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[afineseamstress]

He loses track of time again.

The room is well lit, loud beyond the door and bustling with activity when doctors or nurses enter, but Aramis drifts. In that damnable basement, his only knowledge of passing minutes was the degree of his own thirst, and here in his bed, he can only count the continued ease of his breaths, and the pass of familiar calloused fingers over his own knuckles where his hands lie in the sheets.

There is some sort of brace on one of his wrists. Aramis has not yet recovered the nerve to ask if his hand can still pull a trigger, even if he could speak without effort. His head is too heavy to turn away from the sight, and Aramis shifts his eyes, fighting sleep to discern the new shape in the door.

He hopes it belongs to someone without a clipboard.

[open post if the spirit moves you]

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[afineseamstress]

Aramis nods, breathing in deeply through his nose lest that mad beeping bring the small, angry nurse again. "Forgive me," he murmurs, laying his head back against the pillows. He is so damnably tired - it is as if he has no control over himself at all.

In Savoy, he had been surrounded by the open forest, by so many of his brothers, and yet completely alone. This time he has been alone in the dark, and Aramis can already feel that old desire never to be without light or sound rise within him. "It may be some time before I am easy being alone."

[du_vallon]

Porthos continues to stroke his hand over Aramis' hair, knowing that he needs that continual touch to ground even him. "You think I was put off by that ever? Haven't I been your best friend for over six years now? Since when are we ever alone?" he asks, kissing Aramis' cheek tenderly. "Sleep now, chou. I'm right here."