“Yes,” Athos murmurs dully, “I am lucky.” If Porthos’ little speech is meant to warm him to their life here, it does quite the opposite, only confirming what Athos already knows: that his friends have slipped into a life here that he doesn’t recognize, and doesn’t know his way into.

He still feels hollowed-out and flayed raw by Porthos’ accusations, and maybe that is why he cannot keep his heart hidden as easily as usual. Eyes heavy-lidded, Athos drinks from the bottle and tries to find words he doesn’t wish to say. “I should not have faulted the life you have built. That was cruel of me,” he murmurs. He sets the bottle down and twists his fingers together. “But I cannot-“ he swallows, tries again. “I have spent five years remaking a life. I had it in my grasp, Porthos. Finally.” Athos turns his palm up, and as he curls his fingers together, he can almost feel that locket slipping through them and to the ground. “And then I was gone. Then I was here, and must begin again.”

For all its vagueness, coming from Athos, it’s terribly close to a confession.