#privateerwrites

Porthos was drunk. He was so drunk, in fact, that Aramis was mildly surprised that he is still able to stand. Athos was off drinking his soul into the gutter alone tonight, claiming that he knows when to stop (he really doesn't) and that he doesn't need the company (he really does). Aramis and Porthos had elected to take him at his word and leave him be, and go get a drink somewhere else. Somewhen along the line, someone had  made a comment about Treville that was... not pleasant, to say the least, and Porthos, in unusual fashion, decided to get smashed instead of getting into a fight. Maybe it was Athos' mood that had put him off, maybe it was the fact that d'Artagnan had run off earlier to go be with Constance before her husband came home, maybe it was just that Porthos had been stuck on child watching duty today. In any case, his fight was gone and he was looking up at Aramis with something that Aramis didn't want to try to analyze. "C'mon, we're heading home. You're drunk." Aramis is so aware of the irony of the situation. He is also aware that he will not be sleeping in his own bed in the garrison tonight. He pulls Porthos up out of the seat that he is currently parked in with his wine and wraps his arm around Porthos' side. Porthos groans and makes grabbing motions at the wine on the table. "No," Aramis says firmly. "We are going home." Porthos seems disappointed, and he says so. Well, he tries to say so. It comes out as more of a rumble in his chest that doesn't really manage to get its actual words past his mouth. For a moment, Aramis is almost tempted into leaning his head against Porthos and taking a nap. It passes though, and he knows that hauling Porthos out of the bar is going to take a lot of effort. After some maneuvering, Aramis manages to get Porthos out into the street and pointing in the general direction of the garrison. He's glad that Athos is at the tavern they frequent, because he isn't sure that Porthos could manage to get home from there- too many turns in the road. Porthos gently pets the side of his arm and holds onto Aramis tighter. "I looovveee youuu," he slurs quietly, and Aramis' heart stops for a couple of beats. "Tell me that when you're sober," Aramis mutters. Porthos holds him tighter. God give me strength, he thinks. It's not better when he gets Porthos back to his room, because while he was expecting clingy, he wasn't expecting quite this clingy. One look at the door and Porthos is frowning and glaring and yeah, Aramis is stuck here. "I love you," Porthos says very seriously. "Alright love," Aramis whispers, wishing it were true. He knows that it is, in fact, just the alcohol taking. It's a nice fantasy to fall asleep to though, Porthos loving him the way that he love Porthos. "Alright." "You belive me?" Porthos sounds suspicious. "'Cause I really do love youuu Aramis." He's yawning, now, and Aramis suspects that he'll be asleep in the next couple minutes. "Tell me again when you wake up." "I will." He doesn't.

"And if I die because I had the honor of being loved by you? If I die because, somehow, being allowed to experience your love is a curse that kills people? Then I will die happy, because you loved me and that is the greatest thing I could wish for, love."

Aramis is crying. Porthos and Athos already know that Aramis crying, even in the way he does, silently and gently, wrecks them to see. D'Artagnan is learning that it does similar things to him. He's crouching on the ground next to Aramis' chair, holding his hand and his wine, and trying not to cry himself. Aramis had decided, late last night, that what he really needed to do was to go get very very drunk to forget Adele. He hadn't told any of them, hadn't warned Porthos or asked Athos to come with or informed d'Artagnan not to do as he did. He'd just up and left, and left the three of them to figure it out. Porthos, for his part, has managed to at least gather himself enough to be a little closer to Aramis. Athos is still standing in the corner, staring at Aramis openly. Porthos walks around to Aramis and put his arm around Aramis' shoulders. "We need you to walk now, yeah? We aren't goin' to carry you flat out, get your feet under you, yeah, thas' it." He manages to get Aramis about six inches off of the chair before Aramis slides down and looks into the empty cup in front of him sadly. The tears have stopped, at least for now, and Athos has managed to get across the room. He pushes d'Artagnan out of the way and takes Aramis' chin in his hand. "You are going to do as I say now, yes," Athos says, in a tome that leaves no room for argument. Aramis meets his gaze with watery eyes and nods silently. "Good. You're going to get up, and we are going to walk you out of here, and then you are going to sleep this off, understand? And you are not, are not to do this again without telling one of us where you are," he states, and the steely determination in his voice is chilling and solid. Aramis nods again, and pulls himself up. Athos yanks him into a hug, and they walk out together. When Aramis manages to sleep it off, he emerges from his room to find Porthos standing there with an inscrutable look on his face. Aramis feels compelled to tell him everything suddenly, and he feels 17 again, brokenhearted and tired and in need of comfort. "Why," Porthos asks, and the large smile that Aramis has pasted on falls away. “I don’t want to feel this. I want to be numb again," Aramis says. "Let me have that." Porthos pulls Aramis into a hug. "Can' let you do that. Stay with me tonight, eh? Stay with me." Aramis clings on tighter, like he can't let go or he'll die. They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, until there are soft hands poking at Aramis' side, and rougher ones dragging him into a garrison rooms. They laugh all night, and while they know it cannot last, it feels good to have something so easy and comfortable. Aramis can fall in love with all of them a little in this moment, and it's easy, because they are Musketeers, and death does not dare come for them before they can come for it.