“I don’t ignore them,” Athos insists, voice quiet and shaky with the effort it takes to admit even that much. “But it cannot always be repaired like one of your lightbulbs, Porthos.” Under the strain, his sounds a bit fond. Leave it to Porthos to think melancholy can be fixed like a switch.

Athos swallows hard and bows his head, holding the neck of the wine bottle between his hands. He isn’t sure he wants to hear how his friends fell into bed together; thinking about it makes his stomach twist for reasons he can’t quite understand. “I am glad you found happiness with each other.”

And he is. He has to be. They are his dearest friends, and he would never wish pain on them. Even when he doesn't understand what has made them so happy. Even when he is the source of that pain himself.