He saw the world gray-toned. The fog left a dullness that never lifted. The ache in his chest ever present.

He drank. It was never enough. He wanted to die when he was in the sunlight practicing sword fighting with Porthos and Aramis. He wanted to die when he was drunk out of his mind, his head spinning and eyesight blurry. He could feel their worry. Their eyes watching him.

Aramis was always gentle. Night after night tearing away his tankard and wordlessly helping him stumble up the stairs. Night after night sitting with him on his bed as he sobbed into Aramis's shoulder. Head spinning. Uncontrollable. He would clutch at Aramis's shirt, soaking it with his tears as Aramis silently ran his fingers up and down his back. They never spoke of it in the morning.

When he did sleep, he woke to a pounding headache and shame creeping around him, constricting him, reminding him of his humiliating weakness the night before. He never looked Aramis in the eyes in the mornings.

He felt so useless.