Hello my friends, how are you? As I promised, here I am with another chapter of this collection, P for Pissed. I feel the need to warn you: this one is a bit intense. Very emotional. So, well, find a comfortable position and be ready for a rough ride :D But, first and foremost, let me thank you all for your wonderful and invaluable support, for taking the time to leave a review, to add this collection to your following and favorites list and to just read it. Every time someone write me a comment I can't help it, I start to write, so it's because of you that I'm here, ready to share another chapter. I love you!

Since I've finally learned how to reply to your comments right away (yeah, I know, it's embarrassing how long it took me to realize that), and since I'm really eager to know if you'll like this one, I won't hold you back any longer and I'll let you go back to Paris! I really hope you'll have fun!

Honey.

– – – – – – – – – – – – –

Pissed

"I want to weep, he thought. I want to be comforted.
I'm so tired of being strong.
I want to be foolish and frightened for once.
Just for a small while, that's all...a day...an hour."
(G.R.R. Martin)

– – – – – – – – – – – – –

If someone would ask him to list the names of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, D'Artagnan would certainly mention Anais Bertram. Since her childhood, the daughter of one of the wealthiest breeders of Lupiac, in Gascony, was considered one of the beauties of the small town of Castlemore. Tall, with olive skin and big hazelnuts eyes, his father had broken several hearts at the village before giving his daughter's hand to a worthy suitor. Monsieur Bertram, indeed, the eldest son of a gentleman who owned a lovely estate and a good portion of land.

Of course, Anais' sons were, in turn, beautiful. Sofie had long dark curls, glittering like the feathers of a crow, and Antoine, three years younger than his sister, was equipped with an amiable character, lively, exuberant, but also friendly and kind. The Bertram, in Lupiac, were well-known, and not only because they resembled a painting when they strolled across the bustling streets of the small, farmers' town. But for the reason that they were blessed with the most admirable of qualities, they were unpretentious, always affable toward their neighbors, generous to those who had to face difficult times, and kind well beyond what good manners required.

D'Artagnan had always considered Céleste, his mother, far more beautiful than Madame Anais, with her elegant neck, her long dark lashes, and her ever-smiling face, although now, after so many years, he could barely recall her at all. And yet he was fond of the lovely mother of Antoine, his friend and equal in age. She was generous in offering the children warm apple cakes, she was loving, like a mother should be, and sweet like the Spring's wind after a long unmerciful Winter.

One day, however, an accident happened to that dear family.

It was a warm Sunday morning, and the good people of Castlemore, in Lupiac, were leaving the church after the mass when a blood curling scream froze every single man and woman in their step. A horse had trampled poor little Antoine, barely 5 years old at the time, killing him instantly.

The whole community was shocked beyond words.

Young D'Artagnan still remembered how his parents grieved the death of their friends' son, playmate of both their children, and how they had participated, together with the whole town, to the funeral, celebrated in the small graveyard nestled just behind the old Saint Mary's church, a tall pale building adorned with ivy leaves.

D'Artagnan, holding hands with André, had attended the ceremony with his parents, and he had cried too. Antoine was a friend for him and his brother and the thought of never had the chance to play with him again was something that made his little heart ache.

Thus, in front of his own tears, he was shocked to see how Madame Anais' face, beautiful, gentle Madame Anais, was dry. There, standing next to the light wooden coffin that hid, from the eyes of the mourning crowd, the little boy's body, she looked like a statue. Graceful and ethereal, but cold and impassive nonetheless. She looked like an angel, fell to Earth to assist unwaveringly to the human afflictions.

That image had shaken him. Why wasn't a mother mourning the death of her child? Why didn't she shed a tear for him?

So, back at the farm, D'Artagnan had voiced his doubts to his mother. Céleste had smiled sadly at his son's distress, and she had taken him on her knees to explain to him that pain, sometimes, paralyzes. And that it can be so strong, and so sudden, to immobilize a human body, depriving it of every single emotion.

Being a little child, D'Artagnan didn't really understood what she meant at the time.

Growing up, however, those words had sadly acquired a clear meaning to him.

During the years, as he became a man, had seen his father's blood – his brave, honorable father - run cold, his body grow tense, his whole figure freeze crushed by grief, and guilt, and anger, and desperation.

Then he had seen men in tears, unable to even breathe, and finally he had to experience that kind of fear, pain, and relief himself. He had discovered that horror could petrify, but that relief could also do that to a man.

But most importantly, he had to learn the hard way that sometimes, when combined together, relief, pain and fear could be stronger than a thousand chains. They could be all-encompassing, and no will, as mighty as it was, could break them. No matter how strong a man is, when they assaulted a soul at the same time, when they joined forces, he had no hopes to defeat them.

There was no key to unlock those chains.

Nor a dagger able to sever those ties.

Only an indomitable, unyielding persistence could do that. A fire that burnt deeper than blood, unquenchable even when those emotions were tearing said man apart.

But to learn how to resist to those emotions it took time. And, most importantly, a hand willing to help.

D'Artagnan, as said, knew all of this. He had to brave those chains more than once. Alone, mostly. But this time, pain, relief and fear mixed with the weariness that, after the ordeal he had to face, had set upon his body, and he had no strength left to fight against his own emotions. Therefore, as he sat on that worn out stool, barely aware of his brothers surrounding him, he discovered that his body wasn't only chained up. But gagged too.

And that. That. It was almost too much. Unable to move, to scream, and to speak, it was overwhelming. He felt helpless, and he didn't know how to unlock that all-encompassing, invisible pressure that kept him bound.

It's been hours since they left the Palace, but try as he might, he couldn't free his mouth to ask for his brothers' help. He had tried, for the love of God, he had tried. As hard as his considerable force of will allowed him to. Without success. So far, his lips were tightly shut.

He couldn't utter a single word. For the life of him, D'Artagnan simply couldn't.

Every time he pressed himself to take a deep breath to force his voice out, his throat would close, and his words would get stuck somewhere between his chest and his sealed mouth.

It was as if his body had ceased hours ago to obey the orders from his brain.

His teeth were gritted together so hard that his jaw trembled, and his shoulders were so tight that someone could have hit him, and probably the man's hand would shatter in pieces.

But if that wasn't enough, what truly bothered him above everything else, were his eyes.

He couldn't stop blinking, not for a second, otherwise, by now, he would be in tears.

And he was a bloody Musketeers, for God's sake, not an innocent maiden who had yet to face pain for the first time in her life! Why couldn't he keep himself from crying? Why couldn't he speak? Why had he to feel so disappointed? So hurt? So thoroughly, ruthlessly pissed?

He could understand Madame Anais, now.

But that knowledge didn't help him at all.

For he didn't know how he could overcome that turmoil that was consuming his own very being.

It was too much. Everything he felt, he thought, he smelled, even, it was just too much. The storm raging in his chest was growing with every passing second, he could feel it, he knew he was going to burst, and that scared him, for he had never felt so adrift before, unable to even unclench his fists to grab onto something, anything, strong enough to help him to resurface from the depth of that roaring inferno.

Even to control his own breathing was an almost unbearable effort, his blood was pounding in his veins with such a force that D'Artagnan feared that if he ever relaxed a single muscle, it would flow out of his body, probably in the form of bitter tears.

He tried to reason with himself, he tried to soothe his battered soul, and to listen to that inner voice - that sounded alarmingly like Athos - that told him that the matter was out of his hands. That he couldn't do a single thing to solve the situation, the pauldron he so proudly wore was, above everything else, the symbol of his status and therefore he was powerless when it came to question the King's decisions. He was a soldier, and soldiers just obey, without question, without uttering a single word, to their orders.

But then why, why if he knew that by heart, he was unable to even part his lips?

Was the soldier in him that kept him from speaking? From screaming? From crying?

But most importantly, did he really have any right to cry?

He sighed.

He didn't know.

But, God helps him, he was pissed. And hurt.

"D'Artagnan, you must eat something" Aramis told him softly, leaning over the table to push the plate a little closer to his younger brother, hunched in his chair in front of him with his hair shielding his dark eyes.

The lad lifted his chin abruptly as his brother's gentle words brought him back to reality, and he unconsciously tried to part his lips to answer him, to tell him that he wasn't hungry at all, that he was just… hurt, and seething, and haunted by Pepin's wide, terrified eyes as the shot pierced through his chest, cruelly snatching him from his wife, and his daughter.

But again, he couldn't.

For the life of him, D'Artagnan couldn't do a darn, bloody thing.

So he just shook his head, vaguely noticing for the first time since they took place around that worn, wooden table, how tightly his fingers were holding his goblet of wine, his knuckles so white that it was a wonder the thing didn't yield under that pressure.

But loosening that hold was still – apparently – beyond his capabilities, too.

No matter how hard he fought against those emotions. Against his heart.

He couldn't move, as he couldn't speak. All he could do was to clench every single muscle in his body to . .

"C'mon, little brother, you'll need your strength to get better" Porthos tried too, resting one of his big hands on the boy's arm, his midnight orbs both affectionate, worried, and angered too.

As they left Pepin's home, D'Artagnan didn't let Aramis get near him enough for the medic to examine his wounds – yet – but countless bruises and cuts could be seen peeking under his chemise, around his wrists, and on his left temple, barely covered by a dark lock of hair. And if there was something that pissed Porthos above everything else, it was when someone had the nerve to hurt his brothers.

But D'Artangnan was too absorbed by that bloody storm ravaging his chest to notice what darkened his brother's gaze. This time he didn't even try to form a proper reply, he simply raised his eyes, enough to give Porthos a long and weary glare, and then, frustrated beyond belief, and hurt, and so pissed he could barely stifle a growl, he simply let his eyelids close, hoping beyond hope to discover that it was all a nightmare and that he would awake in his bed at the garrison, Aramis' velvety voice calling for him, "breakfast is ready, little one, get dressed, Porthos is already complaining that he's hungry, and you know how he gets when we make in wait".

Therefore, he missed the look his brothers exchanged above his head.

He couldn't care for the food or the wine.

For as the darkness surrounded him, he found no rest, only nightmares. The same scenes replayed in his brain again and again in a slow, but painful, torture.

The woods, those musket shots raining on them like a storm, the horses' hooves thundering so hard they could feel the Earth shake under their feet, and the cries of those who died, killed like animals by ruthless criminals.

They ran, as fast as they could, they had to get to the trees down there. Barely a few feet away.

"Come on, let's go!"

His body hurt like hell for the beating he had suffered to protect his sovereign, and the adrenaline was the only thing that allowed him to run, his feet barely brushing the ground as he kept his grip firmly anchored to his Majesty's leather vest to steer him in the right direction. Sweat irritated his wild but focused eyes, and his heart was beating so loudly he could barely hear anything else, but nothing mattered, if not the burning need to fulfill his duty, and save the monarch. He could see the trees getting closer and closer, they were almost there now, another couple of strides and they would be safe.

And then someone shot.

Loud, as a thunder.

D'Artagnan didn't know how he could hear it in the midst of that inferno.

But it was heart shattering, like an ominous quake.

He turned, his breath so harsh he was nauseous, the world was spinning, and it smelled of smoke, and death.

He felt the King cling to his arm like he was a beacon, the only source of light in the darkest of nights. But for a moment, nothing mattered anymore. Not the screams of agony worth of a circle of Hell that were coming from everywhere, nor the rush of adrenaline in his veins, or the blood, that slowly, and inexorably, stained, like a river, the earth.

For his frantic eyes saw him there. The man he had tried so hard to save, falling hard on his knees, like a lamb ready to be slaughtered.

The world came to an abrupt stop, then, and as he turned, D'Artagnan froze, unable to accept the gaping hole on Pepin's chest. No, the trees were so close… it couldn't be, it couldn't end like that.

"Pepin! Get up, come on!"

His shout sounded foreign to his own ears. He could only feel the blood pumping loudly in his veins, and the harsh sound of his breathing. Nothing, nothing made sense anymore. He had to get up, he had to shout louder, to make him stand up and run!

"Pepin! Come on, get up!"

But then his eyes met those of Pepin, that young, honorable man, kidnapped from his family because Spain needed more slaves. He saw their light fading quickly, as it was fading his life. And D'Artagnan couldn't feel anything anymore, deafened by his own desperate shout.

"Come on, Pepin! You have to get up!"

But Pepin couldn't.

D'Artagnan saw the blood dripping down the man's chin. He saw him try and utter incomprehensible words.

And then there was another shot. Another hole in that innocent's chest.

He vaguely registered the King's arms restraining him now, keeping him from going back and kill that bastard, trying to steer him away from the umpteenth victim of that madness.

His breath caught in his throat. Pepin dropped to the ground. And passed away.

"NO!"

And then, all the Gascon could do was ran, propelled by his loyalty, his honor, his duty. Protect the King. He had to protect the King.

But as they left the bloodied clearing behind, the youngest of the Musketeers could still hear ringing in his mind, over and over again, his own desperate cry of sorrow.

D'Artagnan shuddered as he straightened himself to wipe his face with his trembling hands, in hope to wipe away those memories too.

But they were branded in his mind with fire, and as he covered his eyes with his fingertips, he realized that darkness could only bring them back more vividly.

"D'Artagnan, your bravery and loyalty during our ordeal deserve recognition. I have a special gift for you. You have the honor of executing this traitor".

Another flinch, another harrowing stab of pain. How could his King ask him that? To kill in cold blood? To play the hangman's part?

"Are you taking sides with a traitor against your King?"

D'Artagnan gasped quietly and he almost felt the bile raising in his throat as he remembered how, just a couple of hours ago, he had to face his King to remind him that he's a soldier, and not and executioner.

But a weight had settled on him since then, and he couldn't breathe properly anymore. The trail left by Lemaitre's blood on the precious Palace's floors still burned his eyes.

"First, you'd take me to that tavern, put my life in danger. And now this. Why do you Musketeers insist on disappoint me?".

He had to clench his fists so hard he felt his nails pierce his skin to keep from shouting all the rage he felt as he remembered that offense. That insult. Disappoint him? Was the King disappointed? Because of them?! His Musketeers?!

"D'Artagnan".

He flinched abruptly out of those harsh memories as Athos' hand landed on his injured shoulder, causing him to hiss loudly.

Darn… so much for keeping Aramis' fuss at a minimum, he though wearily, looking almost resigned as another familiar hand traded place with Athos' one. He didn't move when his leather and shirt were shifted aside to reveal the huge dark violet spot that was the higher part of his arm, he couldn't, but he felt like screaming as he realized that he didn't want to be touched, and then that he should be ashamed for that very thought. He was ashamed. What was happening to him? How could he dare to even think to refuse his brothers' attentions? Was he that ungrateful before the men that did everything they could to secure him a commission, and in the process, a family?

No, D'Artagnan sighed, barely noticing Aramis' hands anymore. He hadn't said a word about the injuries he had sustained for protecting the King, but he had never thought to willingly keep his brothers in the dark, simply, as the adrenaline left him, they had reached the Palace, and D'Artagnan's emotions went downhill from then.

As he realized that, D'Artagnan tried to explain it to Athos, Porthos and Aramis. But damn if his body would allow him to do that. Damn if he could even lift a finger to reach for their hands, to beg them to help him. His eyes filled again with tears at that, and for D'Artagnan, it was almost the breaking point. He was already dealing with a burning chain made of pain, fear, relief, and rage… how could he handle his guilt too? His hand, the one that wasn't holding his wine, clenched furiously, but when his nails cut the flesh… it scared him. Because for a brief, and glorious moment, he felt pain, and then a relief stronger than anything else.

"Calm down, little brother, you're safe now".

Hadn't been at war with himself, D'Artagnan probably might have realized that his brothers would never have reprimanded him for hiding his wounds. Not at a time like that. Not after all he had suffered. Had he turned his head to look at Aramis, for example, the boy would have seen him wince, and hiss in sympathy as he finally had the chance to examine his brother, albeit partly since he couldn't properly undress the lad in a tavern. But the marksman didn't even think to scold the lad for his silence. He didn't have the heart for it. One look to D'Artagnan, and for the millionth time, instead, the sharpshooter and part-time medic sighed. Dark glistening eyes, barely controlled tears, gaunt face and shaking hands, their young one was utterly devastated. And as he nodded once to Athos and Porthos to let them know that the wounds weren't so severe to be life-threatening, he felt his lips thin when he thought about the treatment his brother had to suffer.

Being kidnapped, alone with the King to protect, and forced to march for miles with the sole prospective of being sold to a Spanish galley. Beaten, more than once, at least, but with still enough compassion to carry another man's weight to save an innocent life. And then... then his little brother was humiliated by the same King he had risked his own life for, who thought it would be an honor, for a Musketeer, to play the role of the executioner….

Aramis sighed, clenching his jaw. It was unfair. By God, it was just unfair.

And how high it was the price they all had to pay that day. Their little brother's shining soul, stained by inequity and blood.

He had seen that pure light darken before his own very eyes, Aramis, as they stood in front of the disappointed King. As if that single moment stole from D'Artagnan a little bit of his precious – oh so precious – goodness.

The marksman had silently mourned the lost spark of the boy's spirit, for he had sworn, together with Athos and Porthos, to protect his innocence with all they had. As long as they could. Obviously, they had failed this time, and Aramis would feel guilty for a long time before being able to accept that, wether they liked it or not, blood would, sooner rather than later, taint their little brother's heart too. And that all they could do was be there to help those wounds to scar without infection. To help him raise again, even when the world would fight hard to defeat him.

"Are you in pain, D'Artagnan?" Athos inquired quietly, tilting softly his head to run his own examination of the lad's conditions, for his thoughts weren't far from those twirling painfully in Aramis' head.

It was the dullness of the boy's eyes that most worried him, for D'Artagnan always had that spark in those warm, deep irises, and it was unsettling to see him so lost. So silent.

D'Artagnan again lifted his head. But again, his lips stayed sealed. So he sighed, and he clenched his jaw in obvious frustration at his inability to properly reply to his brothers. How stupid of him, to be unable to even move his mouth to form a retort, he thought as he shook his head stiffly, his fingers tightening again their grip on his wine.

He had to drink it, yet. His mouth wasn't allowing him that, too.

His teeth were gritted together so fiercely he felt he couldn't separate them even if he wanted to.

But in hindsight, maybe it was for the best.

Because the mere thought of moving an inch made him tremble in a barely contained rage, and his whole body tensed, his muscles clamped shut, and he felt more like a statue, than a man.

I'm weak.

Why can't I simply get a grip on my emotions?

Why everything I feel must fill my eyes with tears?

He didn't have any answer, D'Artagnan, and that was adding to the list of things that pissed him beyond words.

"Right… I think we all had enough, don't we brothers?" Aramis spoke lightly, unnoticeably tilting his had to give Athos to Porthos a look full of meaning. "Why don't we move to somewhere quieter?".

To be fair, that night their usual tavern – The Wren – wasn't particularly loud. Just a few men here and there drinking and gambling, the waitresses swaying among the tables to provide food and wine, and a heavy cloud of sweat, stew and alcohol smothering the smoky air, wrapping everything in a thick, opaque cloud that dulled the patrons' senses, engulfing colors and sounds.

But to try and make their lad talk, the Musketeers needed a place more private. Like Athos' apartments, for example, since the man had his quarters just a couple of minutes away from the tavern, in Rue d'Argot.

"Yea', Athos' wine is better, anyway" Porthos grinned forcedly, raising from his chair with a pointed look to their Gascon.

Athos rolled his eyes at his brother's words, but didn't say anything, he knew it was just a feeble excuse to convince the lad to follow them.

"Come on D'Artagnan, you will feel better after a breath of fresh air" Aramis grinned kindly, moving his hand to cradle the boy's neck.

But apparently, that was all it took to trigger – finally – D'Artagnan.

Although his reaction wasn't what they had expected.

Because, as soon as the marksman's fingers stroke lightly the boy's skin, D'Artagnan stood abruptly, and with a visible flinch he harshly pulled away, stumbling in his haste to avoid his brother's touch. Wildly, his eyes darted from one Musketeer to the other, as if searching for something, but whatever that was, he couldn't find it. And he was visibly trembling when, finally, he strode past them, raising a hand to deter Porthos from trying and stop him, as he left purposefully the tavern.

"What…" the bigger Musketeer murmured, his dark, expressive eyes widening in bewilderment

"Let's go" Athos merely sighed, already moving to dodge a couple of cheering patrons to follow their little brother's steps.

Aramis was right behind him, his jaw tight in concern. The lad didn't even look coherent enough to recognize them, he tried not to think what could befall him without their protection, in that state.

Obviously, the hurt he detected in him ran deeper than he thought.

Fortunately, they spotted him right away, for apparently the fresh air did nothing to help D'Artagnan to feel better. On the contrary, he was swaying more visibly now, and he had to shot his arm out to grab hold of the wall to his left to keep from crumbling to the ground.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos shouted, as they ran at his side to hold him up. His strong arm immediately circled the boy's waist to prop him against his broad chest, Aramis' already busy with D'Artagnan's forehead, wondering if he was running a fever.

"Stop. Stop!"

It was barely a harsh whisper, but it froze them all immediately.

Apparently, D'Artagnan had found his ability to use his voice, finally.

But that wasn't really of any help.

He looked… wild. Lost. On the verge of panic.

"Let me go", he gasped, fighting to free himself from Porthos' hold. "Let me go!"

"D'Artagnan, calm down" Athos commanded, both sternly and gently, for he didn't want to antagonize the obviously agitated pup.

"Let me go!"

"D'Artagnan…"

A pointy elbow hit Porthos squarely in his ribs, but it was more the surprise than the pain that made him lose his hold on the boy. There wasn't really any strength behind that blow, D'Artagnan was injured, he had barely enough energy to keep standing, and Porthos cursed softly as the boy squirmed free, shoving neatly Aramis' aside to try and escape from them.

Unfortunately for the lad, Porthos wasn't only as strong as a brick wall. He was also quite fast. As Aramis stumbled to regain his balance, wide-eyed as he registered the tears that were freely flowing down D'Artagnan's face, the bigger man had already crossed the distance between the boy and his brothers, his strong hand quickly catching the lad's by his arm.

"Wait" Porthos called, using his grip to make the boy turn.

"LET ME GO!" D'Artagnan shouted, trying to break Porthos' hold on him with his free hand. "LET ME GO!".

He was sobbing in earnest now, and the bigger man felt a tug at his heart as he realized how distraught their youngest was. He didn't let go, but his voice softened considerably as he noticed those puffy red eyes, his paleness, his desperation. He looked like a wounded animal, and in a hopeless need of help.

"Hush now, little one. We're here now" he murmured soothingly, catching D'Artagnan's free hand to keep him from further injuring himself.

"Careful, Porthos" Aramis quietly admonished, moving to stand at his brothers' side with slow, measured steps, to prevent from startling all the more their frantic lad.

"Aramis" Athos called just as quietly, motioning with a slight nod to D'Artagnan's side, where it was visible, peeking under his tousled shirt, another big dark bruise.

The marksman nodded, narrowing his eyes as he added that wound to the already long list of injuries suffered by their younger brother.

"D'Artagnan, don't fight, breathe. You're safe now" Athos drawled softly, grabbing the boy's left arm to allow Porthos to release the struggling pup's torn wrists, and restrain him with more caution.

Not an easy task, since the boy wasn't cooperating..

"Little brother, you need to stop fighting, can you hear me?" Aramis repeated slowly but forcefully, moving to position himself between his brothers, to hold carefully D'Artagnan's face with his hands. "Listen to me, you must calm down" he said, wiping away the lad's tears with his thumbs.

"I…I can't" the Gascon gasped, trying, and failing, to stop those darn tears, his body so engulfed by sorrow and rage that he couldn't even… breath properly, or stifle the violent shivers that shook him from head to toe. He was so… pissed, and… hurt after that hellish ordeal that it was impossible, for him, to think clearly, to reign in his emotions. He just needed to sob, and maybe… scream, and..

He didn't really know what he needed.

But they . . .

They were so… darn strong that try as he might, he couldn't free himself. He didn't know how, but as he fought with all he had, he found himself pinned to the wall he was using – a moment ago – to brace himself, and their hands felt like rocks, restraining him so securely that he had to grit his teeth to stop the frustrated scream he felt climbing up through his burning throat.

"Please" he found himself begging, his vision blurred by hot, relentless tears. "Please".

"Hush little brother, hush" Aramis' soft voice replied, somewhere before him, rough, gentle hands cradling his face with so much tenderness that, for the briefest of moments, the lad went limp in their hold. "Calm down, breath. We won't leave you".

D'Artagnan gasped, his breath choked by the maelstrom that was tearing at his heart. And then something in him shattered, and a wave of exhaustion knocked on him so violently that his knees buckled, threatening to let him fall down.

Aramis' hands were at his waist before he could blink, the man's chest pressed tightly against his own, assuming the role of the wall that had formerly been his sole support against the pull of gravity.

And when his face nestled automatically in the crook of his brother's neck, that familiar flowery scent engulfing his senses, he relaxed, for the first time in many days, accepting – finally, finally – to lean on those loyal, and safe – oh, so very safe – shoulders. He couldn't fight against himself on his own, he realized. He needed them. His brothers. He couldn't do it without them.

"I'm sorry" he murmured, uncaring if his tears were dampening Aramis' collar. He knew his brother wouldn't mind it too. He knew it, and somehow that simple knowledge reassured him more than anything else.

"You have nothing to apologize for, D'Artagnan" Athos quietly reassured, loosening a bit his grip on the boy's arm without letting go.

"Oh whelp" Porthos sighed fondly, moving his free hand to ruffle his little brother's hair. It pained him to no end to see the usually fierce pup doubled over as he was, but unable to ask for their help. He could understand, the boy was barely out of his puppyhood, obviously, he still had to properly learn how to face matters of emotions, but that's what older brothers were for, right? "We'll take care of you, don't cry, mh?"

"Sorry" D'Artagnan helplessly repeated, unconsciously pressing himself even closer to Aramis, who, by now, was fairly hugging him.

"Shh… we got you, D'Artagnan. Let us help you, si vous plait?" Aramis gently murmured, pressing his lips to boy's temple.

The boy whimpered softly, and Aramis chuckled lightly as he motioned to Porthos and Athos to help him to hold D'Artagnan up. They moved in sync, since that was a dance they all knew perfectly, and keeping the lad steady with his arms around their shoulders they disappeared slowly into the night, far away from the stuffy tavern and toward a more quiet part of the city.

The streets were barely illuminated, but they had no trouble to reach Athos' apartment, nestled in a narrow road shaped by small – but tidy - gray houses, so close to each other that a man could barely walk among the dark alleys that ran around the buildings. His rooms were on the first and last floor, connected to the wooden entrance by a flight of sturdy stairs, barely creaking under their combined weight. A good thing, really, since Athos' landlady was a kind, but susceptible, old woman.

"Here, let's settle you on the bed" Aramis said, opening the door for his brothers and then moving aside to let them pass, his mind already cataloging what he would need to take care of D'Artagnan injuries.

"I'm fine" was the unsurprising – but still moronic – reply from the boy, promptly ignored by Athos and Porthos, as they steered the lad to the older Musketeer's bed.

"Of course you are, lad. But you will allow me to take a look, won't you?" Aramis grinned, moving to kneel at his brother's feet.

He wasn't fine by any means, since he was pale and clammy, his bloodshot eyes puffy and glossy, and even before undressing him, Aramis had counted at least five wounds. Nothing life-threatening, thank God, but still even a scratch could be dangerous if it wasn't properly treated.

Automatically, Porthos nodded and moved to fetch clean water, while Athos rummaged through his chest to retrieve bandages, and D'Artagnan sighed as he realized that he couldn't really do anything more than sit patiently and wait for the fuss to be over. It wasn't that he despised the attentions, quite the contrary. But his inner turmoil had worn him out, and all he needed, now that he had again a shred of control over his body, was to drink and sleep, in that order.

Of course, he knew his brothers had the best intentions, and that's why he submitted – if not willingly – quite resignedly. He loved them, with all his heart. And he needed them now, more than anything. If to be with them meant to let Aramis clean his wounds then that's what he was going to do.

He needed those hands prodding his chest, even if that hurt, dammit. He needed those stares, those scents, their warmth. For he didn't know what he would do if left alone. He knew – maybe not at the moment, but he knew – that he wasn't weak. He was anything but that. He had proved his courage, his will to fight until the end, to die in his brothers' place, to defend with his life his King. He had endured grief, heartbreak, disillusion. He had fought against rage, uncertainty, frustration. He had lost so much, even if he had gained quite a few crucial things. His pauldron, his brothers in arms, his brothers by choice. But still… for a minute, back at the Wren, he had felt the need to… dig his nails into his arms, to fight with pain the raging sorrow that foamed just under his skin.

And that had scared him.

He didn't consciously thought to hurt himself. But that morbid idea – almost a physical need for a moment there - had crossed his minds. And… that's was what had caused him to lose his control. That was what made him so very grateful for those unyielding hands that held him until he was able to regain his senses. And suddenly he realized that what he had thought to do ashamed him, so much that words escaped from his mouth before he could stop them.

"I'm sorry" he murmured, for the third time that night. And he sighed, frustrated at being unable to make sense to his brothers, but a the same time, powerless to explain what he felt. That deep, simmering pain fed by hurt, humiliation, grief and disappointment that threatened to choke him as it happened back at the tavern, so scary, in its might, that all of his muscles were as stiff as stones to try and restrain himself.

"Please, stop apologizing, brother" Aramis sighed, halting his hands that were deftly examining D'Artagnan's wrists, his voice hoarse with compassion and sorrow. "Talk to us, tell us what do you feel"

Athos positioned himself at the boy's right, his hand finding its place at the nape of his neck. At D'Artagnan's other side took place Porthos, whose deep, and gentle eyes were clouded with concern.

"I'm scared" the boy murmured, his cheeks flushing slightly as he had to admit defeat. As he realized that he needed – so much it hurt – to swallow his pride just this once.

"Of what" Aramis prodded quietly, his nimble hands resuming their task but his eyes firmly on the Gascon's pale face.

"I… I am ashamed of myself" he whispered, a lone tear finding its way along his gaunt cheek. Athos brushed it away carefully, without a word.

"Why" Porthos asked, resting his hand on the younger's thigh, to lend him strength.

D'Artagnan shuddered, but didn't draw back. He hunched forward slightly as if to escape their eyes. To hide, as if it was possible.

"I… for a moment I… was so…" and he made a gesture with his hands, incapable of putting his fiery emotions into words. "… that I felt… the need to… hurt. Myself".

Porthos' eyes widened in shock, and Athos stiffened, but it was Aramis the first to react.

"Oh, D'Artagnan" he murmured, dropping the wet rag he was using to clean the boy up to gather him in his arms. "Come here" he soothed, as he felt the lad's tears dampen his shirt again. His own heart was beating wildly at their little one's words, and he held the crying boy all the more tightly, scared at what could have happened to him had they not been with him that night. Of course, since their little brother had been kidnapped, nothing could have kept them away, but still… Aramis shuddered, and he wasn't surprised when he felt Athos and Porthos join the embrace, unsteady arms encircling them tightly from both sides.

"Dear God", the Lieutenant breathed, closing his eyes under the weight of the lad's pain.

Porthos couldn't speak for the life of him, the lump in his throat as big as a fist, so he resolved to massage D'Artagnan's back soothingly, both to console him, and to feel him alive among them.

"I'm sorry!".

Three as one, the Musketeers sighed, for it was excruciating the lad's need to apologize for whatever reason. How could he beg pardon when he handled himself so bravely? When was he the one that had to face the consequences of that foolish night? A Musketeers, yes, but still a young one, lacking the necessary experience to handle what a trial like the one he had to deal with left behind without shatter to pieces?

"You are brave, D'Artagnan. But even the bravest of men sometimes require a shoulder to lean on" Athos explained quietly, offering the lad his handkerchief as soon as he leaned back from Aramis' chest.

"That's why Musketeers are a brotherhood, lad" Porthos nodded sagely, grinning softly as D'Artagnan's watery eyes moved on him.

"You did the right thing talking to us" Aramis nodded, tightening his grip on D'Artagnan's shoulder to emphasize his words. "That's what brothers are for"

"There is no shame in tears"Athos said, outguessing the lad's thoughts. "Nor in pain"

"Every time I close my eyes… I see him. Pepin. Dying before he could… I tried to save him but the King was with me, I couldn't risk his life, so I had to watch him die before my very eyes… he was a good man, a good man…" D'Artagnan murmured anguished. "And then… I know that I had no troubles to kill that bastard, Gus, but I couldn't be an executioner… I couldn't…"

"We know, pup" Porthos promised, sharing a fierce glance with Aramis and Athos, still enraged before the King's… reward.

"As you eloquently said, my brother, you are a Musketeer" the marksman quoted, quite proudly judging by the firm line of his chin

"You held yourself with honor, D'Artagnan. You have no reasons to doubt yourself"

"I'm angry" the boy admitted, feeling guilty over the fierce fury that had possessed him barely minutes ago.

"Of course you are" Aramis nodded sympathetically. "I'm afraid that our King isn't perfect. He is a man, and like us he has strengths and weaknesses. You need to accept that, brother. Do you think you will be able to do that?"

D'Artagnan sighed, but nodded all the same. He had already reached the same conclusion, and he knew it was somewhat unfair to place King Louis on a high pedestal, since he was a sovereign, of course, but he lived in the secluded safety of the Louvre, where no pain, hunger or fear for the future could reach him. D'Artagnan didn't really expected from him extraordinary actions, he wasn't that naive. Or that unjust. But he had the chance to catch a glimpse of the man's soul, far brighter than anyone could expect. Back then, when they still were captives, and that worm of a man had tried to threaten His Majesty.

That light had burned with so much force that D'Artagnan for a moment was blinded. And proud to be a Musketeer of that King all the more.

"Who are you, tell me! Or he dies".

"I am Louis, son of Herny the Fourth, of the House of Bourbon, and Maria De Medici. I am your King, you cannot treat me like this".

Yes, he wouldn't ever resign his commission. For France. For his King. For his brothers.

So he nodded, and he lifted his chin to meet Aramis', Porthos' and Athos' eyes. And it was a relief to feel some of that turmoil leave him finally. He could at least unclench his tired and aching muscles, and that had to mean something.

"Good" Aramis grinned as he raised his arm, his hand palm-down, meeting his brothers' eyes with a knowing, and fraternal, gaze.

Startled by the gesture, and the meaning beyond it, D'Artagnan found his own lips twitch in pleasure before he could stop them, and the three older Musketeers felt something unfurl in their chest as they saw that the worst of the storm had vanished. Their hands were a warm and relished weight upon those of D'Artagnan and Aramis, but it was nothing compared to the fire that spread through the four of them as their stares met, a universe of loyalty, love, trust, and devotion so powerful and overwhelming that the boy shed another tear at the thought of being part of that steely bond. This time, however, there was no pain in his young heart, only joy, and gratefulness, and more love.

"One for all" Athos stated intensely, his pale blue irises the color of the ocean in a summer morning.

"And one for all" Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan grinned, keeping their position for a long, poignant minute, before, as one, the two older man grabbed the boy affectionately in a collective – and amusing, if Athos might say so himself – hug.

"Oi! No tickling!"

"Is he ticklish!?"

"Don't you dare, pup! It's your fault, Aramis! Stop him!"

Athos chuckled as he lazily enjoyed the show offered by his – wrestling, mostly, by now – brothers. Well, until a hand shot out from that tangle of limbs that were the three younger Musketeers to catch him off guard and drag him in the midst of the playful brawl..

Before he knew it, the Lieutenant found himself laying on the bloody bed, Porthos collapsed somewhere near his head laughing so hard that the whole thing was shaking as if there was an earthquake. Aramis, equally out of breath, was pinning down Athos' legs to keep him from moving, but it was only when saw the mischievous glint in D'Artagnan's now shining orbs that he realized the impending danger.

Or as he noticed the lad's hands, raised and ready to strike..

Athos stifled a groan as he moved – with remarkable skill, it must be said – to snatch his protégé's wrists and keep him from ascertaining if the Lieutenant was ticklish too, but unfortunately, that's when Porthos lunged. And bloody Hell, the man was fast too…

Athos found himself with his own wrists pinned above his head before he could blink.

And yes, he was ticklish indeed.

But as he struggled to free himself from his brothers' hold, threatening – uselessly – to kill them in their sleep, well, their delighted laughter echoing merrily in the usually too silent room were a reward enough.