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Aramis gives himself away, throwing himself into every love affair as though Judgement Day were closing in. It makes Porthos feel like the rock at the centre of the storm, Aramis’s life whirling past him as his own goes nowhere. He wants to anchor Aramis and keep him close.
One evening, when Aramis rises from their table, he is startled by Porthos’s hand at his wrist.
“My friend, Avaline isn’t known for her patience,” Aramis says, with his customary gentle humour.
Porthos drops his hand, and his gaze, but not before Aramis has seen him for what he is.
Aramis considers him. “And yet I find myself unwilling,” he says softly.
Porthos shuffles the deck of cards. “You should go, if you’ve promised,” he says. “I wouldn’t keep you from her.” It’s a lie though, and now Aramis knows it too. It doesn’t stop him from going to his mistress though.
The following morning there’s something new between them. Aramis shows off, like always, but when Athos isn’t watching he looks at Porthos as though he’s weighing him up. When they spar and Aramis outsmarts him, his victory smirk holds a little extra cruelty as he pins Porthos to a wall at sword point, and a little extra promise.
It is a simple matter that evening, when Athos takes his leave of them, for Aramis to lead him away murmuring, “Come to my rooms,” and for Porthos to follow, as he would even unto the arms of death.
There are many evenings after that. Porthos undergoes a metamorphosis and is re-born a being of wonder. His heart is fit to burst with love, and his body is wracked with desires that can only be temporarily sated. The next private smile, the next weapon drawn in Porthos’s defence, leaves him thirsting for Aramis’s touch as the blood-scent drives the hounds.
They make love, Aramis breathless and tight against him. “You should have told me sooner,” he says into Porthos’s ear, a lover’s whisper, and Porthos is utterly defeated.
But still Aramis strays, and it is bittersweet knowledge to Porthos that he hasn’t managed to douse the smouldering wanderlust. It’s a fire that draws Aramis’s lovers to him and Porthos is no different; Porthos is mesmerised by it. The flame dances in Aramis’s eyes on the nights when he whispers his secrets and boasts of his conquests. It sizzles between them, hissing like the creeping fuse it is.
Not that Porthos can fault Aramis for his joie de vivre. Their duty demands blood, sweat and violence, given as gladly by Aramis as everything else he has to offer. When Porthos considers this though, in contrast to all the feminine beauty of Paris: perfumes, silks, lace fans and soft curls, he would not deny Aramis these things he knows Aramis also loves. Porthos is many things and he gives it all to Aramis. He tries not to begrudge his brother the delicacies he cannot offer.
It is inevitable that Athos finds out. It’s stupid, a stolen kiss in the stables and they’re lucky it’s no one else, but of course Athos has come looking for them. He sees them and worse, they see him, and no one can pretend otherwise. There’s fear in Athos’s face in that first moment of discovery but Aramis, beautiful Aramis is defiant as ever, and it sends Athos into a rage.
He punches Aramis in the face, drawing blood at his lip. Aramis is quick to retaliate, and before Porthos can stop him he has a fist slammed into Athos’s gut, sending Athos stumbling in the straw. Porthos gets between them then, and weathers Athos’s next blow stoically.
“You would get us all killed,” Athos snarls, swaying a little where he stands. His voice is tight but there’s a wild look, something almost deranged in his eyes.
“Are you done?” Porthos says.
Athos only glares at him, and turns on his heel before stalking away.
Athos is in a furious snit for a week. Porthos finds them assigned to every unpleasant duty, until Athos catches Aramis smirking behind his back. Then they’re assigned to even more unpleasant duties but separately.
There is never any question that Athos will expose them though. He is one of them, and they are three, no matter the logistics of Porthos and Aramis’s new arrangement.
After a long day of rain that Porthos spends shifting from foot to foot, guarding a little-known side entrance to the palace on his own, Athos comes back to their table. Aramis sneers and Athos looks down his nose, so it’s left to Porthos to break the silence.
“Can’t say I’m enjoying my punishment duties,” he says, holding out his sodden arms to demonstrate just how miserable his day has been.
Athos deigns only to blink. “You deserve them.”
“Why?!” Aramis slams his palm down on their table. The inn’s other patrons shoot them wary glances. “Do we disgust you? Are we not the same brothers you knew a week ago?”
“Come,” Athos says, standing and donning his hat, “We will not speak of this here.”
Back in Aramis’s rooms Porthos is reminded of that pivotal evening many months ago. He sees a little of the same fear he had felt back then in the way Athos holds himself aloof; in the set of Athos’s jaw.
“So what is it then?” Aramis says, turning on Athos the moment the door is closed. “What’s your problem Athos? Are you going to lecture us now on God and morality?”
“God is a pock-ridden whore,” Athos says, and Aramis flinches from the blasphemy. “I know nothing of God and neither do I wish to. But I do know the price exacted by men for sodomy. And I have no wish to see us hang. You must stop.”
“No.”
Athos looks to Porthos. “You must see sense.”
“We know the risk for ourselves,” Porthos argues, “And we would never implicate you.”
“And for my part?” Athos snarls, losing composure, “Am I to denounce you both and witness your deaths?”
Porthos knows no answer to that, so he holds his tongue.
Aramis gives Athos a narrow look, then his face clears in dawning realisation. “We didn’t ask you,” he breathes.
Athos glares between them, stubborn as ever, but there’s guilt in his expression and he can’t hold Aramis’s eye.
“I think he’s waiting to be asked,” Aramis says, sounding amused, and sending Porthos a little smile that means it’s alright, Aramis has figured it out and all is right again with their world.
“Don’t be absurd,” Athos says, turning away from them. He helps himself to an abandoned half-bottle of wine from Aramis’s table.
Porthos watches Athos’s adam’s apple bob when he swallows, and bob again as he tries to hide his nerves. His throat is on the slender side for a man of arms, and pale as a lily. “Athos?” Porthos says, “I will die, and gladly, before I let this go.”
Athos sighs. He turns to Porthos, sets down his wine and kisses him on the mouth. And so much for waiting to be asked.
Behind them Aramis says, “Oh Athos, we’re sorry,” and Porthos holds them both, finding an awkward three-way embrace. He feels the world shifting again beneath his feet.
Athos comes to them afterwards, infrequently at first, and always when they’re together, but soon he’s with them more often than not. He comes quietly, never asking for much, and he’s wary but willing. Aramis is gentle with him, leading Porthos again where he is only too grateful to follow.
It takes a while for Athos to trust them this way. He’s like the rosebud gradually unfurling to the sun, with a pale and noble beauty. Athos shines where Aramis burns and Porthos is truly blessed.
He had thought at first, when Athos joined them in intimacy, that maybe Athos and Porthos together could be enough for Aramis. Athos, after all, although not quite as beautiful as Aramis, can at least hold a candle to the rest of Paris. He has a raw beauty, dark and brooding, and he knows Aramis sees it too, and has fallen for it as surely as Porthos himself. But still Aramis wanders.
Aramis is looking for something more. He gives himself away, each conquest more dangerous. It's as though, upon realising that he is beautiful and strong, Aramis is compelled to use his body in every possible way and to its absolute limits while he can, before old age or death catch up with him. Athos can beat him at the sword, and sometimes even Porthos can on a good day, but they are both smitten by Aramis's other charms. In every conquest Aramis is truly seeking the shrouded partner who cannot be bested by sword or sweet talk. They try to keep him from it, but Porthos understands: every story of true love must end in grief, mourning and death, it’s the human condition. Aramis courts Death simply because it is in Aramis’s nature to court.
When it transpires that Athos has an undead wife, there are a bad few weeks where Athos turns to serious drink and makes half-hearted attempts to isolate himself from his lovers. They cheerfully dodge the hurled objects though, and the hurled insults, and do their best to keep him company.
It’s some days before they’re confident Athos isn’t going to drink himself to death, and more before he can be persuaded to stay sober long enough to sob himself to sleep in their arms. Aramis stays with them for a fortnight straight, until the call of the scented boudoir is too much to resist.
Porthos is always there though. On the nights when Aramis goes out cavorting he and Athos find comfort in quiet companionship: a book, a crackling fire and a warm body to lean into. Porthos doesn’t try anything more while Aramis is absent; it doesn’t seem right somehow.
Eventually Athos sets aside his book and comes to Porthos. The first time Aramis comes home to find them entwined, Porthos’s cock buried deep in Athos’s body, he fakes outrage, clutching his hair and saying, “How long has this been going on?” before promptly shedding his clothes and joining them. Porthos notices though, that Aramis loves them both with a slightly renewed vigour, and there are no more liaisons that week. He doesn’t think it escapes Athos’s attention either.
Their brotherhood plays its part in keeping Athos from self-destructing, but Porthos doesn’t fool himself that love alone would keep Athos from the gutter. It’s the pride of being a good soldier, perhaps the best soldier, that really drives Athos on. And there’s d’Artagnan to look out for too, taken under their collective wing. Porthos knows that Athos, in his sober moments at least, wants to live up to the hero worship that’s painfully evident in d’Artagnan’s every action when Athos is near. It shines out of the boy’s wide eyes so openly that Porthos is embarrassed for him.
Confiscating all the drink at the peak of Athos’s next three-day bender also helps. Athos fights for it in a drunken pique, less the regiment’s most fearsome and more wet kitten, and Porthos and Aramis bear the scratch marks to show for it. Athos doesn’t apologise the next day or even mention it, but it seems like a fair trade to Porthos anyway: they force Athos to continue living, and in return Athos continues living.
Even after the hangover, when Athos has cracked a smile and is once again amenable to intimacy, they monitor the wine more carefully.
Porthos wouldn’t want to live if one of the others died. Better that they all die than just one or, worse, two of them. If it were one he would never say so, and would never do anything to make it so either. If Athos succumbed to drunkenness one day and didn’t rise to greet the morning, or if Aramis finally managed to get himself murdered by a jealous husband, then Porthos would live the rest of his life in silent mourning, but he would live, for the other one.
If they were both to die then Porthos could wish for no better end than to die by their side. In a terrible maudlin way it’s his greatest hope for the future. His worst nightmares are those where he’s left behind. Porthos would invite death if that happened. It wouldn’t be Athos’s style of self-destruction because Porthos is too cowardly for a slow death, or Aramis’s either since he would have no wish to cheat it. Something more explosive. Something certain. A charge into the Red Guards whilst hurling insults seems fitting.
“A pleasant reverie?” Athos enquires, coming to sit beside him.
Porthos realises he must have been grimacing and shrugs it off. “That thing’s filthy,” he remarks, gesturing to Athos’s arquebus, laid out beside his own for cleaning.
“It landed in the mud, with d’Arganan. I was teaching him to aim from horseback. I’d have made him clean it but well,” Athos shakes his head, “You should see the state of the rest of him.”
Porthos grins. “Going well then?” He follows Athos’s line of sight, caught by something at the far side of the courtyard. Aramis lounges in a shaft of sunlight. He nods their way when he notices them watching, and slips the golden crucifix he was fondling away inside his jerkin. It catches a flare of light before it disappears and Porthos exchanges a look with Athos, knowing what he’s going to say before he says it.
“He’s going to get himself killed.” Athos’s voice is low enough that nobody will overhear.
All of us, Porthos silently agrees but he doesn’t need to say it. “We just have to keep him in check,” he says instead.
“The way you keep me in check?” Athos asks, but when Porthos glances at him he’s doing the half-smile that says he isn’t angry or annoyed. “Thank you, for taking the wine.”
Porthos inclines his head, “Any time.” He pulls back his collar to reveal the scratches where Athos drew blood, duller than they had been but still visible. Athos goes back to cleaning the arquebus. He doesn’t apologise but he doesn’t lose the half-smile either.
Porthos has never understood Aramis’s desire to sleep around. Lying with strangers who don’t know him and love him is a vaguely repulsive idea. The intimacy he shares with Aramis and Athos is perfect: they know his body so well, his likes and his desires. No stranger could hold any appeal by comparison.
Something odd starts to happen to Porthos’s libido in the springtime though. He steps into a woodland grove with Aramis, to meet Athos and d’Artagnan who are setting up practice targets, and suddenly some of Aramis’s proclivities make more sense. Because in the glory of the moment, surely d’Artagnan is the prettiest young thing in all of Paris? Porthos tries not to look at the boy’s bare throat and slender forearms. He tries to focus on what Athos is saying instead of d’Artagnan’s hair, loose about his shoulders and begging to be tugged, and he thinks he’s having an epiphany. Or possibly a seizure.
He misses more targets than the boy and curses himself for his distraction. By the end of their practice session he is cursing Aramis, and Athos too, for leading him astray and awakening the beast of depravity that must have been lying dormant inside him all along. He wonders if the kitchens accidentally put the wrong kind of woodland mushrooms in the stew.
It’s a relief for Porthos to realise that his newly awoken ardour is restricted to their apprentice. The feelings grow as the sun burns longer in the sky, and as d’Artagnan increasingly invades every other area of their lives. It’s irritating on the one hand, to find himself blushing at small compliments from the boy (to Aramis’s keen amusement), but also reassuring in the sense that Porthos has come to care for the whelp and isn’t, after his initial panic, lusting over complete strangers.
The relief is counterbalanced by fresh alarm however, when Porthos realises that d’Artagnan is flirting with him. He tells himself that a person with such a pretty head could make any angle coquettish; that a person with long eyelashes can’t help but flutter them, since everybody has to blink. He tells himself that he’s imagining it all, until he recognises terror in the particular set of Athos’s jaw, being one of only two people who could notice such a thing. D’Artagnan is flirting with all of them. Only Aramis has failed to notice or, more likely, Aramis has noticed and accepted it as his due.
D’Artagnan strips to the waist more often as the sun grows hotter. Porthos imagines how they’d look together, Athos and Aramis, porcelain and light gold respectively, against his and d’Artagnan’s sun-bronzed skin. Common sense kicks in gradually, and Porthos begins to understand that d’Artagnan doesn’t know that he’s flirting. The boy is merely acting intuitively in a way fashioned to please them all, oblivious to the devastating effect he’s having on Porthos. And the more closely Porthos looks, the more he suspects that Athos has it worse.
Midsummer’s day is anguish. Athos and Aramis are sent to the Chateau with ‘vital’ correspondence from the King, which is to say they’re on glorified messenger duty. Porthos has no orders, so he and d’Artagnan train for long hours in the afternoon sun. Porthos enjoys d’Artagnan’s company, his wit and camaraderie, and they’re at a point where d’Artagnan can show Porthos a thing or two in practice, Porthos himself being no slouch. Were it not for the shirtlessness, the water d’Artagnan insists on pouring over his head and the flush of pleasure every time Porthos compliments him, it would be a glorious way to pass the day. Porthos tries to reign in his compliments but can’t make himself do it, helplessly at the mercy of his infatuation.
The others are late back and the sun is low when they arrive. They stroll in looking as though neither of them have a care in the world, Athos finding amusement rather than scandal in the tale Aramis is relating. Porthos doesn’t greet them as he should, or make his excuses to d’Artagnan either. He has one desperate aim: to find a cool room where he can satisfy himself until he is once again deserving of their company. He heaves the bucket aloft and pours the remaining water over his head, cursing because it’s disgustingly tepid, and makes his escape.
“Porthos!” d’Artagnan calls after him. “Have I done something to offend you my friend?”
Porthos smiles but it’s strained. He keeps moving. “No! Just the sun, I need to...” he waves vaguely in the direction he’s heading and tries to ignore Athos’s sceptical expression.
Aramis follows him, keeping pace easily. “What’s the matter with you?” he says, when they’re out of earshot. “It’s not even that hot anymore. Who pissed in your flagon?”
There would be no chance of privacy in the barracks and Porthos stops at an intersection, his vague plans of renting somewhere abruptly distasteful. “Can we go to your rooms?”
Aramis makes an expansive gesture that says, mais oui. “With the proviso that you talk when we get there,” he adds.
They haven’t been talking for long when Athos joins them, dashing in his shirt sleeves with two bottles of red wine.
“It’s too hot for red wine,” Porthos complains.
“No such thing.” Athos makes himself at home, sharing out the wine. And they are at home, Porthos supposes, although the rooms are nominally Aramis’s. It’s as close to home as any of them are likely to get. “Does one of you want to tell me what that was all about?”
“It’s serious I’m afraid,” Aramis says, shaking his head with a faux sombreness that is frankly insulting. “I think he might be falling in love.”
“In- What?” Athos looks baffled then frowns, wary of a joke at his own expense.
“That’s not what I said!” Porthos protests, mortified that Aramis should shrink his complicated and tender feelings into something so trite.
“With d’Artagnan,” Aramis clarifies.
“Oh.” Athos doesn’t meet anyone’s eye.
“He is rather lovely, I have to admit,” Aramis says silkily, taking a break from sucking Porthos’s cock and working him over with a hand instead. “Can you imagine d’Artagnan doing this for you?” He uses his mouth, giving Porthos a moment to mull this over.
Porthos reaches forward, trying to get his fingers in Aramis’s hair, but Aramis pushes him back. “Nughh,” Porthos protests. He doesn’t think d’Artagnan would want to do anything like this, not really, not to Porthos who is too big and strong, too wide and with a cock to match. Once said however, the idea sinks its tendrils into him.
Aramis reads him, as always, and divines his apprehensions. “You’re a big mouthful but I think he’d turn cock slut for you.” The words draw Porthos on as much as the touch. It’s a game they’ve been learning to play together. “I think he’d enjoy the way you taste when he got used to it. I know I do. I can’t get enough. It wouldn’t take d’Artagnan long to get addicted too, I’m sure of it.”
“Aramis,” Porthos groans plaintively. He holds their eye contact though, fighting the drooping of his lids as Aramis dismantles his world again with his mouth.
“I could teach him, it’s not so different from kissing. We could do it to you together,” Aramis’s touch turns teasing, as it does when he knows Porthos is close. “Go on,” he says, “Imagine that I’m him. I don’t mind.”
And Porthos doesn’t want to imagine it, but the fantasy is there now, taking root between them. He tells himself he doesn’t want it to be anyone else, only Aramis who loves him or Athos or, on the days when he’s really lucky, both of them at once making him feel so good. It’s no use though, and with a guilty lurch Porthos realises that Aramis is play-acting d’Artagnan too, looking up innocently through his lashes, a hint of distress between his brows. Porthos gives it up, spilling himself in Aramis’s mouth while the fantasy firmly embeds itself in his mind.
They’re eating at the inn, discussing skirmish tactics and how to teach such things to d’Artagnan, when Aramis lowers his voice and says, “There’s so much else you could teach him, dear Porthos,” with a leer. Porthos snorts beer down his nose. It hurts.
“Son of a whore!” He wrenches Aramis’s scarf loose and uses it to clean himself up.
Athos doesn’t protest, just smirks at their antics. The inn is overcrowded with a rowdy rabble and they’d been lucky to get a table. There’s little chance of being overheard.
Porthos does want to teach d’Artagnan things, but good things, like battle tactics and tricks to Parisienne life that will stand him in better stead. It’s not even sexual really. Sometimes Porthos imagines just having his arm around the boy, being trusted and allowed close… and then it is sexual apparently. Either that, or his body has been so finely conditioned by Aramis-the-Wicked that he’s no longer master of it. Aroused despite himself, Porthos wants to be anywhere other than trapped in the stinking inn.
“You know, I saw d’Artagnan in the tack room earlier,” Aramis confides, speaking this time to Athos, voice just loud enough to carry. “He was idly running his fingers over the leather of Roger’s bridle. What do you think of that?”
Porthos considers dousing Aramis with his remaining beer but he also wants to hear more. He’s almost sure Aramis is making it up, but not quite certain.
“I said you’d be grateful of a wax job if he was willing,” Aramis continues, obviously enjoying himself. “Do you know, I think he might have polished your saddle too.”
“Really.” Athos affects supreme boredom, and it’s a good show but they both know him better. His complexion gives him away.
“With his tongue first if I’m any judge.” Aramis dodges the punch Athos throws half-heartedly at his shoulder. “Just giving you something to occupy your thoughts,” he says, laughing delightedly at Athos’s scowl. “For tomorrow’s ride. You’re welcome.”
Later though, away from the masses and in an altogether gentler tone, Aramis says, “I don’t know why the two of you are embarrassed about it anyway, D’Artagnan is quite divine. There’s no shame in appreciation of beauty you know.” He retrieves Athos’s wine for him without needing to be asked and adds, “I think I might be a little in love with him myself.”
Porthos shifts his arm to make room and Aramis re-settles his body in the warm patch at Porthos’s side.
“Ain’t he lovely,” Petronille drawls, pinching d’Artagnan’s cheek and insinuating herself between d’Artagnan and the table with surprising speed and stealth.
“Oh no, I- ” D’Artagnan tries to protest his lapful of mademoiselle, but his words are lost in her kiss.
“I know, don’t worry,” she says, freeing him just as quickly and extracting herself with the same supple grace. “That one was free.” She slaps his abused cheek gently and tips them all a wink before slinking away to look for business elsewhere.
“Sorry,” d’Artagnan says, red faced, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Really it should be Porthos, Athos and Aramis who are apologising, since none of them had lifted a finger to help him.
“Petronille means no harm,” Aramis assures him. “And she’s not wrong, you really are lovely.”
“Aramis,” d’Artagnan hisses, scandalised, in what he probably thinks is a hushed tone. They’re all drunk however, and d’Artagnan most of all, so it comes out as more of a dramatic aside. This tickles Porthos and he chuckles. D’Artagnan has been glancing to Athos for approval all evening, even more blatantly than usual, and it shouldn’t be so adorable. This time he does it with a touch of apology, and Porthos outright snorts. Athos is more to blame for encouraging Aramis than anyone, except perhaps Porthos himself.
Aramis glares at Porthos. “You know he’s lovely,” he says accusingly, wagging his finger, and they probably need to keep their voices down but nobody seems to be paying attention.
“Never said he wasn’t.” Porthos shares a look of exasperation with Athos. Sometimes the best way to defuse Aramis is just to agree with him and let it be.
D’Artagnan looks between them with confusion written on his pretty drunk face. “You’re beautiful,” he says to Aramis, with his generous mouth. Aramis tries to wave him off but God has seen fit to add another stubborn drunk to their company, for their sins. “You have…” d’Artagnan flails, “Nice hair,” he frowns, “And you smell really good.”
Porthos and Athos watch in fascination as d’Artagnan’s words catch up with him and his face heats.
He won’t be deterred though, warming to his subject, having clearly given it some forethought. He laughs. “You have a perfect mustache,” he accuses, “And the fingers of an artist.”
D’Artagnan rocks back in his seat and Athos makes a hushing gesture.
“Sorry, sorry,” d’Artagnan says, modifying his tone and glancing guiltily around. Then he smiles and leans across the table, “And the face of an angel,” he stage-whispers triumphantly to Aramis. He looks very pleased with himself for a moment, and then abruptly a little ill.
It’s not often that they get to see Aramis abashed, and on these rare occasions Porthos thinks he’s even more beautiful. He had seen an idol once, from Russia, painted by a monk in isolation who was purported to have been touched by Holy Grace and thus able to replicate the very likeness of God on wood. In Porthos’s memory it looked a lot like Aramis. Two eyes, a nose and a mouth elevated somehow to a beauty almost beyond human endurance, the only possible explanation miraculous. To look upon Aramis is to look upon the Glory of God, and sometimes Porthos has to look away.
Aramis talks about d’Artagnan at the most inopportune moments and won’t leave it alone. It becomes part of their love making, simultaneously unbearable to acknowledge, and also the only thing Porthos wants to think about. He has come to care deeply about what d’Artagnan thinks of him, no, of them, and invoking his name in passion feels like a betrayal. D’Artagnan is one of them in all else, after all. It’s also blisteringly good though, and Porthos reaches his crises shamefully fast, moaning pitifully every time.
It’s the raw edge of emotion to Aramis’s teasing that makes it addictive, sending them in raptures so desperately good that they’re barely a side-step from pain. Porthos comes to crave it and thinks Athos does too. Athos won’t give Aramis the satisfaction of obvious responses though, being always so tightly controlled, often to the point of release.
It takes both of them and two bottles of wine to bring him to their level. They’ve had a difficult day: an unexpected confrontation with Richelieu’s Guards followed by an unsympathetic verbal thrashing from Treville, which none of them will forget any time soon. After the wine, Athos is loose in a way he usually isn’t, panting with abandon as Aramis thrusts into him from behind. Porthos can’t see his face, since he’s under both of them doing his level best to choke himself on Athos’s cock. He can see Athos in his mind’s eye though: mouth hanging open, eyes screwed shut.
“I know you want to do this to him,” Aramis says, and Athos’s cock throbs in response. Porthos wonders if Aramis experienced a matching spasm where they’re joined, and has to get a hand on himself too. He loves it like this, all three of them working so well together. “I’m sure he wants you Athos,” Aramis says, “The boy’s besotted.”
“Shut up,” Athos manages to growl, and Porthos feels bad for him, even as he hangs on every word.
“I know you want him,” Aramis says, relentless. “And I know you hid his debtors note from Treville.”
Athos moans, managing to make it sound guilty, as well he might. Porthos wonders how Aramis had found out.
“Can you guess who else knows?” Aramis says, pushing his luck, but Athos is too far gone for a coherent response. Porthos pictures him again, eyes still screwed shut but hanging his head now and waiting for judgement. “That’s right,” Aramis says, never missing a beat. “D’Artagnan knows too.”
“Fuck,” Athos says in a harsh whisper, and Porthos hears him because he’s closest like this.
“But that’s alright,” Aramis continues. “He’s incapable of thinking badly of you. Probably lying in his bed, lights out, imagining exactly this with himself in the middle and you on top.”
“Please,” Athos whispers, and it’s Porthos who moans this time. Athos sounds broken. It could be please stop or please continue, or just please make me come.
“He wants you Athos. Desperately. I see it, I know it.”
Athos sobs and comes in Porthos’s mouth, setting him off too, and Aramis follows them a moment later.
Nobody talks for a while and Athos keeps his eyes closed, his body jerking with the occasional aftershock. Porthos wonders if they’ve really broken him this time, but then he says, “You’re a real bastard sometimes,” in a croaky voice.
Aramis says, “I know how hot he gets you.” He wears the same smug smile he gets after a sweet victory in combat.
In the tack room early, d’Artagnan brings Roger’s saddle to Athos, the leather gleaming like new. Aramis snickers and Porthos busies himself in a far corner. He can hear Athos thanking d’Artagnan sincerely though.
It hadn’t occured to Porthos that he and Athos might turn the tables, but as they walk to the stables carrying the tack, Athos says very quietly to Aramis, “I think you’re jealous. We all know you’re wishing he’d polish your saddle.” Aramis is surprised, caught in a blush, and Porthos tips his hat to Athos in admiration.
Unfortunately, Aramis takes it as a challenge and Athos gets more than he bargained for. Every time d’Artagnan rides ahead, Aramis murmurs a comment that, taken out of context, would be innocuous. In context, they’re filthy double-entendres, making it impossible to think of anything else.
By the time they reach a roadside inn, it is clear that Athos has unleashed a monster. Porthos’s jaw aches from clenching it all day, and he’s itching to either punch Aramis in the face, or bend him over one of the tables right there, propriety be damned.
“We have to get him to join us,” Aramis says, when he and Porthos are alone, watering the horses. “I’d make sure he- ”
Porthos grabs Aramis by the doublet and backs them into a stall so they’re out of sight. He shoves Aramis against a wall and kisses him, making his frustration felt. It’s explosive and Aramis urges him on. Porthos lets himself run with it, feeling stripped to the quick by hours of teasing.
There’s a gasp behind them and Porthos wheels around.
“D’Artagnan!” Aramis calls, and d’Artagnan reappears reluctantly in the doorway.
“Shit,” Porthos curses, and Aramis is out of smart remarks for once.
“I was just…” D’Artagnan raises a hand and drops it again. “Does Athos know?”
They can’t implicate Athos: if they had been caught by someone else, just knowing about it would be enough to see Athos hang by their side. But they can’t lie to d’Artagnan either.
“I would regard it as a great personal favour,” Aramis says carefully, “If you could see your way to keeping our secret.”
“Uh yes.” d’Artagnan blinks rapidly. It doesn’t occur to him to take offence that they should need to ask. He pulls himself together and smiles. “Anything Aramis. Porthos. Of course. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“You’ll have to stop kissing me in stables,” Aramis says afterwards, when they’re shut in their room.
“You’ll have to stop provoking me then,” Porthos says, setting about finishing what they had started.
Athos looks terrible in the morning. “I think d’Artagnan knows,” he says, grim, keeping his voice low and stealing bread from Porthos’s plate with ill grace. “In our room he kept himself far removed, and he’s been acting strangely. I can’t imagine what else might have caused it.”
“He saw us,” Porthos confesses, “In the stables yesterday. We didn’t have a chance to tell you.”
“You were- ” Athos gestures in outrage, furious for a moment, but it quickly fades to resignation. “Saw you do what?”
“We kissed,” Aramis says, barely giving breath to the words. “That’s all. He thinks you don’t know. It’s probably a lot to deliberate over.”
Athos pulls a hand across his face, as though he might wipe away the tiredness. “Then he only means to protect you from me,” he says, with a measure of relief. “Oh the irony. You know I hardly slept a wink?”
“Neither did I,” Aramis says, grinning at Porthos.
“What’s so funny?” D’Artagnan takes the last seat at the table and takes the remaining bread from Athos’s plate. There’s a crease in his cheek where it’s been resting against a fold in the sheets.
“I do know,” Athos announces, catching d’Artagnan off guard. “And what’s more,” he glances around, but the innkeeper’s wife has retreated to the kitchens and they are her only patrons, “I partake.”
D’Artagnan looks beseechingly at Porthos, then Aramis, then back at his plate, his face going scarlet.
Athos meets their incredulity with a shrug. “It was inevitable,” he says. “We can trust him.”
D’Artagnan doesn’t mention it for a few weeks and life goes back to normal, with only a spate of horse thefts and a royal assassination attempt to pass the time. Their company plays a major role in thwarting the attempt and they celebrate in several taverns. When the hour is late, they do d’Artagnan the courtesy of taking their leave one at a time, although really they’re heading to Aramis’s rooms together. D’Artagnan catches Porthos by the arm though, before he can go. “I want to come too,” he says, stubbornly.
Porthos hesitates. It would be unworthy to leave d’Artagnan in the street, since he’s made it plain he knows their game, but he’s reluctant to act alone, not really sure what d’Artagnan is asking for.
He’s decided to Hell with it and he’ll take d’Artagnan along anyway, when d’Artagnan kisses him. His lips linger, pressed warm to Porthos’s cheek where beard meets bare skin. It’s more than would be usually acceptable between comrades but moderate enough to be explained away by inebriation.
And then d’Artagnan leaves Porthos in the street, and Porthos reels like an amateur sailor.
The following evening they rise from the table, three of them as one. D’Artagnan only looks at them blankly. Athos says, “Time to retire?” and D’Artagnan scrambles to his feet, seeming well pleased as he follows them out.
“I don’t know what I want!” d’Artagnan says, for the third or fourth time. “Athos please,” he holds out a hand but Athos ignores it. “How can I know what I’m asking if I don’t know how this works?”
Their conversation reached an impasse several cycles ago and d’Artagnan’s frustration is mounting. “Have you even been with a man before?” Aramis asks him.
“No,” d’Artagnan admits, and the stubbornness they have come to know and dread settles over his features. “But I want to.”
“And what of your standing with God,” Aramis says. “We would not see you condemned for our sins.”
“I would follow you into Hell!” D’Artagnan shouts, crossing into anger.
“And Constance?” Aramis persists, squaring up to d’Artagnan and standing in his space.
“Leave her out of this.”
“You would betray your lady?” Aramis sneers, and Porthos wonders if it will come to blows, “Turn sinner and criminal both?”
D’Artagnan holds his ground and Aramis continues before he can answer.
“And if we’re found out, you will be hanged as surely as we will all be hanged. Must you risk the gallows as well and Hell thereafter?”
“Yes!”
The danger slips out of Aramis’s stance and he takes d’Artagnan’s face gently in hand. “Well, that’s alright then,” he says, and kisses him. D’Artagnan makes a high sound of distress into the kiss and clutches desperately at Aramis, bringing their bodies flush. Aramis gentles him and their kiss turns exploratory, languid. It’s the most erotic thing Porthos has ever seen.
Aramis pulls away too soon, leaving d’Artagnan breathless and very obviously aroused. “Where are you going?” Athos says sharply, while d’Artagnan slumps to the bed at his side.
“I have an appointment with the Comtesse de Velin,” Aramis says mildly, and it’s the first Porthos has heard of her. “The Comte has left her behind while he returns to their chateaux. Very unwise.” He dons his hat and leaves the room.
“Well I hope your dick falls off,” Athos says to the closed door.
“I heard that.” Aramis’s voice is faint, and a moment later they hear his key turn in the outer door, locking them in and keeping them safe.
Porthos takes the hand d’Artagnan offers him and claims his mouth, still wet from Aramis’s kiss.
They fall into a routine, visiting Aramis’s rooms almost every evening and only sleeping at the barracks when circumstances demand their presence. Aramis dubs this arrangement ‘experimental kissing,’ which is amusing as kissing is the very least of it. D’Artagnan does not regret the arrangement and frequently says so. He’s a quick study and Aramis takes advantage of this, making d’Artagnan his student and co-conspirator in the subtle art of bedroom talk. It might be the end of Porthos yet.
When d’Artagnan sucks idly on Porthos’s fingers, finding arousal so soon again after his ‘kissing’ session with Athos, Aramis says, “I can teach you how to take his cock in your mouth.” Aramis climbs between Porthos’s legs and d’Artagnan slips his tongue between Porthos’s fingers and gives Porthos bedroom eyes. “We could do it together,” Aramis suggests, “I think he’d like that.”
Porthos’s arousal renews at Aramis’s touch. “Have pity,” he groans, but there is no pity to be had.
“We should have foreseen this,” Athos says, but settles in anyway to enjoy the show.
D’Artagnan has renewed enthusiasm for training, and for honour, and for life in general it seems. Aramis doesn’t miss a quip about this but they’re all proud of him, although of course it goes unspoken. Porthos can see it most obviously in Athos, in the extra inch when he walks taller, the smiles that are more frequent, and the touch of Aramis’s wax in his moustache.
They survive a couple of truly hairbrained missions but these are interspersed with long slow evenings together, with cushions and blankets scattered before the fire. There is ‘kissing’ in varied configurations, but also rich conversation, books and camaraderie. Porthos sometimes plays with d’Artagnan’s hair, which feels good enough to persist with despite Aramis’s taunts. When he realises Aramis is jealous he plays with Aramis’s hair too, which turns Aramis on and leads elsewhere, but it’s the small things that mean the most. They grow comfortable in each other’s company and closer than ever.
Waking together becomes important to Porthos. He’s usually the first to wake and sometimes wakes Athos too on those mornings when silent tears roll from the corners of Athos’s eyes. “Dreams of hanging,” Athos says like a man defeated, when Porthos asks. “Always of hanging,” and Porthos holds him and distracts him as best he can with quiet tales of thievery and scandal from his youth.
Porthos hopes that one day Athos will be free of his demons. It doesn’t escape his notice though that the times when Aramis puts a hand gently at Athos’s throat are the times when Athos comes hardest and longest, keening his release.
Although Porthos has had Aramis, and he knows Athos has too when d’Artagnan was absent, it’s the only thing they haven’t done yet with d’Artagnan. On his darker days Porthos imagines how d’Artagnan’s life might have been as a simple farmer in Gascony. He can’t shake the idea that it isn’t too late for d’Argagnan, and that until they’ve corrupted him utterly and made him a sodomite he might yet save his immortal soul.
Paris is a cruel mistress. Porthos has seen her at her poorest, having grown up in her secret filth, and also at her richest, being better acquainted with opulence than the average Parisienne who does not guard the King. He knows her intimately, and answers her depravities in his own actions: in every drunken brawl, every act of thievery and deceit. Athos, the best of men, has been dragged before her firing squad, and Porthos himself knows the ghost of her rope. Life and death mingle in her crowded streets and in her crowded salons alike.
Their lifestyle could only exist in Paris and nowhere else in the world. Porthos is part of the city’s depravity: her envoy and her actor, and they are all subject to her whim. He thinks Athos has similar misgivings, perhaps from long before he laid a finger on any of them, but the conversation turns to fucking regardless. It’s innocently done, alluded to in the book of philosophy Aramis is reading, and it was inevitable that d’Artagnan would demand to be included in this too at some point.
“Are you sure?” Porthos says.
“It’s a bit late for a morality crisis,” d’Artagnan says cheerfully, but turns serious when he sees real worry in Porthos’s face. He takes up Porthos’s forearm and strokes it, soothing him. It’s one of his favourite pass-times since the discovery that Porthos’s arms are exquisitely ticklish. The sensation puts Porthos into a state of slackjawed gratitude every time. “I know that you do it together,” d’Artagnan says, “But I don’t know who does what.”
“You mean who prefers to do the giving and who prefers to do the receiving?” Aramis asks, shameless as ever.
“We don’t usually discuss it,” Athos says. He looks pained and d’Artagnan laughs at his discomfort.
Aramis says, “Actually Porthos usually does the fucking, perhaps he prefers to.”
“That’s not true,” Porthos protests, although when he considers it from Aramis’s point of view he can see how it would seem to be so. “There was the night after the Cardinal’s carriage overturned,” he reminds him, “When you both had me more than once. It’s amongst my favourite memories.”
“Enough talking,” d’Artagnan complains, abandoning Porthos’s arm to press a hand against himself.
“Which of us then?” Athos says, cutting to the heart of the matter.
Porthos shakes his head, “I’m too big.”
“That wouldn’t matter,” Aramis says, “With the right amount of attention before the act itself.”
“Aramis then,” Athos decides, shrugging at Porthos’s questioning look. “He’s the least likely to lose control,” he says, by which he means that Aramis is the most skilful, but Porthos doesn’t mind. In fact he wholeheartedly agrees.
“Don’t I get a say?” d’Artagnan says.
Athos turns his consideration on him. “Do you have a preference?”
They wait but d’Artagnan makes no reply. Eventually he says, “No,” and Athos rolls his eyes.
Aramis smiles. “Let us guide you in this as we guide you in other matters.”
And that’s how Porthos gets to hold d’Artagnan and kiss him, while Aramis fucks into him and Athos reaches between them to coax d’Artagnan’s cock to climax with his hand. Aramis is the main event, holding himself over them and letting them see every moue of pleasure as it crosses his face.
Porthos knows the genius of Aramis’s hips from experience, and the knowing ministrations of Athos’s hand, and he feels every breathy moan that d’Artagnan utters down to his very soul. Between the three of them they play d’Artagnan like a fiddle and, although it’s over all too quickly, Porthos will relive it in his dreams for many months.
Afterwards as they languish together, satisfied to a man, Porthos hides his face against Aramis’s chest. He has everything here in this room, in a moment of unexpected perfection. He’s so happy, and all he can think is that it can’t last: he has never had so much to lose. He doesn’t want to be maudlin but the tears come anyway, overwhelming him. Aramis doesn’t make fun. He cradles Porthos’s face and anoints him with featherlight kisses.
Every story of true love ends in grief, mourning and death, it’s the human condition. Porthos weeps for the searing beauty of it.