Chapter Text
He remembers the first time he woke from a nightmare and Porthos was there.
Aramis had been shaken, vague memories mixed with the sharp recollection of fear, jerking awake and gasping for air long after he had gathered where he was.
Porthos had been patient and kind and held him until he calmed down. He had listened to Aramis talk about Savoy for the first time, a month after it happened.
It had been Savoy that time, at least in part, but other nights it would be other things. He'd narrowly escaped an untimely death many times, had failed to escape pain and interrogation and torture just as often, had seen enough horror. They all had. Aramis had no monopoly on night terrors.
Still, Porthos had been there and held him until his breathing evened out.
The tenth time, after a particularly nasty dream that dragged his deepest darkest fears from the corners of his conscience to throw them in his face, Athos had been there.
He had sat with him while Aramis caught his breath and quietly shared some of what he had seen, what he still struggled with, which new forms his memories could take on in the unlimited possibilities of a dream. Aramis had listened, Aramis had taken it to heart.
Everyone had nightmares. He just seemed to be the only one so affected by them.
The twentieth time or so he was alone, sleeping by the fire where the three of them had made camp. Porthos' sleeping bag was empty, presumably he'd wandered off to relieve himself, and Athos stood a few paces away, standing guard. He turned briefly at the noise Aramis made, eyebrows raised in a silent question of whether his brother was alright, and Aramis had given him a nod before settling back down, quietly shaking.
Wondering if nightmares born from trauma could themselves be traumatising.
He knew that he would only have to ask. If he said the word, his brothers would be there for him with the same patience and warmth they had offered him the first time. But he could not shake the acute memory of Porthos' weary sigh when Aramis, waking up with a shout, had once again disturbed what little sleep they were getting.
Neither could he forget Athos' well-meaning advice to have some wine before bed to assure a deeper sleep. As patient and loving as they were, they must be tired of this.
Every soldier had nightmares. Every soldier dealt with them.
Many nights later, curled in on himself and muffling his heavy breathing in the crook of his arm as he forced himself to calm down, Aramis longed for the embraces, the soft-spoken words that had so quickly and easily brought him back to his senses all that time ago, but it was a selfish wish. When his vivid nightmares first started up they had been new, they had been worrying, they had called for attention and support and brotherly reassurance.
But Aramis didn't get better, and it soon got old.
Yes, Aramis has nightmares. It's always Savoy, or Rochefort, or one of his many other close brushes with death. We get it, a voice in his head likes to mock. Aramis is reckless. Aramis gets himself into trouble. It's always Aramis who falls sick or gets hurt, which then gets him even more attention than he's getting already. Those nightmares are just the cherry on the cake.
He can't call for help every single time and expect the same softness, the same patience. He'll grow used to this, eventually. He won't need the reassurance any more.
The comfort.
He can't ask that of them.
But he hasn't gotten used to it, and perhaps he never will. Every time that he wakes up cold and shaking, bed-sheets drenched in sweat, he's just as lost as he was in the beginning.
Just as desperate for the affection he experienced the very first time.
Savoy is long gone. Everything that still haunts him is old news.
Talked about.
Dealt with.
He has no right to still be affected, and anyway, what are his brothers to do?
Everyone has nightmares. He won't become one of theirs.