He smiled for the sake of the boy snuggled in his side and hoped the child wasn't able to hear his racing heart. Athos glanced to the sofa across and found three pair of wet eyes, but the eyes that he sought were staring fixedly on the floor.
He desperately hoped that he hadn't made a mistake that would push Aramis further away from them. Athos didn't like the way he didn't respond to arm that Porthos had placed around his shoulder, the dark bent head wasn't rising to meet his gaze.
"The phoenix was called Artemis," Raoul told the group as if his father had forgotten where the tale went from there, "and a wizard had cursed him,"
Aramis flinched then.
"Maybe we should…" Constance made to stand.
"No," the whispered word from Aramis stopped her.
He cleared his throat and looked to Athos; the smile on his face was bright but did not reach his dark eyes.
"Please continue, we want to know what happened," he said.
"Aramis…" Porthos began.
"I want to hear the story," he said.
And Athos hoped that he would take the same message from this story that he had wanted his son to learn from it. He nodded to himself and began again.
"Alright then, this wizard had cursed the young phoenix so that every time someone got too close to the hatchling, it would burst into flames." Athos cleared his throat, "now if there was nothing to heal, the fire couldn't do much but burn those in its range. The villagers soon realized how the curse worked and began withdrawing from the phoenix. But the dragons did not."
"Because they were brothers!" Raoul exclaimed.
"Yes, the dragons are creatures of fire just like the phoenix, they weren't afraid of the flames because the fire that they each bore made them brothers," Athos said, "and the dragons decided to help Artemis to defeat the wizard so that he could be free of his curse. They searched for years, in the mountains near and far until one day they met The Lady."
"She knew what to do," Raoul yawned and pressed closer to him, "she helped,"
"The Lady told them of a Dragon-born wizard," Athos nodded, "she told them that he lived in the land of Gascony and that without him the three of them could never be as strong as they could be."
"The good wizard was smart and powerful," Raoul told the small group and Athos could see d'Artagnan flush pink, "and brave," Raoul went on before he yawned widely, "and silly."
Porthos snorted and d'Artagnan huffed.
"I think that's enough for tonight," Athos gathered the sleepy child, "You need to be in bed."
"But we stopped here the last time," Raoul rubbed his eyes.
"Then we can all listen ahead together next time around," Constance smiled, "how about I tuck you in tonight?"
Athos raised a brow at the sudden suggestion but after a glance towards his brothers, he didn't need an explanation. Porthos' lips were pursed in a thin line of displeasure and d'Artagnan was staring between the big man's stiff posture to the deliberately loose one of Aramis.
It was that fake smile, shaky around the edges on Aramis face that spiked worry in Athos' heart.
He waited.
And hugged Raoul just a little tighter when the boy bid him goodnight; smiled at Constance in gratitude for her intuition and placed a hand on d'Artagnan's knee to keep him in place when he seemed unsure of staying back with them. And from corner of his eye Porthos watched Aramis, watched the façade the man beside him put up; hating the blows that had formed the mask for his friend and hating the blows that had fractured it.
"I think I should hit the bed as well," Aramis said.
"And lay there staring at the ceiling?" Porthos asked.
"That's not –" Aramis searched for the right word, "necessary,"
"So you could stay here and we could talk,"
"About what?"
"About the fact that your hands are shaking for starters," Porthos was not going to back down.
Aramis looked down in surprise and clenched his trembling fingers into fists, his jaw twitched in annoyance of being caught out as he glared back at Porthos. But the challenge in his eyes softened at whatever he saw in the big man's face and Porthos held onto that as a hope that all was not lost.
"I'm sorry if the story upset you," Athos joined them on the floor.
"It didn't," Aramis shook his head, "it was –"
"Lacking in originality?" Porthos smiled.
"You could do with better names Athos," d'Artagnan added, "what's my name in there by the way?"
"You don't have a name in the story because you are not in it," Athos smirked, "the characters are purely the product of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental,"
"Should have given the disclaimer at the start mon frère," Aramis smile was a flash as he turned to Porthos in a mock serious tone, "now am I allowed to go to bed?"
"Not before you tell me what's eating at you,"
"Porthos…"
"Something pricked at you in that story, you're hurting Aramis I need to know what it is," Porthos cut him off, "I can't – we can't help you until we know what's wrong."
"What do you want me to say? That my past is still a bleeding wound in my mind? That I just realized what our friendship had cost you all? That how much you've suffered by being near me?" Aramis voice rose before dropping, "you shared the burden of my curse by keeping me in your lives," his eyes lowered, his head dipped.
"And what about the parts where you helped us heal?" Porthos demanded.
But his words seemed to fall flat around Aramis who sat unmoving, with his chin resting on his chest, dark hair falling forward and hiding his face. Anger spiked in a blinding flash and Porthos lunged forward to grab his friend by the front of his shirt; hauling him up onto his knees and forcing his head up.
The sight that met Porthos froze him in place.
There were tears.
Falling hot and fast, rolling down the side of his face and soaking his beard, trailing over the arch of his nose and along the dip on its sides. Aramis was crying, truly crying, and the rarity of it gave Porthos' lungs a pause. The salty lump in his breath rose to the back of his throat and swallowing hard Porthos gathered his brother to him.
Aramis came willingly, his head thumped solidly against Porthos' chest as his shoulders heaved with the force of his tears. And he still pressed closer, hands fisted in the front of Porthos' shirt where his knuckles dug almost painfully into his chest and Aramis still pressed closer, burrowing his head in Porthos' chest like he wanted to somehow cross the skin, flesh and bones and curl up in the hollow of Porthos' chest.
Porthos wished it could be so; he wished with all his heart that he could ward off all the pain and keep his brother safe from the demons that haunted him. He heaved Aramis up and closer still, arms wrapped tight around the shuddering ribs that couldn't keep a rhythm to properly breathe through the tears. He could feel the stuttering, broken expanding of his brother's lungs and his eyes welled at the harsh, desperate sound that accompanied it.
"Shh… 'Mis, you gotta breathe," Porthos genuinely feared his friend would pass out from the lack of oxygen, "breathe 'Mis please….Shh…"
The muscles twitched under his hands and the ragged breath didn't ease but Porthos could pick out the words falling against his chest.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry"
They clawed at his heart and left it in shreds.
It was Athos who leaned forward, one hand tangled in Aramis' hair at the nape of his neck.
"What are you sorry for?" he asked.
With a rattling spasm of his lungs, Aramis pulled in a breath and Porthos let him shift out of his hold enough to face Athos. The man in his grasp wiped uselessly at his bloodshot eyes, coughing out an exhale as he shook his head.
"I'm sorry you all got pulled into this," Aramis closed his eyes as more tears followed, "I'm sorry he hurt you all for being in my life,"
And right then, Porthos was sure he could commit a murder.
He wanted to go down to the prison holding Senior and wring his neck with his bare hands.
His rage burst in a growl as he grasped his brother by the shoulders and yanked him around to face him. His fingers dug into the hard muscle beneath but Aramis didn't seem to notice, his puffy eyes stared blearily at him.
"You don't apologize for what he did," Porthos gave him a little shake; "you never apologize for his actions."
"But he only hurt you because you are my friends,"
"Yes he did," Athos said and turned their brother to face him instead, "that were his deeds not yours."
Porthos didn't understand why they had to explain this to Aramis, why he couldn't see the obvious truth. He swiped his sleeve over his own burning eyes when he noticed the glistening tear tracks on Athos' face. But his brother paid them no mind as he reached forwards and placed a hand on either side of Aramis' face, making sure that their gaze held.
"And we chose to stand with you," Athos said, "we knew about him," he shrugged a shoulder, "eventually; but we stayed by you because it was our decision. You do not need to apologize for what came of that," Athos' hand slipped to the back of Aramis' neck and he leaned forward until their foreheads were touching, "We are not a family save for our choice Aramis and that makes us stronger for it," he reached up and pressed his lips to his brother's hairline.
A sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob escaped Aramis as he leaned into the touch.
Half blinded by tears he crawled into Athos' lap, threw his arms around his shoulders, stuck his face in the side of his neck and he sobbed. Porthos wrapped him in an embrace even as Athos held him close; and tucked between the two of them Aramis trembled and gasped through his tears as his precious control splintered apart.
It felt like ages as he sat there but Porthos knew they would stay just like that for ages more to come if that was what it took to calm their brother.
He shifted only when he felt Aramis trying to sit up. His friend wiped his nose on his sleeve and shifted back to lean against the sofa, drawing up his knees as he went. Porthos didn't miss the way Athos shifted with him, one arm still draped around his shoulders.
"Here," d'Artagnan offered him a bottle of water.
Aramis shook his head as he wiped a hand over his face, sporadic tears still leaking out of the corner of his eyes. Porthos took the bottle, twisted off the cap and wrapped his friend's trembling fingers around it with a pointed glare.
"It's gonna make me sick again," Aramis reminded him.
"It won't" Porthos said, "You've lost enough fluids for one day,"
It earned him a tired glare but still prompted timid sips from his friend.
"I just can't believe the things he did," Aramis said.
"I wish he hadn't murdered my father," d'Artagnan's eyes were wet as they roamed over them before settling on Aramis, "but I don't regret meeting you. I wouldn't trade our friendship for the world."
The smile on Aramis face was soft, dimmed by the pain too close to the surface but Porthos was elated to see it was real.
"C'mere," Aramis patted the space on his other side and d'Artagnan filled it immediately, leaning into the older man when he placed an arm across his shoulders. It teased out another smile from Aramis.
"I'm glad we found you too oh great wizard from the land of Gascony," he said.
Porthos chuckled at the indignant eye roll from their youngest and settled on the boy's free side.
"A dragon-born wizard," he corrected.
"A silly dragon-born wizard," Athos added.
"And I wouldn't trade our friendship for the world either, Charles d'Artagnan of Gascony," Aramis told him.
Maybe a bit too OOC...
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