Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They say that when you meet your soulmate, the whole world opens up. Food tastes better, alcohol is supposed to be enjoyable (Athos can’t even fathom that), and people experience a new sense that allows them to experience everything on Earth in a new way.

When you meet your soulmate, you gain a new sense. The sense of smell.

Athos doesn’t know if he likes the idea. Ever since he was a child, it mildly terrified him. He quite liked the world as it was, thank you very much, he didn’t want it to suddenly include new stimuli that would assault his senses and change how he experienced everything he knew. He definitely didn’t like the fact that this new awareness couldn’t be turned off. What if he didn’t like having a sense of smell? What if he didn’t like the new world he’d be forced into?

His parents laughed, of course. They were soulmates. They had lived without the sense of smell and with it, and they assured him with placating smiles that there was nothing to be afraid of, that having a sense of smell is wonderful, that he’s missing out on so much. That’s alright, though. He will find his soulmate one day and experience it for himself.

Fat chance, Athos thought now.

Actually, the chances of finding your soulmate weren’t bad at all. See, when we say soulmate, it’s not really the one of a kind type. Some people are simply compatible in a way that makes them click. They literally have chemistry. Not everyone finds a soulmate while some lucky people find several. Soulmate is just a romantic way of putting it. Much better than smellmate. Or chemistrymate. Workshopping that name didn’t take much time.

There really is quite a high chance that Athos will one day find his soulmate. Theoretically. Athos, however, doesn’t find that life often goes his way.

When he met Anne, he was shocked that the famed chemistry miracle didn’t happen. If she wasn’t his soulmate, who could be? She was perfect. He fell for her harder than an egg on concrete, and he broke just as easily.

With the benefit of time, he sees only one silver lining about that whole shit show, and that was the fact that she was not his soulmate.

If she could break his heart the way she did, how much worse would it have been if she was his soulmate? If she bonded with him, compatible on a cellular level, if her mere presence could alter the way his body and mind operated?

No, life does not go Athos’ way, but in this, Athos would be happy if it never did. Not only does he doubt that he’ll ever find a soulmate, he hopes to high heavens he never will. What does he need a sense of smell for, anyway? So he’d feel the need to buy fancy, expensive alcohol and cheese and all those other things bonded people rave about? He’ll gladly save his money and drink himself under the table on the cheapest gin, thank you.

Porthos is of a different opinion. He’s one of the lucky people whose chemistry matches many people at least partly, and the more time he spends around people, the keener his sense of smell is. It’s never too good - he’d have to live with his soulmate in close quarters for that to happen - but he can enjoy his beloved wine and cheese and, uh, the smell of petrol, Athos thinks he remembers him saying. To each their own, he supposes.

The downside of Porthos’ life long sense of smell is that he doesn’t remember what it was like not to have any, and still says things like “you must be able to taste that!” when offering him something that is entirely based on aroma. Athos also has to shower and put on clean clothes every time he meets him.

That’s another thing he doesn’t have to worry about unless he’s around bonded people. Wearing the same shirt two days in a row? Not a problem! As long as it’s not stained, he’s even fine with four days. Bonded people, however, do get a bit up-nosed (pun very much intended) around those who are unbonded. In the recent years, however, they haven’t been able to say as much anymore in fear of accusations of discrimination. That Athos finds hilarious. Not only can he turn up at work smeared in horse shit, no one is legally allowed to tell him to go shower anymore.

He wouldn’t do that, of course. He has basic human decency, and doesn’t want the bonded part of the population to be uncomfortable around him. Unfortunately, to Porthos, not smearing himself with horse shit is not enough, he also has to be freshly showered and wearing clothes not older than two days, lest he wants to offend his sensitive nose. (Porthos says his nose is not sensitive at all but that Athos has an intensely stinky sweat. Athos tries not to take that too personally. It seems that his best friend is chemically compatible with more people than most, apart from, oh, yeah, Athos himself.)

Well. It’s not like Porthos would choose to be his best friend if they didn’t spend so much time together and rely on each other in life or death situations. Athos is keenly aware of the fact that if it wasn’t for these circumstances, he’d have no friends at all.

Alright, he’s being dramatic. He’s friendly with his other colleagues, too, even the ones he never serves with. It’s just that Porthos is the only one who cares about Athos and for whom Athos cares, too. They are more than colleagues. They are brothers. There are only three people they would jump in front of a bullet for: the king, the queen, and each other, and Athos knows for a fact that the first two would be out of professional duty, but for each other, they’d do it with a beating heart and a prayer on their lips. A prayer for the bullet to hit their bulletproof vest.

He’s thinking about all this while sipping his gin tonic and looking around the bar at his fellow guards. He wonders what their new colleagues will be like. Brujon and Clairmont were both leaving to join the King’s Guard (a wholly ceremonial post that would make their mothers proud and look amazing on their CVs, but which would kill Athos with boredom), and the ranks of the bodyguards would be replenished with two new faces. There needed to be at least four bodyguards active at any given point to work in pairs at a time. Currently, there were six. While the other guards all had their posts guarding fixed positions at castles and residences, the royal bodyguards moved with the royal couple.

Today, Marsac and Treville, the most senior soldiers, stayed with the royal couple while Athos and Porthos joined the others at the “changing of the guards” to send off their young cadets and welcome into their little family two new faces. Basically, it was an excuse to get pissed, and Athos took any and every opportunity he could to do just that. He was good at it, too. Practiced. He knew exactly how much to drink to look only mildly inebriated, to keep himself on that line for as long as he had to be around people, and to tip over it the second he was alone, taking himself from buzzing numbness to blissful unconsciousness without a detour to puketown. He was a pro.

He isn’t anywhere near that state now, though, not with his colleagues so near and the responsibilities looming over both his and Porthos’ head. If anything happened to Treville or Marsac, they’d have to step in. And anyway, his drink tastes weird tonight, the gin sharper than he is used to and the tonic barely covering it. It is making his head spin, and not because of the alcohol intake. Strange. He didn’t notice it when he first started drinking this evening.

“They’re here!” someone suddenly shouts.

“Changing of the guards!” another one hollers and the whole bar erupts into cheers. Porthos stands up and drags Athos with him to the centre of the action. Brujon and Clairmont, their faces split into huge grins, salute them and accept their (ridiculous) bearskins, which Athos is pretty sure are old, out of use, and infested with at least one type of pest he’d stay away from, seeing as their clean bearskins never leave the barracks.

The guards then stand at attention, salute the new recruits, and then part like the river Jordan to welcome two new men. It’s all very coordinated and dramatic for a bunch of drunks in a bar, but Athos wouldn’t expect anything less diva-like from men who chose those hats as uniforms. Not that he looks down on them. He is sure there is a very good reason for them for which they’d chosen their profession. A reason he does not see.

The two men they reveal, however, look promising. Athos studies them with his soldier’s eye, his focus sweeping over them, catching bits and pieces of surface level information. One is young, tall, nervous but smiling, ramrod straight back but at ease. Second looks more unkempt, more loose, his body language open, smile friendly, but his unassuming muscles coiled with strength, obviously used to action. Both have longer hair, meaning neither came straight from the army, but they have the air of fighters. Special forces, maybe.

“We’re keeping these, you can take these,” one of the guards tells Athos and Porthos with a grin, and the mass swallows up Brujon and Clairmont and leaves the two new guys standing alone like orphans during the blitz.

“Well, that was... surreal,” the rugged (charming, roguishly handsome) one says, scratching his head, shifting his body weight to one leg. “Please tell me we don’t have to wear those hats.”

Porthos laughs and clapps them both on the shoulders, leading them to their table. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t wear anything I couldn’t get through the door in.”

“He already struggles most days anyway,” adds Athos dryly as he follows them.

“It’s not my fault that France is full of old buildings with tiny doors,” Porthos complains as they sit down.

“It is your fault that you keep forgetting do duck,” Athos remarks and earns himself a delighted laugh from the rugged fellow and a surprised burst from the younger one. Porthos glares at them both, managing to immediately wipe the smile off of the boy’s face and scare an apology out of him, but the other one’s grin only grows larger.

“I’m Duvallon, code name Porthos,” Porthos drops the stare and shakes their hands, then points to Athos. “This ray of sunshine over here is Olivier de la Fere, code name Athos.”

“Posh?” the rugged one leans in and raises his eyebrows.

“You have no idea,” Porthos says in a conspirational tone and Athos rolls his eyes. There’s something strange in the air, something... he’s not sure how to describe it. He’s not even sure if it’s pleasant. It is, however, starting to get on his nerves.

“I’m Aramis,” the rugged one - Aramis - offers them both a handshake. His hand is dry and a shade warmer than Athos’. “Or René, but Aramis makes me feel like a romantic hero,” he grins and leans back. Athos feels like he can breathe more freely.

“Charles. Or D’Artagnan,” the young one, likewise, shakes their hands, his grip overconfident but slightly clammy, trying to hide his nerves. “Do we use code names when we’re not on the job?”

“Yeah, it makes it easier,” Porthos nods. “But do what you’re comfortable with, as long as you don’t mess up in official channels. We’re so used to the code names we barely remember the real ones,” he indicates himself and Athos.

Athos briefly wonders if he should mention that he actually strongly prefers that they do not use his real name, but then decides to wait and see if they even try. He doesn’t want to invite any questions.

“Do the King and Queen have code names?” asks Aramis.

Porthos chuckled into his wine glass. “Only ones you do not want to repeat in official channels.”

Aramis’ expressive face somehow conveyes “oh really, is that how it is? Alright then, interesting”, while D’Artagnan seems mildly scandalized. Athos’ mouth curves into an amused smirk.

“They’re the monarchs of France!” he exclaims. “Why have this job if you don’t respect them?”

“I have this job for a steady paycheck and bragging rights,” Porthos shruggs, unbothered. “Nothing gets you laid like being the king’s personal bodyguard.”

“That is exactly why I joined,” Aramis nods sagely and Porthos raises his glass to him in a salute. Then Aramis turns his eyes to Athos. “And you?”

Because I have a death wish and Treville was the only one willing to give me a job with my past, thinks Athos. Aloud, he says: “I like the uniform.”

Aramis seems to like the obviously flippant answer, judging by his appreciative nod. “It is a very nice uniform.” Then, he stands up, pointing at their drinks. “Next round’s on me, what are you having?”

Porthos orders the same house red, D’Artagnan a cider. Athos is almost tempted to ask for coke or something similarly inoffensive to his prickly senses, but the memory of the circumstances of his recruitment made him want to drink, so he asks for another gin and tonic, this time with ice. Everything is more palatable when chilled to a max. Why is he being so sensitive? And why is the air so... heavy? Every breath carries a strange flavour to it, almost as if he’s...

...

...no. No, that’s not possible. It can’t be happening! This is not... it is not the place nor the time, such place and time don’t exist, he is not supposed to...!

Athos’ heart starts hammering in his chest, his head starts spinning, his breathing picks up. He squeezes his thigh hard under the table and starts counting from hundred to zero in increments of seven. It would not do to have a panic attack in a full bar.

“You OK?” Porthos asks. Athos looks at him and his concerned face, surprisingly, snapps him out of the worst of it. He isn’t alone. Porthos is with him, and Porthos never allows him to fight alone.

He never realized just how much the sight of his best friend worked like a balm on his soul.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

Porthos reluctantly nods. It isn’t that he believs him, but he knows Athos very well by now. He knows very little about his past, but over the years, he has learned that Athos has demons and that those demons are very, very private. He would never force him to confront them in public, nor would he draw attention to them.

Athos hesitantly pokes the thoughts in his head, steeling himself for another wave of panic, but the low simmering of it doesn’t threaten to overcome him again. Good. Now he can try to think about it rationally.

Athos’ soulmate is in this room. There is no denying it, unless... but no, this time, it’s different. His soulmate is here, must have been here for... maybe the last half an hour or so, that’s when the drink started to taste so strongly. The bar isn’t reserved for the guards, but it is so full of them, no one else has dared to squeeze in. Which means... shit.

The smell got stronger once their two new colleagues sat down with them. It’s one of them.

Alright, his soulmate is a man. Interesting. Unexpected, but not shocking. Athos isn’t a very sexually active man. Unbonded people don’t tend to be. He does prefer women as far as he knows, but bonding with someone is meant to change a lot of things as well as increase one’s libido.

No, the problem isn’t the sex or gender or coffee preference of his soulmate. It’s their - his - profession. If it really is one of these two men, that would mean that Athos can’t simply avoid him. He’ll be forced to work in close quarters with him, unable to stop breathing in his scent. It’s not like he can just stop breathing any time he gets near. And the more he breathes in, the more he’ll... what? Bond? Is that how it works? He knows the basics, the theory in the abstract, he just never cared enough to learn the science behind it, the nitty gritty of the whole process. He just knows that the more time soulmates spend together, the stronger their relationship, the more they can smell, in turn meaning they can smell each other more...

“There we go, red wine for Porthos, gin and tonic for Athos, and two ciders for D’Artagnan and moi,” Aramis startles him as he sets their drinks on the table. Fuck, did the smell got stronger with his arrival? Is Athos just imagining it?

Athos downs his old drink, doing his best not to wince at the taste, and tries the new one. Same problem, just colder and sparklier.

“Mm, this is very good!” Aramis’ surprised voice makes Athos look up to see him appreciating his glass of cider.

“Never had it before?” asks Porthos.

Aramis frowns. “No, I’m pretty sure I have.” Then he shrugs and drinks again. “I suppose I’m just overjoyed about the new job.”

But when Porthos and D’Artagnan go back to whatever they were talking about while Athos was having a panicked revelation, Aramis isn’t so quick to join them. Athos watches both of them, trying to feign polite interest. D’Artagnan is enthusiastic and curious, which could be distracting him from any potential new smells. Aramis, however...

Aramis is also politely feigning interest. Which means... well. He supposes it’s a good thing it’s not the royalist little upstart. Aramis seems like an intelligent, easy going guy.

And Anne seemed like an innocent angel, whispers the part of Athos’ brain he likes to drown in alcohol.

He needs to pretend there’s nothing wrong, prolong the inevitable. Hey, maybe he can fake his entire working relationship with Aramis. Smelling isn’t visible, is it? Athos has a good poker face.

Unfortunately, he isn’t counting on the fact that he is very, very new to this “has a sense of smell” thing, and the bar is full of men who have very little regard for soap. One such man, captain Rochefort, chooses his side of the table to lean over to, one hand on the back of Athos’ chair, the other on the table, his right armpit almost in Athos’ face.

“How are the new recruits doing?” he asks pleasantly. Athos takes a deep breath and cannot help but reel back a little as the full power of an unwashed armpit hits him straight in the face.

He freezes.

Aramis freezes.

Nobody else notices. D’Artagnan doesn’t know him enough and Porthos knows Rochefort enough to know that leaning away from him is a good idea at any and all times, so he doesn’t question it. Aramis, however, has been waiting for any sign, Athos knows that because he himself did the same, watching out of the corner of his eye for any signs that the other man is his soulmate.

Fuck, he knows.

That’s it, then, Athos thinks. He is absolutely fucked. Aramis, the good-natured jokester, is going to be overjoyed to have found his soulmate, and Athos will have to publicly let him down. And then work with him. Possibly for years. This is going to be a shit show of epic proportions and Athos is steeling himself already, but then...

... then nothing.

Aramis doesn’t say a thing. He joins Porthos and D’Artagnan in their chat with Rochefort until the man is kind enough to fuck off, and then turns the conversation to their backgrounds. He bonds (ha) with Porthos over their shared history in the special forces, makes interested sounds when D’Artagnan talks about being top of his class in training, and when Athos tells him the bare basics - military school, officer in the navy, not mentioning the gap year that destroyed his entire life - Athos could almost be imaging the tightening around his eyes.

And so they talk and spend the evening, guards milling around them, and bit by bit, Athos relaxes. The panic that was gripping his heart ever since he realized the truth hesitantly leaves, as if it doesn’t really know if it won’t be needed again, ready to jump back at any sign of trouble. But there is no trouble. Because whatever the reason, Aramis is mirroring Athos in pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary.

Athos has found a perfect soulmate. One who doesn’t want him either.

Chapter Text

The night Athos meets his soulmate, he goes home alone and drinks half a bottle of vodka within half an hour.

He’s pretty sure that would put most people into a coma, but he’s done a lot of liver training over the past five years and the coma only lasts eight hours. When he wakes up, his head is pounding, his mouth is full of ash, and sunlight stabs a thousand daggers into his eyes and straight into his brain. He takes a freezing cold shower that does nothing to alleviate any of his ailments, only adds shivering into the mix, and then heads to work.

At eight sharp, he’s carrying a large cup of coffee into the staff room in the Lescot Wing, the only part of the Louvre that the royal family was still allowed to use as their residence. Louis liked to say that with the way the museum was getting bigger and bigger and their portion of the palace smaller and smaller, one day they’d live in a shoe box on their trips to Paris. Athos always had to bite his tongue in case he’ll slip up and remind Louis that the museum is paying him an extortionate amount of money for its right to be there and that they still own a fucking palace in the heart of Paris just because they were born lucky, so would he just fucking shut up?! Working in close proximity to Louis has taught Athos a great deal of patience.

Athos stops dead at the sight of Treville and Aramis talking in the staff room. Shit. He completely forgot about Aramis. Well, no, he’s not that lucky, he’s been thinking about the whole evening ever since he woke up, but he completely forgot that Aramis would be shadowing him today. Just the two of them. Together. The whole shift. Eight hours.

This was going to be a spectacularly bad day.

Aramis doesn’t show any nerves or apprehension, but he’s not jumping in joy at seeing him, either. They give each other a tight little nod in greeting. Treville is eyeing Athos for signs of a hangover, so he kicks himself into gear, taking off his biker jacket and going over to his locker to change into his uniform. Treville and Aramis talk some more but Athos tunes them out, focusing on not falling on his face or taking out his service gun and blowing his brains out. When he’s done, he grabs his cup of coffee and freezes while bringing it to his lips.

He can smell it.

The scent of the coffee is wafting up and hitting his nose and it is wonderful, but Athos can’t enjoy it because of the surge of panic in his gut. He was too hungover to notice it, but this is the first thing he can smell today. Of course, that makes sense - he is near Aramis again, his new sense of smell is waking up. Confirming that it wasn’t just a bad dream.

“You ready, Athos?” Treville calls and Athos snaps his head up. He joins them without a word, noting that Aramis is wearing a crisp new uniform and that it suits him way too well. Instead of the usual unassuming suit most bodyguards wear, the French royal bodyguards wear their allegiance to their king stamped on their backs in the form of a blue fleur-de-lis. Porthos calls it their back target.

“You have met, right?” Treville asks and they nod. “You know the drill, Athos. Show Aramis the ropes. Porthos will do the same with D’Artagnan during the night shift, me and Marsac will take over tomorrow, and you two will have the next night shift. All hands on deck for the party.”

They nod again. Treville looks like he wants to say something more, but visibly deflates, looking tired. He’s getting on in years, Athos can see how much night shifts take out of him these days, even when they’re uneventful. Old soldiers like Treville don’t sleep when at work, even when it would be completely acceptable and even encouraged.

And so it doesn’t take long for Aramis and Athos to be alone.

There is an awkward silence, and it stretches, and stretches. Athos takes a sip of his coffee and tries his absolutely hardest not to make any faces or sounds or in any way show how different the taste is. For the past ten or so years coffee has always been a tool - drink it to get some energy and combat a hangover or a wakeful night. With some sugar and milk, it’s even somewhat tasty. Now, though, he can taste so much more, such a depth of flavour, and this should be only the beginning, he’s only scratching the surface of what the world is offering. Maybe his parents were right after all. Maybe there is nothing to be afraid of.

He looks up to see Aramis zoning in on his coffee cup like a predator, intrigued by the aroma, no doubt, and as he realizes what he’s doing, he straightens up and nervously looks away.

Nope, nope, abort mission, there is absolutely something to be afraid of, Athos thinks frantically. “I’ll show you the grounds,” he says.

“Great!” Aramis jumps on the opportunity and is first at the door, holding it for Athos to walk through.

“This is just the Paris residence, of course,” Athos says as he leads Aramis deeper into the underground. “And smallest of them all because of the museum. Most of the operational side of things happen down here - the kitchen is at the end of the corridor, all these doors lead to offices. You’ll need to familiarize yourself with each one.”

“Do we do any preliminary sweeps?” Aramis asks while peering at the labels on each door.

“Not on the regular, the CCTV system takes care of that. The museum’s security team is responsible for the whole complex. If, however, there is a breach or any other emergency, we all need to know this building like the back of our hand.”

Aramis nods.

“Did Treville have you read the protocol yet?”

“Yes. I’m halfway through.”

“Better hurry up, then.”

“Are you expecting for there to be an incident on my first day?”

Athos stops and gives Aramis a bemused look. “Do you think emergencies care about your timetable?”

Aramis lets out a huff of laughter under his nose and his hand shoots to his hair in what Athos is quickly learning is his nervous tick. “Well, I have to admit I am enough of an egomaniac that I absolutely did think that for a while there, yeah.”

Athos stares at him for a second, then shakes his head, his mouth pulling into a reluctant smile. He hides it with his coffee cup.

At half past nine, Athos sees a message from one of the maids in the group chat they set up between the musketeers and the other staff. “They’re awake,” he tells Aramis, who is reading the protocol on his phone. They’d finished the tour of the ground and first floors, both of which are just giant open spaces fit for balls and audiences, and were now waiting in the staff room for the royal couple to wake up and start their day.

There are no lifts in the wing so they must walk up the stairs. “The King likes formalities,” Athos says to Aramis. “But don’t overdo it, it’s not the 17th century.”

“I’ll just follow your lead,” Aramis smiles easily. They arrive at the giant doors and knock, wait for a voice to call them in, and Athos ushers Aramis into a large office as lavish and ornate as the rest of the wing, but smaller and filled with a myriad of books, furniture, statues, decorations, fabrics, and stationary. The King stands in the middle of the room, next to a heavy wooden desk, staring out of the window. He’s dressed in his usual fashion - a perfectly tailored suit in a rich blue, with a crisp white shirt underneath. His pockets are hemmed with golden thread and on anyone else, it would look ridiculous, but this man can simply pull it off. His long black hair is still wild from bed and there is a pillow crease on his cheek, and he’s clutching his coffee mug like he’d die without it. When he sees them, he shakes off his melancholy.

“Ah, Athos!” he exclaims. “Treville said there were some personnel changes. Is this the new man?”

“Good morning, your majesty,” Athos subtly tips his head. “Allow me to introduce Aramis.”

Aramis’ head bows lower, his hand going to his chest, but he makes it look casual. “It is my honour, your majesty.”

“I hope you’re not here for a week,” the King grumbles. “Or I might start taking it personally.”

“Brujon and Clairmont are still in your service, sir,” Athos says calmly. “They simply prefer to serve you in another capacity. This life isn’t for everyone.”

It’s for people who have no personal life, who don’t mind working odd hours, drop everything at a moment’s notice, and have no one to come home to.

“Well, I hope Treville found men for whom it is,” the King says and Athos wonders, briefly, if all those things apply to Aramis. “We will be confined in this shoebox for two more days. I can’t wait to get back to Versailles.”

All this is pronounced with such aplomb as would befit a Shakespearean actor.

The door opens and Queen Anne walks in. She’s dressed more somberly, in a cream dress with a high neckline that accentuates her slight waist and then flares out. Where her husband looks like he dragged himself out of bed by force, she has probably been up for hours.

“Darling, come have breakfast, please,” she says in her subdued voice. Then she notices Athos and Aramis, her gaze lingering on the latter. Athos glances at his colleague and sees him looking back at her, obviously enamoured. Good fucking lord, not this, too.

“Come meet our new bodyguard first!” the King holds out his hand and she takes it, smiling at him. “This is... Aramis, was it?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“It is lovely to meet you, Aramis,” Anne says warmly. “Now will you please come eat?” she pulls Louis towards the door leading to their apartments.

Once Athos and Aramis are outside, Aramis lets out a deep breath. “So, what now?” he asks. “I don’t suppose they need us to guard their breakfast?”

“Now,” Athos says, leading him into the underground again, “I’ll show you the kitchen.”

When they open the kitchen doors, they both halt in their tracks like they’ve been hit. It smells... good god, it smells! Athos can’t identify any of it, but it’s all so nice, like he’s eating before taking a bite of anything. He is suddenly starving. The cooks, Jean and Michelle, sit at their little side table with a little spread before them. Athos introduces them to Aramis and they bring out two more plates.

“Anne wakes up around six every day,” Athos explains while they fill their plates. “She comes down here, has a yogurt or a piece of fruit, just something so she can wait until Louis is ready to eat.”

“The queen comes down here?” Aramis’ eyebrows shoot up.

Michelle nods. “Oh, she’s very down to earth. Don’t fill your plate!” she tells Aramis and he raises the arm he’s holding a fork with like she’s pointing a gun at him. “There will be more,” she finishes with a little laugh.

Aramis’ keeps effortlessly charming the staff while they load their plates with ham and eggs and cheese, and Athos has never been this excited to eat in his life. He’s a little afraid of doing it in front of everyone, almost as if it was an intimate act that he wants to savour in privacy. Before he can freak out about it, Constance shows up carrying a big tray of food.

“Breakfast is here!” she announces with a big smile and lays it out in front of them. “Oh, hello! And who are you?” she asks when she sees Aramis. They exchange pleasantries, Constance introduces herself as Anne’s right hand. “These are the leftovers from the royal breakfast,” she explains the tray, full of pastries and duck paté. “The King loves to have many options to choose from, so they always send most of it back. To us!”

“I am starting to really like this place!” Aramis says and selects a freshly baked chocolate and raspberry eclair. “Now, would it be alright if we took this to the staff room? I still have a lot of reading to do.”

They make their exit, grabbing two cups of french pressed coffee on the way, and Athos experiences slight whiplash when he finds himself exactly as he wanted, alone with a plate of heavenly smelling food, plus Aramis. Aramis, who puts his plate and cup down on the table, lets out a long breath, and looks up at Athos like he’s preparing for war.

“Alright,” he says. “Are we going to talk about this?”

Athos freezes. He puts his food down, too, and crosses his arms. He could pretend he has no idea what Aramis is talking about, but that would insult both of their intelligence. So instead, he says: “I would prefer it if we didn’t.”

“Yeah, I got that impression,” Aramis sighs. “Look, I don’t know your reasons and I’m not going to press you into telling me, but it seems obvious that neither of us is interested in pursuing this. I am very happy with keeping this between us, since I don’t need to explain myself to everyone I meet, but can we stop pretending in front of each other? Because I can’t stop thinking about that coffee you walked in here with today, and once I get to eat this, I don’t think I can keep myself from moaning.”

He ends his impassioned speech with a gesture to his food and Athos almost laughs out loud. Almost. He has breeding (and accompanied generational trauma).

“Alright,” he says at last. “Good talk.”

Aramis does laugh, a little self deprecatingly looking down and letting his hair fall into his face. “See, you didn’t have to talk about it.”

Athos can’t help a little smile in response. He sits down at the table. “Bon appetite.”

“Bon appetite!” Aramis sits opposite him and bites into the eclair. True to his word, he does moan. “Oh, I am going to be a very fat man.”

Athos tears apart a baguette and breathes it in. When he bites into it, he has to hang his head in reverie. Thirty years of his life and he’s never known what bread actually tastes like. When he puts some butter on it and takes a sip of his coffee, he thinks he’d be happy with just the simple things for the rest of his life. He doesn’t even touch the ham and eggs, leaves it all to Aramis.

Aramis tries a bit of everything, taking his time and really enjoying each new experience. Athos watches him, wondering for the first time why Aramis doesn’t want a soulmate. Or... whether it’s just that he doesn’t want Athos.

He shakes those thoughts off. He’s happy that Aramis doesn’t want him that way. It’s a relief. He’s not going to ask, not just because he doesn’t want to poke a sleeping bear, but also because it would be unfair to demand answers when he won’t offer any himself. Aramis said he won’t push him, so he won’t push Aramis.

“It’s not you, by the way,” Aramis says when they’re done, their plates almost empty. Athos gives him a questioning look. “My reason for... ignoring the... this,” Aramis points between them, at the food, at the space between their bodies. “It’s not personal. I just don’t want you to think... ah,” he ruffles his hair again and looks to the ceiling as if in prayer. Then he looks straight into Athos’ eyes. “I like you well enough. But I don’t want to settle down with one person just because fate or chemistry or whatever you want to call it dictates it. I like my freedom. If I give it up, it will be for love, not chemistry.”

Athos stares at him, unsure what to say to that. It makes sense. And it’s nice to know that Aramis is not rejecting him personally but the whole concept. In a way, that is exactly what Athos is doing. They’re on the same wavelength.

In the end, what he says is: “It’s not personal, either.”

Aramis accepts that with a nod, then shoots him a grin. “Great. And now I really should go back to reading that protocol.”

Athos starts cleaning the table and when Aramis jumps to help him, he shoos him away, so Aramis sits down and opens the pdf on his phone again. Athos takes the plates into the kitchen and loads them into the dishwasher, deep in thought. Then he makes them both tea.

He stares at the selection in the cupboard, wondering where to start. So many kinds to choose from. Tea is a uniquely bonded thing. Unbonded people drink it occasionally - when they’re sick, for example. It’s quite nice with lemon and honey, or with sugar, but at the end of the day, it’s still just hot water with sugar in it, nothing to write home about. Bonded people, however, go insane for the stuff.

In the end, he makes a cup of green tea and a cup of fruit tea. The moment he pours hot water over the leaves, the aroma rises up to him in hot waves and he immediately gets it. He brings the tea to the staff room as it is, no sugar or other frills, and the scent gets stronger when he’s near Aramis. Aramis’ eyes go wide when he offers him both cups. “Which one would you like?” he asks.

Aramis sniffs at one and the other and chooses the fruit one. Athos is not surprised. He wanted the green.

They sit in companionable silence for a while. Then Aramis asks: “Shouldn’t we be... doing something?”

“We are. We are present at premises in case we are needed.”

Aramis stares at him. “Please tell me you do something fun to pass the time.”

Athos smirks. “That’s a lesson for day two. For now, just focus on your reading materials.”

Aramis lets out a frustrated groan and sinks deeper into his chair. Athos thinks that he should find him annoying, but he really can’t.

Chapter Text

Their first shift is as uneventful as Athos expected before he learned that his new colleague was his soulmate. Aramis reads the protocol, Athos shows him around the grounds and all the places he could expect to find himself when at the Louvre. They eat again after the royal couple does, Aramis meets more members of staff. Athos learns that Aramis was a sniper in the special forces, but nothing more, and that’s only to be expected - it would be more disconcerting if Aramis was too talkative about his military career. Restraint is a good sign.

He is surprised at how easy it becomes to be around him. Aramis was right, clearing the air was the right thing to do. They know where they stand and they don’t need to tiptoe around each other like in the first few hours. The only time it comes up again is half an hour before their shift is due to end and Porthos and d’Artagnan are about to take over. They’re going through a checklist, Athos showing Aramis what to do at the end of every shift. They’re in the staff room again, leaning against the table, winding down, not expecting anything to happen in the last thirty minutes, and so Aramis takes off his jacket and stretches and Athos freezes in the middle of a sentence.

It’s not that he hasn’t smelled him before. Air is always different around Aramis, heavier. But as he raises his arms and exposes his armpits so close to Athos, he gets a stronger whiff, and it’...

It’s good.

Athos wasn’t expecting it to be this... pleasing. If anything, his one and only experience with a sweaty armpit so far has been Rochefort’s at the bar, and that was decidedly unpleasant. This, though... he wants to keep breathing in, to let the scent permeate his senses, to fucking bathe in it.

All that flashes through his mind in one point three second, but Aramis notices - of course he notices, Athos cut off in the middle of a word like an imbecile, it doesn’t take the focus of a sniper to clock that. The focus of a sniper is what Athos gets, though. Those dark brown eyes jump over Athos’ eyes to his lips to the space between them and finally his own raised arms, and he quickly puts them down. They take a step back almost at once, creating more space between them. Athos feels his cheeks heating up and he gets the urge to bang his head against the nearest hard surface.

Aramis puts his suit jacket back on.

“You were saying,” Aramis offers, trying to get them back on track. “About the group chat?”

“Right,” Athos tries to remember what he was talking about. “I’ll add you so you’re in the loop. You can mute it while you’re off the clock, but I find it’s good to know what’s happening at all times. We also have our own group chat, just for the bodyguards. And then one without Treville and Marsac.”

Aramis raisese his brows. “And why is that?”

Athos tilts his head to the side a little, looking down. “It’s nice to be able to talk without the boss. And we don’t like Marsac.”

Aramis huffs out an amused laugh. “Message received. I won’t tell them.”

“Oh, they know. Treville understands that some things are not for his ears. And Marsac doesn’t like us back.”

This amuses Aramis further. There is a short moment of silence and then Athos says: “Porthos will notice.”

“Hm?”

“About...” us. - “This,” he motions between them. “He knows me. I won’t be able to hide it from him for long.”

Aramis nods, a slight frown creasing his brow. “I have no intention of hiding anything,” he says lightly. When Athos frowns, he explains: “Nobody here knows me, so as long as it’s not obviously new development, people probably won’t ask obtrusive questions. My bonding status isn’t anyone’s business but my own. But I can see how that might be different for you since people know you.”

Athos shakes his head. “Only Porthos.”

“And you don’t want Porthos to know?”

Athos fights the completely unreasonable panic that is rising in his gut. How can he explain that the mere existence of their soulbond makes him want to bolt? Aramis isn’t expecting anything, but Porthos will be, and he will want to know why his expectations aren’t being met.

He has to remind himself that Porthos doesn’t push. If Athos says shuts his questions down, Porthos will leave it alone. He might be lucky and Porthos might just write it off as him being fucked up from previous trauma. Which would be spot on.

“I just don’t want to make it awkward,” he brushes all his fears aside, not wanting to deal with that can of worms in front of Aramis just yet. Aramis will notice in time. Probably quite a short time. Athos doesn’t talk about his past, but the general sense that it was bad oozes from him like a... well, like a bad smell.

Aramis nods his understanding. “We’ll just tell him we are the straighest men on the planet,” he grins. “And then I’ll have to remember never to talk about my male lovers in front of him.” And he winks.

Athos processes the information within the space of two blinks. “Lovers?” he asks then. “Plural?”

Aramis’ grin grows wider. “I told you I like my freedom.” Then he gets a look in his eyes like he got a new idea, and he tilts his head at Athos. “Do you want to bet on how long it will take him to figure it out?”

Athos crosses his arms at his chest. Put this way, the inevitability of Porthos realizing the truth doesn’t even fill him with panic anymore. He leans against the wall and thinks about it. Porthos will probably notice that his appetite is changing, and that he reacts differently to drinks he used to think nothing of. If not that, then he’ll notice the little changes. Athos is expecting his laundry bill to go way up and to shower more, and Porthos won’t take long to realize that he no longer has to remind him to do those things when Athos stops turning up “smelling like a dead killer whale”. “About a week,” he says at last.

“And you say he knows you?” Aramis says with obvious doubt. “I noticed it within ten minutes of meeting you.”

Athos actually feels insulted. He prides himself on his poker face. A lot of things happen on the inside, but none are permitted to show on the outside. “You were looking for it. And I was unprepared.”

“Prove it. I bet you Porthos will notice within the first hour he spends in your presence.”

“Deal.”

Athos is staring him down and Aramis endures it with a glint in his eyes that spells trouble. Athos breaks eye contact after just a few seconds. “You don’t have to pretend to be straight,” he says then. “It’s enough if I...” he falters. Pretend? He doesn’t even know if he isn’t straight. Until meeting Aramis, he never gave it much thought, just assumed he was. And why is he assuming otherwise now? It’s not like he’s attracted to Aramis. Or is he? Oh god, he really is “confused”. “...am.” He finishes lamely.

Aramis doesn’t jump on that opening, thank god, just shakes his head. “No, that would invite pity, and I don’t need anyone thinking I’m pining after a “straight” man,” and he makes actual air quotes around the word straight. Athos doesn’t react. That might be the best descriptor he can give himself at the moment, too.

“Oh, you didn’t finish your tea!” Aramis realizes as his eyes fall on the mugs they left behind. Aramis finished his while reading the protocol, but Athos lost himself in an ebook and still has half a mug left. He accepts the mug from Aramis, noting that the smell doesn’t carry as much as it did when it was hot, but it still tastes the same.

That’s when d’Artagnan arrives, whole twenty minutes before the start of his shift, and he’s buzzing with excitement. He puts his uniform on with reverence one would expect from the pope on his first day... pope-ing, and beams at them as if expecting a standing ovation and a full jury giving him ten out of tens. Athos just takes a sip of his tea.

“How was your first shift?” he asks Aramis.

“Uneventful,” Aramis sighs, his disappointment evident. “I was wishing for a terrorist attack the whole time.”

Athos throws him an unimpressed look. “God save us all for when you two are ever on the same shift.”

“What? What do you think we will do, invite terrorists to attack?” Aramis feigns outrage. “We are professional, Athos.”

“You are a menace and he is a newbie,” Athos shoots back.

“Hey!” d’Artagnan protests.

“You’ve upset the boy!” Aramis accuses him with more feigned outrage.

D’Artagnan glares at them both. “I’m glad I’m not doing my first shift with any of you.”

“Oh, yes,” Athos hides his smirk behind his mug. “Porthos will spare you.”

“Spare who from what?” asks Porthos as he steps in.

“D’Artagnan from being teased about his age,” says Aramis.

“I’d never do that to the whelp!” Porthos exclaims and ruffles d’Artagnan’s hair on his way to his locker, earning himself another angry glare.

“Alright, fine,” the youngest says with an air of capitulation. “Just so I know, how long will this hazing last?”

Porthos gives him a grave look. “Until you kill your first man.”

That startles d’Artagnan. He looks to Athos, who keeps a completely straight face (see, Aramis? Master of his expression), then at Aramis, who just shrugs his “what can you do?” shrug, and then back at Porthos, who manages to keep that serious face for another two seconds before he cracks a huge grin. “I’m just messing with you!”

The relief on the boy’s face is obvious.

“Try growing a beard,” Aramis leans in conspiratorially. “That helped me.”

“Won’t help you actually grow up,” Athos adds dryly. “Of which Aramis is a prime example.”

Aramis gives him a shit eating grin. “Oh, really?” he asks. “How’s your tea?”

“Cold.”

“You’re drinking tea?” Porthos asks over his shoulder as he’s pulling on his uniform. “Are you sick?”

Athos freezes, realizing what Aramis just did. Athos only drinks tea when he’s using it as a vehicle for a shitload of honey, lemon and ginger into a sick system.

“I’m fine,” he says. And Porthos drops it. Athos gives Aramis a look that clearly says: you’ll have to try harder.

It’s just tea, after all. People drink tea.

Aramis just shrugs, unbothered by the defeat. Athos is absolutely certain he’s not done trying, though. It’s time for a retreat.

“Alright,” he puts the tea down and goes to his locker, intending to change into his biker clothes.

Aramis stops him, his voice dripping with innocence. “We still have ten minutes on our shift, Athos. You wouldn’t want to be a bad role model for me. And the boy. Now would you?”

Athos stops, his jaw twitching. Shockingly, it’s not in annoyance. If anything, he’s amused.

Porthos is now fully dressed and he’s paying attention. When Athos catches his eye, he raises his eyebrow in question, but Porthos just gives him the facial equivalent of a shrug. “You two have grown quite chummy.”

Athos is saved from answering by Aramis stolling to them and throwing his arm around his shoulders with a giant grin. (Saved? Is that really a good word? Can it be called saving if the person doing it is actively trying to sabotage you?) “You are witnessing a true friendship being born,” Aramis tells Porthos solemnly.

Athos has never been this close to Aramis before, but more than that, he has not been this close to another human being apart from Porthos for a very, very long time, so his immediate reaction is not really tied to the way Aramis’ natural scent hits his nostrils (that registers half a second later), but to the alien feeling of a solid body touching his. It is also completely unremarkable that he twists out from under his arm before Aramis even finishes the movement. “Not that chummy,” he grumbles. Aramis raises his arms in surrender and steps back.

“Don’t take it personally,” Porthos tells Aramis. “Athos is prickly.”

“I think you’re all pricks,” d’Artagnan mumbles from the side. They all turn to him with raised eyebrows. D’Artagnan faces them head on. Porthos and Athos exchange a glance. That boy is going to be trouble, but respectable trouble.

“So, how is the royal couple?” Porthos asks, going to business. Athos checks his phone - one minute past five, time to go.

He opens his locker and takes off his suit jacket. “Louis is starting to get stir crazy.”

Porthos nods knowingly. “He hates not having a garden,” he explains for d’Artagnan’s sake. “He is really confined inside this part of the palace. Paris is too crowded, he can barely get close to the windows for fear of being photographed. Or worse.”

D’Artagnan straightens up, suddenly alert. “Shouldn’t we be protecting him then?!”

“Are you hearing this?” Porthos turns to them, scandalized, then back to d’Artagnan, explaining like he’s a five year old. “Shouldn’t we hang around the king like a bad smell for eight hours and jump in front of him like a human shield every time he walks past a window? Get a grip, man!”

D’Artagnan seems dully chastised.

“Speaking of bad smells,” Aramis quips from behind Athos, who has changed his jacket and trousers, hanging them on a hanger inside his locker. “I think you need to take a shower, Athos.”

There is a split second when Athos is tempted to lift his arm and do for the first time what he always wished he could do every time he was around Porthos - smell his armpit and find out what he actually smells like. But he pushes that impulse down and gives Aramis an unimpressed look. “You’re reaching.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks out with: “Have fun on your first shift, d’Artagnan. Porthos.”

The ride home is... unpleasant. The inside of his helmet smells bad - which is unsurprising, he’s owned it for six years and never once felt the need to clean it. How does one even clean the inside of a helmet? Opening the visor doesn’t help, either. His black Honda squeezes past cars and buses, effectively beating Parisian traffic, and he breathes in the exhaust fumes and feels like he’s choking.

When he comes home, he has to open all his windows to air out the apartment. God, this is getting exhausting, And humiliating.

He stinks. His flat stinks. His helmet stinks. His locker stunk, he could smell it but didn’t want to give it away and lose Aramis’ stupid bet. His life fucking stinks, and he means that literally. And he’s walked around like this, stinking everything up, for the past thirty years of his life.

He feels his phone buzz in his jacket pocket and takes it out to find three new messages from Aramis. They exchanged numbers so Athos could ad him to the group chats, but these messages are private.

That was 15mins. I still have 45 left.

I didn’t mean it when I said you needed a shower.

Don’t want you to get self-conscious.

Athos stares at the messages, not knowing what to reply. It didn’t even occur to him at the time, but now he realizes that when Aramis told him to take a shower, he didn’t mean it the way Porthos always did. They’re soulmates. If Athos likes the way Aramis smells, then Aramis should like the way Athos does, too. The rational knowledge doesn’t really register.

Before he can think about it, he’s dialing Aramis’ number.

“Hey,” Aramis says after a single ring.

“Hey,” he replies. “Everything in my life stinks.”

“Yeah,” Aramis sighs heavily. “Mine too.”

And just like that, it’s easier to bear. Because Aramis gets it, and that reminds Athos that most people are either living the same stinky life as him or were in his shoes the day they met their soulmate.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’d probably like how your life stinks,” Aramis says. “And you’d probably like it at my place. I think I need to burn my sheets.”

“Wanna change apartments?” Athos asks and Aramis laughs.

They’re silent for a while, then Aramis says: “It’s going to be a new life.”

Athos leans against his kitchen counter and sighs, his head thunking against the cupboard behind him. “Yes. It is.”

And the thought of all the new things that he will have to learn and get used to is threatening to overwhelm him. Air fresheners and perfumes and deodorants and cleaning products and a thousand other things that he never needed in his life until now.

“Porthos asked me how I did it,” Aramis changes the topic.

“Did what?”

“Befriend you in one day.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. That I have a way with people.”

Athos thinks about the way Aramis charmed every single person he’s seen him interact with so far. “You do.”

There is another silence, but it’s not awkward. Athos is not trying to find the words to fill it. He’s just standing in his kitchen, wishing he didn’t have to hang up and spend the rest of his evening cleaning and changing linen.

The last thing Aramis says is: “Maybe chemistry isn’t as clinical as I thought it would be.”

And the panic is back. Athos tenses, his breath stutters, and he is hearing a thousand implications that freeze the blood in his veins.

“I have to go clean my flat,” Athos says. “Bye.” And hangs up. Then he stands there, trying to breathe through the reactions of his body that he can’t control.

His phone vibrates again and he opens Aramis’ messages on autopilot.

Don’t worry.

I meant that in a platonic way

Athos replies: I know.

Then he takes out all his alcohol and soft drinks and lines them up on the counter. Time to find out what alcohol really tastes like.

Chapter Text

Athos officially hates vodka and tequila. He can live with gin, but not straight up, or at least he doesn’t have the knowledge, skill, and equipment that would make it palatable at home. He doesn’t have anything else at home - whiskey, brandy and similar hard liquor was absolutely rank without a sense of smell and he can’t imagine it being that much nicer with it; beer is just bitter and doesn’t actually make a dent in his alcohol tolerance, so he doesn’t bother with it; and wine is at best tolerable, but never pleasant.

The more he drank and cleaned, the less he could smell and taste the alcohol, and the more he could drink it. Now he wakes up with another hangover and can’t smell a thing. It’s like Aramis charges him and his battery depletes when he’s away from him.

He checks his phone it’s almost eleven and he has a bunch of messages waiting for him in the group chat with just the four of them.

Aramis: wanna grab a lunch together and debrief?

Porthos: sure

d’Artagnan: sounds good

Athos groans into the pillow. That little shit is trying to get him in one room with Porthos again. Athos searches himself for he annoyance he would usually feel if someone was pushing him into somethinghe didn’t want to do, but what he finds is... gratefulness. He doesn’t want Porthos to know the truth, but he knows that Porthos will find it out eventually and the longer it takes, the weirder it will be, the more explanations he will need about why it took so long, and the harder it will be for Athos to be around him.

But just because he has to do it doesn’t mean he won’t try his hardest to win that stupid bet.

Athos: I’ll be there

They meet at a bistro near the Louvre at 3pm for a late lunch before his and Aramis’ night shift. When he gets there, Aramis and d’Artagnan are already sitting in a corner booth with their coffees, happily chatting away. When Aramis sees him, his face lights up and Athos has to stop himself from smiling back.

“Hey!” Aramis grins and waves. “Had a good night?”

Athos sits down on the opposite end of the moon shaped bench so he’s across from them. “No,” he grumbles. His fifth sense is slowly waking up. He can smell the coffee, and there’s a hint of Aramis, and then a lot of other scents he can’t identify and which are just jumbling together into a confusing mess.

Aramis picks up his coffee cup and cradles it to his chest, a small smile playing on his lips. “I thought you weren’t a morning person, but now I see you’re not an afternoon person, either.”

“He’s barely even a person,” Porthos shows up behind Athos. “Move!” and he makes him shuffle towards Aramis so he can fold his considerable bulk into the small space.

Aramis perks up now that his audience has arrived. “d’Artagnan has been telling me about his first shift,” he says. “Looks like you’ve had some fun.”

“Did you?” Athos raises his eyebrows at Porthos who nods.

“The whelp got lucky. Louis decided he wanted to go for a ride.”

Athos crosses his arms across his chest and stretches out his long legs. “So you basically had to babysit two kids.”

“I’m twenty three years old!” d’Artagnan says at the same time as Porthos says: “Yup.”

Aramis makes a placating,  shushing sound at d’Artagnan and says: “Just let the old men have some fun.”

d’Artagnan is just about to snap at him, too, when the words sink in and his face splits in a big grin. Porthos gives Aramis the finger, Athos just gives him a look.

The waitress shows up to take their orders and Aramis turns to the group. “Gentlemen, I’d love to get a cheese plate but I’m afraid I won’t be able to eat it all alone. What do you say we have a big spread of cheeses and patés and so on with bread?”

Porthos makes an appreciative sound. “That sounds lovely. I’ll have some wine with that, what do you recommend?”

“We have very good riesling,” the waitress says brightly. Porthos goes with it.

“Then I’ll take that too,” Aramis says.

Athos shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. This will absolutely give him away. He should just have a coffee, and...

“I’ll have a glass, too.”

What? Give him a fucking break.

Porthos, as expected, turns to him with his eyebrows high up on his forehead. “You’re having wine?”

“Yes, I’m having wine,” Athos says resignedly. “d’Artagnan? What about you?”

“Just lemonade, please.” When he seas Porthos open his mouth, he points at him and warns: “No jokes about me being a child!”

“I just wanted to ask if they had duck paté.” Porthos says innocently.

They order a selection of cheeses, cured meats, spreads and olives with fresh baguettes and a bottle of riesling to share. The wine comes first, chilled and with a colour so bright it almost looks green in the light. It hits Athos’ nose when the waitress places his glass in front of him. It’s fresh and a little acidic, and tasting it is surreal. He had tasted wine before. He remembers the taste of white wine - it is sour. Yet, when the wine hits his tongue this time, there is so much more to the taste. The sourness is there, sure, but it is just an underlying bonus that makes the whole experience that much more interesting. Athos can also taste sweetness - and isn’t that fascinating? He knows for a fact that without his sense of smell, he could not discern any sweetness whatsoever.

This truly is an exercise that puts a strain on Athos’ ability to keep a straight face. He wants to keep drinking, savouring every sip, but he knows that if he does that, he will give himself away. So he puts the wine down and tries to focus on the conversation, noting that Aramis is being conservative in his reactions - no moans and expressions of pure bliss - but he’s not pretending not to enjoy his wine.

“I have to admit,” d’Artagnan is saying as Athos zones in, “that when I first saw that a night shift is fifteen hours long, I thought it would be more difficult.”

“It can be,” Athos says. “We are there for a reason. Never relax too much.”

“Yeah,” Porthos slapped Athos on the shoulder with the air of a teacher presenting his star pupil. “Follow Athos’ example. Be tense even while you’re asleep.”

Aramis snickers into his glass.

“Do not follow Porthos’ example.” Athos adds. “I once had to kick him to wake him up during a fire.”

“Fire alarm,” Porthos corrects him.

“That’s worse,” d’Artagnan says, amused. “You see how that’s worse, right?”

Porthos just waves his hand dismissively. “I wake up for the important stuff. I have a sixth sense for those sorts of things.”

“Sixth?” d’Artagnan asks with interest. “I didn’t know you were bonded.”

“I’m not, I’m just one of the few that match with strangers,” Porthos shruggs.

Aramis leans back in his seat, suddenly interested. “So there are no soulmates on your horizon?”

“I doubt it. I mean, I wouldn’t know who they were in the first place since I can already smell. But I don’t mind. The way I see it, I have the best of both worlds.”

“Yes,” Aramis nods, deep in thought. “That does sound nice.”

Athos can’t help it, he feels a pang in his stomach. Not that he disagrees with Aramis. Hell, he would absolutely love not having a soulmate. But still... having someone voice that they would rather not be your soulmate when they already are one is... unpleasant.

Aramis seems to have realized that, too, because he suddenly snaps out of it and looks at Athos with mildly panicked eyes, as if he wanted to apologize. Athos just shakes his head, his look clearly saying that it’s fine.

It’s not, and they both know it, but it’s too late.

That’s when the food arrives and Aramis’ mood seems to instantly improve. They each pick what they want - Athos goes for the things he knows he likes, first, like cured meats, tomatoes, grapes, olives. Then he adds a few slices of cheese - he doesn’t know their names, he thinks one of them is brie or camembert, or maybe both. He used to hate cheese, but with age, he has learned to appreciate it a little bit. Cheese is one of those rare types of food that stink in his mouth. He can usually tell which ones are pungent, because they have a strange way of making his mouth feel strange. The ones that don’t just tend to be boring.

He spreads herbal butter on a slice of fresh baguette and the moment he takes a bite, he loves it. There’s feta in olive oil - he liked feta reasonably well before, but all oils always tasted the same, and their texture revolted him. Now he discovers that olive oil is lovely, but it clashes with the butter. The cheeses, however... they’re a revelation. Each one different, each one packed with aromas he can’t identify but which create a fascinating world of flavour. He is used to maybe four different taste inputs - sweet, salty, sour, umami. They mix and match, but they never create something outside of what they are. Now, he’s had probably twenty different flavours in the span of half an hour.

He’s tried three of the five cheeses when he starts to feel eyes on him.

“You’ve been even quieter than usual,” Porthos says, eyeing him and his plate suspiciously. Athos swallows his mouthful and resignedly leans back on the bench. He can’t help but look at Aramis, who looks like a child on Christmas morning as he ostensibly checks his watch.

It takes Porthos some time. Athos’ poker face can’t mask the fact that he’s eating food he usually avoids, and not just eating, he is savouring it, giving it his all attention. Porthos knows him, and he is trained to notice things, it is his job to be attentive to the world around him.

“Wait,” Porthos finally has it, he just obviously doesn’t want to believe it. “You can’t be... you’d tell me.”

Great, now Athos also feels guilty. Of course Porthos would expect him to tell him of a major change in his life. It’s different to conceal what happened before Porthos met him, now he’s concealed what happened right under his nose.

Hi sighs and bites the bullet. “It’s him,” he points at Aramis, who’s grinning like an idiot and fucking waves at Porthos, “...we are not going to pursue anything, and we don’t want to talk about it.”

Porthos stares at them both in turn, but mostly at Athos.

“What is going on?” d’Artagnan asks.

“They’re soulmates,” Porthos says, his voice full of wonder, confusion and apprehension.

“What?!”

Athos is starting to feel the first tendrils of panic. They’re creeping out from his stomach towards his limbs.

“It’s not a big deal,” Aramis says. “You yourself have that connection with many...”

“It is a bloody big deal!” Porthos booms. “What do you mean you’re not pursuing anything?!”

Oh god, here it goes - Porthos wants to know what’s wrong with them, they need to explain themselves, or worse, they need to lie, and won’t that be even worse than not telling him about the bond in the first place? Both options are making Athos sick. The tendrils are reaching his fingers and toes and head, where they will wrap around his brain any second now.

Aramis suddenly turns to him with a little frown, then says with grave seriousness and finality: “Athos said we don’t want to talk about it, so please, let’s drop it.”

“But...”

“Porthos!” he hisses, looking him straight in the eyes. Willing him to understand. And finally, Porthos gives up. He deflates and lowers his gaze to the table, obviously biting his tongue.

Athos wants to bolt, but Porthos is in his way, and the idea of drawing attention to his distress... well, it distresses him. So he sits and controls his breathing, willing the panic to dissipate. He really, really wants to drain his glass in one go, his hand is itching to feel the smooth, cold surface of it, his mouth watering, but if there is anything more important to him than the relief alcohol brings, it’s his duty. If he was a night watcher at a factory, or even a member of the showy King’s guard, he’d be drinking himself into oblivion right now, but he is the King and Queen’s personal bodyguard and he will be damned if he fails at protecting them.

He takes a fortifying sip and forces himself to put the glass down. At least the panic pulled its tendrils back, but now that he focuses on it, anger takes over him instead. Anger at himself, at the way his body and mind keep betraying him, making him something he’s not - weak. He is not a fainting maiden, he has charged into danger countless times and will continue doing so, so why is it enough for mere words to reduce him to a quivering mess?

Fuck it.

“Excuse me,” he mumbles and doesn’t wait for Porthos to move out of the way, bodily pushing him off of the bench and getting up. He walks out, stands in the afternoon light, breathing the fresh air - and for the first time in his life, he understands what that phrase means on a primal level. His lungs expand and his head clears a little, no longer being assaulted by the aromas of food and drink and people.

Aramis walks out not long after him, clearly in search of him. He approaches him as if Athos was a startled animal, and asks: “Are you alright?”

And that raises Athos’ hackles more than anything else so far, because he is not a child, he doesn’t need Aramis mothering him, he has known him for a total of three days, what gives him the right...

“I’m fine,” he pushes through his clenched teeth.

“If you want to go, I can get a take out container, and...”

Athos draws himself up into his full height - not much taller than Aramis, but imposing nonetheless - and spits into his face: “We are not a couple. We are nothing. I don’t need you to hold my hand and wipe my chin, understood?!”

Then he turns on his heel and walks away before Aramis can respond.

Chapter Text

By the time his phone vibrates ten minutes later, he has mostly calmed down. He’s sitting on a bench in the Jardin du Palais Royal when his phone vibrates with a message from Porthos.

Porthos: Can I tell him?

Athos rubs his face. He knows he was too harsh on Aramis. The other man did nothing wrong. He didn’t push Athos into revealing anything to Porthos, merely slightly escalated it by organizing lunch. Even Athos’ accusation of smothering was unfair - the two of them were soon to start their night shift, so taking some food with them would not have been a sign of anything but Aramis being a considerate friend. Athos has no one but himself to be angry at, so he stews in the shadow of the trees lining the garden paths.

To Porthos he writes: OK.

Again, as much as he’d like to never tell another living soul about what happened, and that includes his unsolicited soulmate, he knows that there is no getting around it. Aramis is in his life now, and the least Athos can do is let Porthos explain some of his behaviour so the next time he has an outburst, at least Aramis won’t take it too personally.

And it’s not like it’s a secret - it was in the bloody newspaper, for fuck’s sake. Of course, the media could only report what the police made public, and that’s all anyone knows. Anyone apart from the two people that were there... and survived.

This is what Porthos will tell Aramis: five years ago, Athos’ wife killed his brother. Gutted him like a fish, in Thomas’ apartment, with his own kitchen knife. Porthos might be able to tell him that she is in prison, that her previous misdeeds had contributed to her conviction, that the killing itself was ruled in self defense. That she will be in prison for a very, very long time.

But Athos honestly doesn’t know if Porthos knows all those details, because a) Porthos never pried when Athos so obviously didn’t want to talk about it, and b) Porthos really, truly doesn’t care about true crime news. If he did read those newspaper stories, it would have been just because of their relation to his friend.

He is still in a mood when he reports for duty (read: saunters into the staff room at the Louvre like a lost ghost) and finds Treville doing paperwork at the table.

“Captain,” he greets even though Treville is not his captain since there are no captains in this job. But Treville will never stop being his captain. They’ve talked about it. Treville clearly told Athos not to call him ’captain’. All that accomplished was that now Porthos calls him ’captain’, too.

Treville looks up from his paperwork and frowns. “Are you drunk?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Athos drawls, heading for his locker.

“What has been going on with you lately?”

Athos considers lying, but then, Treville is his senior officer (it doesn’t matter that’s not how this job works, thank you very much) and that strictly speaking, he should probably know that two of his subordinates (they’re not) are in... a predicament. Together.

“Aramis and I are soulmates.”

Treville stares at him like he grew another head. “What?!”

Athos takes off his biker jacket and trousers, pushing them into the locker. There is no other way to say it - the leather garments are too big and always need to be shoved into the small locker like a bullied schoolboy. “We’re not together, we will not be together, you don’t need to concern yourself with it. I’m just telling you as a courtesy.”

Treville gapes as Athos locks his stuffed locker and starts putting on his uniform. Then something in his face shifts and Athos knows he’s put two and two together. “Athos,” he says with that fatherly voice he saves for special occasions. “You can’t let your past drag you down again. You’ve been doing well.”

Yes, he has. He hasn’t felt this carving and self-sabotaging tendencies this often in quite some time. He hasn’t drunk this much every day, either.

“It’s just growing pains,” he says, and he believes it, but he also knows that addiction is a slippery slope and that once he goes down it, it is very difficult to stop again.

“If your relationship progresses, you will have to report it,” Treville tells him.

“It won’t,” Athos snaps, on edge once again. “Neither of us wants this.”

He avoids further discussion by just walking out of the room. He doesn’t want to be there when Aramis arrives, doesn’t want to be in the same room with him and Treville right now. He does his rounds, even though he’s twenty minutes too early. He finds Marsac in the kitchen doing fuck all, as is his habit.

“Have you met the new guys yet?” he asks.

Marsac shrugs. “I’ve met the brown one yesterday.”

Athos doesn’t wince, but it’s a close one. This is one of the reasons they don’t like Marsac. He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, they’ve learned that, he just has absolutely no boundaries or decorum. The first time he met Porthos, he exclaimed that times really are changing when someone like him can be the King’s bodyguard, then asked why a black man would want to serve under the monarchs of the country that enslaved and abused his people for hundreds of years. Porthos experienced such whiplash he couldn’t do much more than stand there with his mouth hanging open until Marsac patted him on the shoulder and wished him luck.

“Come meet the other one.”

Athos takes him to the staff room, not surprised when he finds both Aramis and Treville inside, both with their trousers off. When Aramis looks up and sees Athos, his face gets a little tense, but then he looks to Marsac and his expression morphs into one of utter shock.

Confused, Athos looks to Marsac, too, and finds him just as ordinary as always. Marsac is looking at Aramis with a little frown, as if he recognizes him, but can’t quite place him.

And then, Aramis charges at him and... hugs him.

He embraces him with such fervour as if they are long lost brothers meeting for the first time in decades, almost knocking his breath out in the collision. Aramis whispers something in Marsac’s ear that causes Marsac’s face to slacken in shock, and after a beat he hesitantly returns the embrace.

Athos and Treville watch this gobsmacked, looking at each other and at the two men in turn, waiting for an explanation. When it comes, it’s just as shocking.

“This man,” Aramis says when he finally lets go of his grip and holds Marsac at arm’s lenght, looking into his face like a nun looks at Jesus on the cross, “saved my life.”

Athos and Treville, like ona man, exclaim in complete astonishment: “Marsac?!”

The man in question is looking sheepish - possibly the first time in all the years Athos has known him.

“He saved me from a massacre,” Aramis says, his voice thick with emotion. “Pulled me out from under three dead men and dragged me to a safe place.”

Athos’ heart sinks in his chest at hearing that. He imagines Aramis in combat, injured, tired, scared, weighed down by the lifeless bodies of his comrades, thinking he will be next. Only a monster wouldn’t feel sorry for a man after hearing that, especially if that man is as nice as Aramis.

Oh, and Marsac, of course. He’s sorry for Marsac, too. Totally.

“When was this?” asks Treville.

“Ten years ago,” Aramis says softly. “Two months into my first deployment.”

“They gave this kid a rifle and sent him to die,” Marsac says with contempt. Aramis’ face conveys complicated feelings about that statement.

“Where did you go?” he asks. “You just walked away. No one could tell me what happened with you afterwards.”

“I deserted. I walked until I found people who gave me food, and then kept walking until I reached the border.”

Marsac says it the way he says everything, but there is a tension in him, wrinkles around his eyes, ice in his eyes. He is expecting judgement, but what he gets is Aramis slightly shaking him by the shoulders and pronouncing with the utmost intensity: “And no one can blame you.” When Marsac gives him a tight nod, Aramis says:  “You were my hero. I have been praying for you ever since that day.”

“You can save your prayers,” Marsac responds laconistically. “I don’t believe in God and God doesn’t believe in me.”

Aramis smiles and nods. “As you wish.”

“Alright, now go put some trousers on, your junk is distracting me.”

Aramis laughs, pats Marsac’s shoulder, and goes to do as he’s told.

Athos meant to apologize to Aramis the second he was alone with him, but once Treville and Marsac leave, he doesn’t want to bring the mood down. Aramis is pensive, barely looks at him, lost in thought. When Athos says something, Aramis reacts as if being called away from a conversation, snapping his head up, his thoughts obviously chasing after his brain, his awareness away. On a faraway battlefield, probably, somewhere in the desert, among dead bodies clad in camo.

At six, the King and Queen entertain an English ambassador and his wife, the CEO of one of Europe’s biggest banks. Athos is inside the dining hall with the ambassador’s bodyguard, Aramis is outside with the CEO’s bodyguard. By the time the dinner and the following drinks end, it’s almost ten. After that, they still have to do their evening rounds, check that everything that should be locked is locked, that everyone who should be inside the wing is inside and everyone who should be outside is outside, and then, they can have dinner themselves. Athos was so hungry during the last hour of the visit he was afraid his stomach would interrupt someone at speech.

They pull the leftovers from the fridge and heat them up in the microwave. Breakfast is the domain of cooks, but lunch and dinner are overseen by a Michelin star chef who pulls out all the stops anytime the royal couple has visitors. This time, she made coq au vin with rosemary roast potatoes. Athos quickly realizes that he’s found his favourite pairing in the world - food and wine in one.

After a few bites, when his stomach stops cramping up and his mood improves, he realizes that there is still one thing he hasn’t done yet.

“I’m sorry for how I acted during lunch today,” he says to Aramis, who is unusually quiet.

“That’s alright,” Aramis shakes his head. “It’s completely understandable.”

Athos has to chew on his pride together with the chicken before replaying: “Understandable - maybe, acceptable - no. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t deserve what I said.”

Aramis gives him a small, relieved smile. “I knew this was hard for you, although I didn’t understand why. Now... I think I do.”

“Yes,” Athos pushes the potatoes around his plate. “Porthos asked me if he could tell you.”

“I’m glad he did. It makes much more sense now - why you panic every time there is even a hint at us being in a relationship. For what it’s worth,” Aramis infuses his next words with a bit of his usual charm, going for apologetic. “I behave like that with everyone. I’ve always been a mother hen. Or whatever the male version is.” Then he frowns in contemplation an uncertainty. “Father cock?”

Athos chuckles despite himself, and it makes Aramis smile, proud and pleased.

They go back to eating until Athos’ mind circles back to what Aramis said. “Wait. How do you know I panic every time?”

“Ah,” Aramis loos apologetic again. “I... smell it.”

Well. If that’s not a breach of privacy on a completely new and before now unexplored level.

“I can’t really stop it,” Aramis seems to understand his apprehension.

“No, of course not,” Athos says. At least now he knows why Aramis was always able to divert attention every time Athos needed him to. Turns out he really was reading his mind.

“You know,” Aramis’ change of tone draws Athos’ attention back. “I really did want to bring some food from the lunch with me, but Porthos ate it all.”

Athos fondly smiles. “Yes, he tends to do that. Even if it makes him sick.”

“Really? Why?”

Athos hesitates, but then decides that it is only fair that he talks about Porthos’ life a little. “He grew up poor. He can’t help it, leaving food to waste is in his eyes the biggest sin.”

Aramis nods. “I completely understand that. I used to feel the same way until I realized one important fact.”

“Which is?”

“That I either waste it now, or it becomes waste in me, and makes me sick in the process. Also, whenever possible, I take the leftovers with me so I get a free meal later.”

Athos nodded in appreciation. “You should tell that to Porthos. He once ate a whole pig.”

“No!”

“Yes,” Athos laughs at the memory. “It was a piglet, mind you, but it still made him sweat.”

“Did he throw up?”

“I don’t think he knows how to regurgitate food. It’s against his beliefs.”

Aramis’ laugh is open and unrestrained, and Athos is so glad they’re on good terms again.

Suddenly, with the food in his belly and the tension of the day forgotten, he is bone tired.

“Would you mind if I slept first?” he asks.

“Not at all, go for it! Although... could you show me where it is?”

“You can stay there with me, just don’t fall asleep and walk around at least once every hour an hour. We usually switch every four hours, bu you can wake me up if you get exhausted.”

They put their dishes in the dishwasher, and Athos leads Aramis to the “bedroom”. It’s a small room with two separate beds, a TV, a bookshelf, and some board and card games. Aramis takes it all in with his eyebrows raised in surprise. He even whistles.

“There’s Netflix,” Athos waves to the TV. The only thing stopping him from plopping onto the bed like a spoilt teenager is the fact that if he did that, the bed would probably break under him. He takes off his shoes and jacket, leaves all else on. Experience has shown him that there is little as undignified as dealing with a home intrusion alarm in your boxers and undershirt. “Just keep it on low in case anything happens.”

He lies in his preferred bed and is out cold before Aramis even sits on his.

He dreams of that day. The day Anne called him in panic, screaming at him to get to Thomas’ flat. He ran in and found them in the kitchen, her on her knees, covered in Thomas’ blood, pressing a kitchen towel to the wound, the knife still buried in his stomach. Athos knew a killing blow when he saw it. There was nothing she could’ve done to save him once she stuck that five inch blade into his flesh, he knew it, and yet... and yet, she didn’t call the ambulance. She called him. She prolonged the time between the crime and the first response. And Athos knew then that something was very, very wrong, and that he was very, very angry at her. Later, in the upcoming weeks and months, he dragged a broken heart with him, his grief like an open wound that could never close, growing gorier with every new revelation.

*In his dream, he can feel it all at once, a wave of unparalleled agony, fury so strong it steals his breath away. He grabs her, hauls her off of his brother’s body, and slams her against the kitchen counter. She paws at him with her bloody hands, tells him lies, tells him her false name and her false life story, but he cuts the stream of falsehoods off with his hands on her throat. He slams her head against the cupboard behind her, presses on her windpipe, his fingers leaving bruises on both sides of her slim neck, until she’s blue in the face, until her eyes are popping out of their sockets, until...*

He violently jerks awake, the rage still shaking his body. Wait. It’s not rage. It’s Aramis. Aramis has him by the shoulders and is yelling at him to wake up, shaking him on the bed.

Athos gasps in gulps of air that covers his tongue and throat like sweet ambrosia. Without thinking, he pulls Aramis close and buries his nose in his throat. Aramis doesn’t even pause, he falls into the embrace with ease, letting Athos cling to him like a child. He strokes Athos’ hair and coos assurances into his ear, his raspy voice sending shivers down Athos’ spine.

Athos’ mind is full of the visuals of Anne’s convulsing body, air squeezed out of her, and he’s thinking or maybe saying a mantra: that’s not what happened, that’s not what happened, that’s not what happened! He never laid hands on her like that, not in rage, never in rage, always in...

But no, he can’t think of that either, not now, not ever. His subconsciousness is cruelly twisting his good memories and making monstrous abominations out of them, and he has no power to stop them.

When Athos comes to his senses, Aramis can sense it and pulls away, but before Athos can get overwhelmed by a new wave of shame, Aramis takes him by the shoulders and looks him in the eyes.

“It’s alright,” he says very clearly, willing Athos to hear him. “I have seen worse. I have been worse.”

“Yes,” every Athos’ word drips self contempt. “But you had a good reason to be.”

Aramis sits back, frowning at him. “My trauma is not superior to yours just because I was in combat. I didn’t know any of those soldiers for longer than a few months. None of it was personal.”

Athos pulls up his knees and rests his hands on them, clenching and unclenching his fists. Aramis lets him take his time before speaking.

“I’ve seen combat,” he says at last. “I’ve seen people die. The most I’ve suffered from that are occasional bad dreams. So how can love be what undoes me?”

“I can’t answer that for you,” Aramis says quietly. “Because I think you know why. So what are you really asking, Athos?”

Athos looks up at him through bloodshot eyes. “Why am I so weak, Aramis?”

Aramis shakes his head and grips Athos’ knees. But instead of saying what Athos expects - something about him not being weak, empty platitudes Athos knows he can’t believe - Aramis says: “Because we’re all weak. We are all just animals with overactive brains, but we have the same instincts as we did when we first started walking on two legs. You got burnt and now you avoid anything that looks like flame. Do you think you’re the only irrational being on Earth? I can run into a battlefield, but if you threaten to disinfect a cut on my finger, I’ll faint - just because it hurt like hell when I was five. Stop beating yourself up about the natural reactions of your body and mind.”

Athos has never looked at it that way and the new angle allows him to breathe more easily. He takes a deep breath and finally takes in the rest of the room. The TV is off, there are no open books on Aramis’ bed, no traces of his activity. He looks outside and sees the first hues of the sun creeping up from behind the flat Parisian horizon.

“What time is it?” he asks. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“It’s half five,” Aramis takes his hands off of Athos knees and Athos immediately misses their warmth and weight. “I knew I couldn’t sleep, so what would be the point?”

“Fuck,” Athos realizes that Aramis is also battling his demons, the ones Athos just now implied were more worthy of being an emotional wreck over. “Marsac?”

Aramis’ mouth ticks into a sad smile at one end and he nods.

“Is there anything I can do?” asks Athos, wanting to repay Aramis’ generosity.

Aramis visibly hesitates, wanting to say something but uncertain of its reception. Finally, his gaze darts to Athos’ side, between him and the wall. “I... can I sit with you?”

Athos hesitates. “Is... that something you’d do with a friend?”

Aramis nods. “I would, yes.”

“Then... yes. But hand me a book first, please.”

Aramis gives him a thankful smile and goes to fetch a book. There is a bit of a back and forth until they settle on a historical novel Athos hasn’t read yet (the book corner acts as a book swap for the entire wing) and then Aramis is climbing into Athos’ bed. They are both fully clothed and when Aramis settles next to him, they’re pressed together on the small bed with their sides glued together, and Athos doesn’t know what to do, where to put his hand. He clumsily wraps it around Aramis’ shoulders.

Being so close to someone still feels strange, but knowing that this truly is just comfort between friends, with no ulterior motives and no expectations of intimacy, settles him. He can enjoy it for what it is - a hug. Human contact. Support.

It has been a very long time since Athos has had the comfort of platonic touch. Truly, he can’t ever remember having it. His family was not one for giving it freely, and he, either by nature or nurture, became bad at asking for it, or even knowing he needed it. He never had a pushy, touchy-feely friend before.

He opens his book and starts reading. He wonders if he should read out loud for Aramis’ benefit, but can’t quite make himself ask. It’s no matter, though - it doesn’t take more than three pages and Aramis is shifting under his arm, sliding lower on the bed. He hugs a pillow and falls asleep with his nose pressed against Athos’ side.

When there is movement outside, doubtlessly the Queen hunting for her morning snack, and Athos knows he has to check it out for posterity’s sake, it takes a considerable amount of willpower to leave Aramis’ side.

Chapter Text

There is a party at the Louvre, and everyone is welcome.

Well, everyone, that is, who has at least a million on their account. Which dramatically narrows down the invite list.

The evening will start with an auction for some of the items on display at the Louvre - the items will keep being on display, they will just have a new owner and the money from the auction will be used for general upkeep of the museum. The royal couple is expected to buy at least one object.

After the auction, there will be a dinner hosted in the Richelieu wing’s Grand Salon, and then drinks, which will probably take until the early hours of the morning, by which time most remaining guests will be wasted, the staff will be exhausted, and the musketeers (they no longer carry muskets, but calling them the glockeers would be weird) will wish they had a legitimate reason to bodily take someone down, just to let off some steam. There was nothing worse than bodyguarding the most esteemed people in France in a room full of a hundred millionaires.

Athos takes a nap during the day and feels somewhat fresh and prepared when he walks into the staffroom at ten to five. d’Artagnan is already there, as are Treville and Marsac, who had the day shift and will probably suffer the most tonight. They’re both already nursing a cup of coffee. This will be a long night.

Athos can faintly smell the coffee now. This was the fist day and night he’s spent away from Aramis while retaining his sense of smell. He supposes that has to do with the night spent in one room with him and the... well. The cuddling. He has tried to call it something else in his head, but if he’s honest with himself, It was cuddling. Platinic, friendly cuddling. He’s pretty sure bohemians do that sort of thing all the time. And women, probably.

Oh yeah, did he mention? After he made sure the Queen was alright, Athos had gone back to the staff bedroom and climbed back in. He read his book for the next hour and a half and only woke Aramis up ten minutes before the end of their shift. So what? The bed was warm and Aramis was warmer. Sue him.

He was so content reading his book that he didn’t even realize it was time to start getting up, and he paid the price of exposure when the door opened and Porthos poked his head in. Athos didn’t even have it in him to freeze, his first instinct instead to stop Porthos from waking Aramis up. He put his finger to his lips and gently extricated himself from his side.

They only spoke once they were in the hall, with the door closed behind them. And even then, it took them a few awkward seconds.

“Good morning,” Porthos said at last.

Athos nodded, and said the most stereotypical thing that ever came out of his mouth: “It’s not what it looks like.”

Porthos raised a hand and shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry. I reacted badly. Yesterday, I mean. It’s none of my business how you deal with this and I should’ve known better than to question you. If you say you’re only friends, then... then that’s good. You need a friend.”

“I have a friend,” Athos immediately frowned at the implication.

“Yes, well... you need a better one.”

Fuck. Fuck! Did Porthos truly think... Athos couldn’t stand for his best friend to get self conscious. Aramis might have swooped into their lives like a hurricane and broken Athos’ carefully constructed walls with record speed, but Porthos had been there for years, a steady, supporting presence, a rock to lean on any time. That could never be swept aside.

“Porthos,” he grabbed the bigger man’s shoulder with one hand and squeezed, willing him to listen. “I do want Aramis to be my friend. I... feel safe with him. His scent comforts me. And we both needed that tonight. But that in no way lessens our friendship. He cannot replace you. You won’t get rid of me until you finally decide you’ve had enough of my shit.”

Porthos narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re an idiot.” Then he pulled him into a crushing hug, tugging him under his chin as if Athos wasn’t six feet tall. He is only an inch or so shorter, but Porthos never fails to make him feel small. In a good way.

“Birds of a feather and all that,” he mumbled into Porthos’ shoulder.

When they parted, Porthos looked him up and down. “You said you both had a bad night?”

Athos nodded. “The usual for me. Aramis, however...” he wondered if he should be telling Porthos this, but at the end (or beginning) of the day, this was also a professional matter that they all should be aware of, as it affected their overall dynamics. “He met Marsac yesterday-”

“Well, that would ruin anyone’s day,” Porthos murmured.

“- and they realized they knew each other from active duty.”

Porthos’ eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“When Aramis was a fresh, eighteen year old recruit, Marsac pulled him out of a massacre and saved his life.”

Porthos’ jaw dropped and he stared at him as if he grew a second head. Then his eyes moved to the door behind him, as if seeing through it to the man sleeping in Athos’ bed. “We should let him sleep,” he whispered. Athos smiled, his chest filling with warm affection. This is why Porthos never had to fear being upstaged or set aside.

And so now, when Athos walks into the staff room and Marsac narrows his eyes at him, they all know what he means when he says: “Where’s the other one? He won’t try to hug me again, will he?”

Well, all but d’Artagnan. They’ll catch him up at some point.

“If it makes you feel any better, he hugs everybody,” Athos says.

“You saved his life, Marsac,” Treville says almost as dryly as Athos could. “He might try to marry you.”

Athos lets out a puff of air some might generously call a chuckle.

Porthos and Aramis show up together, bringing with them the scent Athos is intimately familiar with by now. Aramis doesn’t hug Marsac (thank god, the man looks ready to stab him if he tried), but he is visibly nervous around him, going from avoiding his eyes to staring at him every time Marsac turns away. Athos supposes his behaviour is proportionate to the insane situation he has found himself in.

At one point Marsac turns to him and says: “Stop looking at me like that or I’ll desert again.”

“You will not!” Treville exclaims immediately. “That’s what you get for saving people’s lives, get used to it or stop doing it.”

Marsac stares at the older man. “I’m a bodyguard, Treville. Saving people is my job.”

Treville seems to realize what he said. “Well. Then... get used to it.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says, obviously flustered. “I just need to get used to you being around.”

Marsac eyes him, then asks: “Look, I get that you were a kid and it was all traumatic, but you need to get therapy, man.”

They all turn to stare at him. Even used to his openness as they are, it can still catch them unawares.

Finally, Porthos asks: “Marsac? Were you always like this or did you suffer brain damage in the army?”

d’Artagnan tries to supress a chuckle. He doesn’t do a good job.

“I had brain damage before the army,” Marsac says, unperturbed. “Why? Did I say something?”

“No,” Aramis says, amused. “You’re right, I should get therapy.”

Athos thinks that out of them all, Aramis seems to need it the least, but he doesn’t say anything. God knows he needs therapy more than all of them combined and he has no desire to remind them of that.

When they’re all dressed and armed, they do a preliminary sweep before taking their places around the Denon wing, which will be used for the auction, conveniently also being the place where most of the artworks “for sale” are displayed. The doors should open at six, giving them just enough time to search the giant space that will be occupied by strangers tonight. In a way, Athos loves that there are real stakes tonight - lots of rich people with fingers in often dangerous pies, including the highest ranks in the government, together with artworks exceeding billions of euros in worth, and to top it all off, the King and Queen of France. Despite knowing from experience that tonight will most probably not require much more than menacingly standing around, Athos lets thrill infuse his veins and adrenaline wash over him like a comforting blanket. He knows how to handle crises. He likes them. There is no space for overthinking and panicking when work like this needs to be done.

When the first guests start pouring in, they take their places around the museum. Fortunately, it is not officially their job to protect the artwork - the museum has extensive security, both CCTV and personnel-wise. They’re here to help out, the four of them - Athos, Aramis, Treville and Marsac; Porthos and d’Artagnan are with the royal couple. Halfway through the evening, Aramis and Athos will swap with them so that they can marginally relax.

Athos already knows many of the faces that turn up tonight. He knows which will probably get so drunk they will need help getting home, which will eat all the food and bid on nothing, which will try their best to crawl into the King’s arse. Despite himself, he likes some of them. And some of them used to like him. Before.

Athos doesn’t like to think about his childhood. It wasn’t particularly unhappy, but he lived a very sheltered and privileged life that he simply cannot be proud of. He used to be one of these people - these peacocks who lived so far removed from anything real, anything that mattered. He went into the most prestigious schools, and then, instead of following in his father’s footsteps and going to the most prestigious military academy, one which would give him an empty rank and a sense of superiority, he had enlisted in the army. Two years of humanitarian missions provided him a crash course in empathy and... in guilt.

And then... well. Then his life imploded.

And he never really stopped feeling the aftershocks.

Ah, there it is again, his bloody thinking. Not even half an hour in and he’s had the time to get bored and lose himself in memories. He suddenly wants a drink and is happy there is no nearby, or he’d be sorely tempted. He wouldn’t have any, but the inner conflict would distract him enough to compromise his ability to do his job.

The drinking, too, was a weakness he hated to indulge in. It’s not like he likes it. Getting drunk is not pleasant. The consequences of it far outweigh the benefits. And yet... it is a compulsion now, something he can’t stop. There is no light drinking anymore, if he starts, there is no stopping, not until he’s senseless, as if by taking one sip of alcohol he tied himself to a work horse that won’t stop till the work is done.

He can smell Aramis before he turns to see him approach. “Did you see?” he asks, and when Athos gives him a blank look, continues: “Porthos’ text?”

Athos takes out his phone and checks the group chat.

Twelve minutes ago:

Porthos: Queen not ready yet, waiting for Constance with some purse

And then, two minutes ago:

Porthos: The whelp has a crush on Constance

“Good luck with that,” Athos drawls. “She’s married. And bonded.”

“The boy knows how to make life interesting,” Aramis smirks.

Just as Athos wants to put the phone away, it vibrates in his hand.

Porthos: shit. He says they’re soulmates.

They both read the text and then look up and stare at each other.

“You said she’s bonded,” Aramis says.

“She says she’s bonded,” Athos shrugs helplessly.

“Well,” Aramis says after a while, putting his phone away. “That truly will be interesting.”

When the royal couple shows up fifteen minutes later, it is obvious that something happened by the look on everyone’s faces - everyone’s apart from the King’s, who is all toothy smiles and loud greetings, his white suit with blue highlights shining like a beacon. The Queen, too, is smiling, in her subdued, pleasant way. She’s wearing a beautiful pastel blue dress with a boned corset that reaches just above her ankles, and which manages to somehow tone down her husband’s attire. But her eyes stray ever so often to her right hand and best friend.

Constance, in her gorgeous flowery summer dress, almost outshines the queen. Athos has always liked Constance. She is friendly and sweet, but self sufficient and fierce. He is aware that she has a husband, but he’d never know it from Constance’s demeanor alone. He even kept forgetting the first year or so that he’d known her, always having to be reminded by someone who mentioned the man in connection to his fashion label, which the Queen has worn a few times for minor events such as these.

Now, Constance is visibly shaken. She keeps looking at d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan keeps looking at her, and Porthos keeps having to elbow the young man in the ribs every twenty seconds to get him to pay attention to his actual charge - the Queen of France.

Athos and Aramis exchange looks.

“I’ll go,” Athos says. He needs a distraction, anyway.

If he tried to pry d’Artagnan away from guarding the Queen at any other time, he’s sure he’d meet with strong protests, but as it is, the boy doesn’t even blink twice, just vacates his spot and lets Athos take over. He and Porthos share a look and it feels so good to be together again like this, side by side. Something clicks in Athos, like a screw that’s been loose finally falling into place, and it’s right like this. They work well together, they’re synchronized, their looks enough to convey all they need to know.

They fall into a familiar routine, each shadowing his respective royal, not close enough to be a hindrance, but close enough to step in if anything was to threaten their safety. There was almost no danger of that happening here, but - and this was an important part of their job description - it looked good. Athos knew that Louis particularly liked having the uniformed personal bodyguards around, like pedigree dogs or expensive paintings one could have their guests gawk at. The fact that the King and Queen had people around them who would take a bullet for them was a powerful sign of importance.

There was a reason why were the only royal bodyguards on the planet that had a royal insignia on their back instead of nondescript suits designed for blending in, and that reason was King Louis’ vanity.

Athos keeps one eye on d’Artagnan, who he can see is trying very hard to be professional, while absolutely besotted with poor Constance. The woman is clearly having a hard time focusing on anything else, either, and it is almost painful to watch them dance around each other. Constance seems hell bent on ignoring d’Artagnan, so much so that she continuously keeps finding herself in his orbit by accident due to the sheer magnetism they seem to have for each other. It seems to surprise her every single time. D’Artagnan, on the other hand, keeps trying to look away, but can’t manage it for longer than a few seconds at a time.

When the auction starts and Athos and Porthos are allowed to step to the side while the royals take their seats, Athos finally leans towards Porthos and asks under his breath: “What happened?”

Porthos takes a small step to the side to be closer to him. “They both realized it almost at the same time. Then he tried to kiss her.”

Athos winced.

“She told him she has a husband and that they’re soulmates, and I think it broke his little naive heart. He truly thought this was his fairytale romance.” There was real pity in Porthos’ voice. “He is a hothead like I’ve never met before, Athos. I don’t know if he can make it.”

Athos watches the youngest bodyguard across the room. Now that all their guests are sitting and staying still, he lets himself stare his fill at the back of Constance’s head. “Give him a chance,” Athos says. He feels a strange protectiveness for the boy. “He might surprise us.”

Porthos snorts. “Oh, he is full of surprises.”

The amount of money spent in that room in the next hour is eye watering even to Athos. He can feel Porthos tensing next to him the more the auction progresses, his discomfort turning into suppressed rage. Athos understands him on an intellectual level, but he knows he can never really feel what Porthos feels when billionaires throw around sums that could buy the entire estate he grew up in just so they can say they own a painting they will never even touch.

Naturally, no one else can tell - Porthos is a professional. Athos, however, gets a very strange urge, just for a split second, to reach out and touch his arm. He doesn’t do it, but the fact that he thought about it makes him pause. He has never been a very tactile person, with the exception of Anne, who he couldn’t stop touching. Even with Porthos, it was always the other man who touched Athos, not the other way around - Porthos would throw an arm around his shoulders or pat his back, Athos was never the one to reach out. The only thing that can explain this sudden change is that Aramis has been rubbing off on him.

The auction ends and the mass of people trickles from one end of the palace to another to eat dinner and talk about their purchases. The Queen takes the opportunity to pull Constance aside, into a baby changing room. Athos moves to stand outside it, but the Queen looks at him in consideration, and then calls him in, too.

“Athos?” she asks as he closes the door behind them in apparent confusion. “What can you tell us about d’Artagnan?”

Athos blinks, wondering if he knows d’Artagnan enough to be his reference to the fucking Queen of France. “He seems to be loyal and fiercely committed to this job,” he says, because that seems obvious. “He is also young and idealistic.”

“You want to say he believes in fairy tale endings,” Constance sighs. “He was so hurt when I burst his bubble.”

She seems just as hurt now, Athos thinks.

“You deserve a fairy tale ending,” Anne says softly, looking at Constance with sad affection. It makes the redhead’s breath stutter in her chest.

Athos excuses himself before he gets trapped in an emotional scene. He waits for them to emerge (thankfully, neither has red eyes or smudged make-up) and follows them into the Richelieu wing.

The Napoleon III apartments are usually kept in their original form, a museum of life as it was, but enough money can make even the Louvre museum forget caution. They stripped the apartments of most of their furnishings, replacing them with cheaper, although still appropriately expensive looking dishes and silverware. The floors are covered with a fake carpet - the rich are obviously not trusted not to spill. The walls, however, are not protected in any way. Unbidden, a thought comes to Athos, and he imagines Thomas in this room, how he’d probably spread some chocolate mousse on the wall just to be a little shit, just because he could. The image of his smug face as his finger would leave a brown smudge on crimson paint fills him with pain and shame.

By the time the dinner is cleared and they move onto drinks, Athos’ feel are hurting from the constant standing around, his back is stiff, his neck keeps cracking every time he moves his head, and he is wondering whether turning thirty was the beginning of the end, if his body is already showing such wear and tear. Aramis and d’Artagnan replace him and Porthos and he takes the opportunity to walk around the halls a bit and stretch. Athos’ head hurts from the constant barrage of scents he has been forced to breathe in for the last few hours, all the parfumes mixing together, cloying on their own but sickly when combined. He needs fresh air.

As he walks to the door, he spots Treville. The man is subtly leaning against the wall, resting his weight, his eyes unfocused, and Athos approaches him and says: “Go to sleep, captain.”

Treville jerks, blinking his eyes as if he was asleep. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sure. Stop being a stubborn mule and go take a nap. Everything is fine. The King and Queen are going to retire soon, anyway.”

After a short standoff, Treville sighs in resignation and nods. “Fine. If anything happens...”
”I will come and get you. Come on, we’re not in active combat, this is a cocktail party.”

Only Treville’s obvious exhaustion prevents him from going into a full blown lecture on the importance of being prepared for anything at any moment. He just gives Athos a look (Athos had to learn those somewhere) and drags himself down the hall and down the stairs into the courtyard.

Athos looks around to see where all the others are. Porthos is in a corner, rubbing his neck and trying not to yawn. D’Artagnan and Aramis are close to the very tired looking royal couple. Marsac is nowhere to be seen, but that’s nothing new - he might be sleeping already, or smoking weed in the gardens, or doing a thousand different, completely irresponsible things. Athos asked him once why he didn’t care. Marsac looked him in the eye and, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, he said: “I almost died in combat. What could possibly make me care ever again?” Athos also asked Treville why he tolerated that level of insubordination. He got his answer when some unfortunate soul tried to rob the Queen at the racetrack. Marsac didn’t even blink as he caught the man and choked half a life out of him. That man is the most phlegmatically efficient person he’s ever met. He could also probably kill them all in cold blood and sleep like a baby afterwards.

As the evening winds up to a close, Aramis is standing in the window of the dining room, watching the last inebriated guests make their way across the courtyard towards the bustling night streets of Paris, and he wonders if he’ll ever get to do anything fun ever again.

Aramis has always been an adrenaline junkie. Not even his near death experience in the beginning of his military career made him quit the army - he almost spent the next eight years of it trying to get into the most dangerous situations imaginable, as if he was trying to recreate the danger he felt that day. Not that it didn’t leave its marks on him, marks he can still feel on nights like the one he spent watching Athos sleep and thinking about the weight of dead bodies on top of him.

But years of active combat left him tired, feeling like a shell of a man, disillusioned, displaced, disheartened. When his soul could no longer take the weight of the dead bodies on his conscience, he took his honourable discharge and turned to his beloved God, only to find not love, but judgement and prejudice in the ranks of his peers.

He also really didn’t like all that quiet he so desperately wished for while being shot at.

And so here he is, being a bodyguard to the rich and powerful. A soldier who wanted to be a monk but failed at both, now doing neither. He likes that he gets to have a gun again, the weight of it a comforting presence at his hip. He also likes the change of pace, but he has a feeling that once the novelty of it evaporates, he will find each day just like the other. He likes his colleagues, and the Queen is truly something to look at. The King, too, actually. He has a beautiful big smile and such expressive, deep eyes.

But most of all, Aramis likes Athos.

And isn’t that just the perfect kick in the balls?

He knew he’d probably be attracted to his soulmate if he ever found one, that’s the whole point of the chemistry that makes soulmates such a big phenomenon. Everybody knows that soulmates are supposed to be compatible on the physical side of things - that is not what Aramis has a problem with, what he always despised about soulbonds. Chemistry is such a fleeting, unreliable driver, though. Behind all that nice smell and surface attraction is still the same person, and people can be deceiving, cruel, abusive, manipulative... all that jazz.

Aramis has always been resolved that he would never fall victim to the alluring scent of his soulmate. He would never bound himself to a stranger just because their biology matched. He has seen what that does to people firsthand, and the price they pay was beyond what he was willing to risk.

So as much as Athos smells like all his dreams and best sexual fantasies put together, his smell is not Aramis’ biggest problem.

This is Aramis’ biggest problem: Athos de la Fere is a good man.

Aramis can tell. He’s only known him for a few days, but he already knows that what he sees is what he gets with Athos. Athos doesn’t put on a mask or hide behind smiles and small talk. The only thing he hides is pain, carrying it silently, never showing what torment lies inside. It took Aramis two days to realize the pattern in the change of Athos’ smell, and once he did, he started seeing the tiniest signs of physical reaction - the tightening of the skin around his mouth, the way his eyes would go distant, how he’d start controlling his breath so it wouldn’t quicken. He wonders if even Porthos ever notices.

Aramis wants to see Athos drunk.

He knows he’s an alcoholic, Porthos alluded to it. Aramis is simultaneously desperate and afraid to see what effect drink has on him - he needs to know if Athos’ composure cracks, if he shows a rotten core when his inhibitions are lowered, when his grip on himself slips - but he is scared to either be cured of his idealism, or to fall in love with him.

Aramis cannot allow himself to fall in love with Athos.

If only he didn’t fall in love with people oh so easily...

He wonders if God put Athos in his path to teach him a lesson. The one man he is supposed to love, the one man who is terrified of it. Aramis knows that the second Athos realizes he is being pined after, he will go into full turtle mode, build walls around himself, push Aramis away. If Athos is God’s way of teaching Aramis self discipline, then so be it. Aramis will be disciplined. He will bury his growing feelings deep down and only give Athos his friendship and loyalty.

He needs fresh air. These old windows probably don’t open, and even if they do, he’s afraid to try and possibly incur a massive debt for damaging cultural heritage, so he walks out, checking all doors, nooks and crannies in case anyone was left behind.

Once he’s out, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes in bliss. The longer the evening progressed, the worse the mess of scents in the room got. Aramis now knows that he hates parfumes, especially because he is pretty sure many of the people present tonight wear them without actually smelling them, lathering them on with no knowledge of how strong they are. On top of that and the natural scent of sweat, the scent of the food and drinks created a potent, heady mix.

It has been a hot and sunny day, which has turned into a hot and humid night. He looks up and sees no stars, and not in the way they’re usually obscured by the sheer brightness of Parisian nightlife. There is something in the air, something sharp.

A drop lands on his nose. Then on his cheek. His forehead. And then, the skies open.

He hears a loud, high pitched yelp to his right and when he whirls around, he sees a mess of red curls and a floral dress and realizes that Constance is throwing away half a cigarette and running back inside. He follows her, already wet as a church mouse, and the two of them huddle inside the hall with the museum security staff who have been manning the doors the whole evening.

“Are you OK?” he asks Constance. His face and hair are wet, but the fabric of his suit is thick, so only the skin under his collar is wet, but Constance’s dress did absolutely nothing to protect her from the downpour, and is now clinging to her rather obscenely. He quickly takes off his jacket and drapes it over her even as she says she’s fine. She does accept his offering rather gratefully, though.

“This is just perfect,” she huffs irritably, looking out as the rain continues. “A perfect end to a perfect day.”

“At least it happened at the end,” Aramis tries to cheer her up. “I rather think it’s a lovely way to end the night.”

“You are a very optimistic person, M. d’Herblay.”

“Please, call me Aramis.”

She returns his smile. “Constance.”

“Nice to meet you, Constance. Do you have a way to get home? Not that I’m offering, I might have to take a taxi home.”

“My husband is coming,” she says.

“Ah,” Aramis nods. “The husband.”

She instantly picks up on his meaning, and winces. “This has been a right mess, hasn’t it?”

“That’s life,” he grins at her. “Never neat.”

She bites her lip and thinks for a while, then asks: “Do you have a soulmate?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like them?”

He smiles. “Yes.” Then, knowing that once she finds out, anything he says might get back to Athos, he adds: “But not that way. We are... not romantic.”

Her look of confusion is understandable - soulmates very rarely don’t immediately fall into a relationship. But, like the lady she is, she doesn’t probe. Instead, she says, very quietly: “I don’t like my husband.”

He is careful not to show anything but understanding on his face.

“Everyone expects me to like him,” Constance says. “We’re soulmates, right? I thought so, too. I was young and so happy that I found him, I thought everything would come later. I thought life was a fairy tale.”

Aramis doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He can sense that Constance needs him to listen instead of offering opinions. He slips into the role of the confessor with ease - he is trained for it, after all.

“I thought he was my only chance for happiness, but now...” she sighs. “What am I supposed to do? Leave my husband to be with another man I don’t know?”

Aramis can sense the time for opinions has come. He has some, but he generally tries not to tell people what to do in life. He thinks about the best way to nudge Constance onto the right path.

“Let me ask you this,” he says at last. “What would you do if there were no soulmates? If this was purely based on emotions? Would you be married?”

She stares at him for a few seconds, then resolutely says: “No.”

“Then... consider,” Athos hedges on. “... that you don’t have to jump from one bond to another. You don’t have to let chemistry dictate your life.”

She stares some more, her brain almost visibly opening up like a cracked walnut and flooding with new posibilities. It is so fascinating how sometimes, the slightest adjustment of angles makes people see new universes.

“Oh my god,” she finally breathes and leans against the wall for support.

They watch the rain together for about two more minutes before her phone chimes in her purse.

“My husband is here,” she tells him after she reads the text.

“Where?” he frowns.

“At the gate,” she nods towards the main road, far in the distance, then sighs and puts her phone away.

When she tries to return the jacket to him, he refuses to take it. “Keep it, just bring it back on your next shift. I have another.”

She gives him a grateful smile, braces herself, and half runs out into the rain. He hopes like hell she won’t slip on the wet concrete.

The rain somewhat lessens after a few minutes, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop any time soon, so Aramis braves the walk back to the Lescot wing, cursing the size of the palace the whole way. By the time he reaches the staff room, his shirt is drenched and he can feel his underwear start getting wet, too.

He finds everyone there - Treville looking like he just woke up, his hair standing out in spikes; Marsac with his eyes bloodshot in that particular way Aramis just knows comes from weed; Porthos and d’Artagnan are the only ones still in their uniforms, since they’re staying until the morning; and Athos is already in his bike clothes, and oh god, why does he have to ride a motorcycle? Why can’t Aramis catch a break?

“Where’s your jacket?” d’Artagnan is the first to ask.

“Constance has it,” he shrugs. The information instantly raises d’Artagnan’s hackles.

“Why?!”

“Because giving a lady something to cover herself up with when it’s pouring rain and she’s in a light dress is the polite thing to do, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan has the decency to apologize, and Aramis lets it go. Then he sighs. “What’s the point of going home? It takes an hour with the bus, it’s almost one, I start at eight. Can’t I just sleep here?”

“It’s not a hotel,” Treville tells him.

“I’ll take you,” Athos offers, pulling his helmet from his locker. Aramis blinks like an owl, trying to hide his surprise. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, yes, wait, just...” he quickly unlocks his locker and stores his gun (body in a locked box on top shelf, full magazine in a locked box on the bottom shelf), and follows Athos out with a last goodnight to the rest of the team.

It’s still raining, but only lightly now, and there is a pleasant new scent in the air, earthy and fresh. Petrichor, Aramis’ mind supplies, something about petrichor. Athos’ bike is a beautiful black Honda, its body gleaming in the city lights, shiny with raindrops, so beautiful Aramis almost feels it in his groin. He briefly turns his eyes skywards, thinking why, God, why must you test me so?

“I don’t have another helmet, so you’ll have to hold on unless you want to bash your head open,” Athos says in his usual calm manner.

Why?!

Athos easily swings his leg over the bike, straddling it, and Aramis has to look away from the way the leather of his trousers pulls taught over his thighs. He gingerly lowers himself behind him while Athos inputs Aramis’ address into his GPS. The seat not having been made for two people in the first place means that he is sloping forward, giving gravity no choice but to pull him into Athos, and his body moulds around his like it’s second nature. He wraps his arms around Athos’ waist and shields his face from the rain and wind by pressing his forehead to the space between Athos’ shoulderblades.

When the bike roars to life, Aramis starts to pray.

Without needing to wait for the nightbus and at every bus stop, the drive to his flat only takes about fifteen minutes. That is fifteen minutes of being pressed to a man who smells like sex, with 998cc working fucking wonders on his perineum, Jesus fucking Christ...! Aramis’ nose is full of the smell of leather and petrol, and he really, really hopes his trousers will hide what’s happening under his belt. It’s a blessing Athos’ jacket and trousers are so thick he can’t possibly feel Aramis’ predicament, but that also means that Aramis’ erection is only separated from thick, worn leather by two whimsy layers of wet fabric.

He realizes the bike is slowing down to a crawl and raises his head to look around. They’re almost at his building on the edge of the 10^th arrondissement, near Montmartre. He relaxes, and pats Athos where his hands meet at his stomach. Athos stops the bike, not letting the engine die, and takes off his helmet. It is so humid and warm that his hair is already wet with sweat. Aramis forgets himself for a second, and just stares at the way the shortest strands plaster themselves on Athos’ neck in little curls. When he leans in to talk to Athos’ ear, he can smell his sweat and what he thinks must be his shampoo.

“The red door,” he says in a voice more raspy than usual. He would be more than willing to just walk there if he wasn’t hard as steel right now.

Athos pushes the bike the remaining few meters and Aramis climbs off, keeping himself behind Athos’ line of sight. “Thanks,” he says and pats his back. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Athos nods, puts his helmet back on, and speeds away without a single word. Aramis’ relief is so strong he never even considers feeling offended.

Chapter Text

Athos has a sex drive now. He is greatly inconvenienced by it.

Athos has always thought his libido was pretty ordinary. Unbonded people are usually less sexually active than the bonded ones for a simple reason - they can’t smell other people. That doesn’t mean they have no libido, only that they don’t feel the urge to have sex with other people that often. There are, of course, other reason to have sex than because you smell someone’s pheromones, and Athos wasn’t a virgin when he met Anne, but he was never driven by his impulses, never felt anything that could be described as ’carnal’. Even with Anne, his desire was based on emotion, on the way she looked, the way they made each other feel, not any primal attraction.

Words like ’carnal’ and ’primal’ have been on his mind a lot lately.

He’s not sure whether the day of the party was the start of it or just the moment the feeling got too strong to be ignored, but that’s the day he can trace all his current predicaments to. Namely, the moment Aramis walked into the staff room without his jacket, in a wet white shirt clinging to his bulletproof vest and arms, almost translucent in the places where it stuck to his skin. When Aramis sat behind him on the bike, Athos cursed himself for offering to help get him home so readily. How did he not realize that driving him home would include this? This closeness? Aramis’ whole body pressed to his? Aramis’ scent, amplified by closeness and the humidity in the air? Aramis’ breath on his neck and voice in his ear?

What he did when Aramis got off his bike could only be called fleeing. He also vowed never to offer him a ride ever again.

It is a cold November afternoon and Athos is driving through the front gate of Chateau de Fontainebleau with Aramis at his back.

Fortunately, this time Aramis is wearing a thick coat, leather gloves, and Athos’ spare helmet, which is providing a lot of added insulation between them, making the ride actually pleasant instead of tortuously charged. It is a lot less challenging than Athos was preparing himself for ever since Aramis asked him for a favour.

He really couldn’t refuse. For some ungodly reason, getting to Fontainebleau by public transport would take over five hours, as opposed to one hour with the bike. Since Porthos and d’Artagnan are already at the chateau and neither Treville nor Marsac are scheduled to be there, there really was no one else who could get Aramis to work in reasonable time.

And so here they are, spending one hour and three minutes hugging. It was supposed to be one hour and eighteen minutes, but Athos has been speeding the entire time.

The guards open the gate for them and Athos drives them inside the courtyard. The chateau is gleaming in the cold November sun. There is no snow yet, but the possibility of it is hanging in the air. The air is cold and crisp and everything smells a little different - but that comes with being in a different part of France. That is a thing Athos has been marveling at for the past couple of months as they changed locations, first to Versailles, now here - each place as well as each time of year has a different scent profile. Versailles was full of flowers when they started, and then autumn came and the scents started shifting as the nature around them began to wane. Fontainebleau is surrounded by mixed forests, so the air is permeated by the smell of pine trees and the festive scents one would expect from small markets - cinnamon, nutmeg, scented candles, and so on. Athos really likes the mix.

He especially likes that it includes Aramis’ scent.

Before he and Aramis met and all he knew about smell came from TV and the few people around him that experienced it, he would hear people talk about the way other people smelled in comparisons - he smells like wood and liquorice, she smells like lilac and gooseberries, your father smells of elderberries... but the first time Athos has smelled Aramis, he knew no other smells. Aramis just smelled like Aramis. The first time he smelled something that reminded him of that distinct smell, he didn’t think “Aramis smells like coconut”, he thought “coconut smells like Aramis”. (He’s pretty sure Aramis uses some product with coconut in it, maybe straight up coconut oil. It would explain those luscious locks. Oh for fuck’s sake, Athos refuses to think the word ’luscious’ about anyone.)

Aramis’ hair is looking rather flat now that he took his helmet off, and Athos restrains his impulse to reach out and fluff it up. He does it to his own hair instead, which has grown considerably over the months. All of them let their hair and beards grow out - all apart from D’Artagnan, who once made fun of them saying that they’re like dogs preparing for winter. He only made that joke once because Porthos told him that the only reason he isn’t following in their footsteps is that he is physically unable to grow a beard. D’Artagnan hasn’t mentioned it again since.

They’re at Fontainebleau for a week. It happens at least once a year, sometimes more, as the King loves to hunt in the woods around Fontainebleau, and given that it is slightly further away than Versailles and with such bad public transport links, the musketeers are always allowed to stay at the premises. It’s become a bit of a tradition now, one that Athos always looks forward to.

They take their overnight bags off the bike and Athos leads Aramis to their lodgings for the week - a small lodge hidden in the trees across from the big pond. Their bags are relatively small - their uniforms are already at the chateau, so all they need are a few changes of clothes. Athos always brings one pair of sweats, one pair of presentable trousers, a few t-shirts and sweaters, and a toothbrush. It’s almost a vacation. The lodge is a self contained house with three separate bedrooms, a kitchen, two bathrooms, and a large living room. It is old and creaky, has the age of the palace but none of the luxury. Athos adores it.

“Welcome to heaven!” Porthos exclaims when they walk in and find him sprawled on the big old overstuffed couch in the living room. He and d’Artagnan were the last two to be with the royals at Versailles, so they arrived with them.

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” Athos puts his duffel bag down and crosses his arms, looming over Porthos.

“With Constance,” Porthos winks at him conspiratorially.

“So it’s done?” Aramis asks from behind Athos.

“The divorce is going to take a while to be formalized, but it’s just a formality,” Porthos waves his hand. “The cat is out of the bag and all that. Our lovebirds are free to bond.”

“Good for him,” Aramis says, but his voice is somewhat... off.

Athos can’t blame him. Watching d’Artagnan and Constance for the past few months has been supremely awkward. After the initial storm, Constance tried - she really, really tried - to be reasonable and responsible. She was determined to stay loyal to her husband while she figured out what she wanted in life. For about a day. Athos found them making out in the kitchen at Louvre about an hour before the royals left for Versailles.

After that, it was surprisingly easy - Constance explained everything to her husband, who, as she put it, was scandalized that she would leave him soulmate-less. It seemed that M. Bonacieux didn’t really care for his wife, her happiness, or even her companionship as an individual, but only on her presence as a source of comfort for him, one which she was now taking away. That only pushed Constance to divorce him quicker.

She and d’Artagnan were now a picture perfect couple, an epitome of a happy soulbond, the stuff of romance novels and chick flicks. They were everything Athos and Aramis were not.

“Scoot over!” Aramis nudged Porthos’ feet, dropped his bag, and collapsed onto the couch, not caring that half his weight landed on Porthos’ bulk. The two men started to bicker like an old married couple, so Athos went to look at the room arrangement.

That was another thing that the last few months have changed - and how ironic, that Porthos used to think Aramis would surpass him in Athos’ affections when in the end it is Athos who is left on the periphery of Porthos’ and Aramis’ friendship.

It hurts. Athos is self aware enough to know that it is his fault, that he is the one who has been pulling away, but still, it hurts, and he can’t help but feel frustrated with himself for allowing it to happen. For making it happen. But the more Aramis and Porthos draw closer together, the more Athos feels like a third wheel, inadequate and out of his depth. Rather than staying with them and stewing in those feelings, he retreats in order not to ruin their mood. And since they now have each other, they don’t have the immediate need to pull him back in.

Where he was starting to feel more tactile, he is now back to his reserved self. Porthos and Aramis complement each other so well in that respect, too - both of them are affectionate people who now have each other to touch, to pat on the back, to squeeze one another’s shoulder. shoulder. Athos doesn’t fit into that dynamic. He doesn’t know how to reach out and touch, even when he desperately needs to.

Each one of the men who came before them - Marsac, Treville, and Porthos - have claimed one of the rooms, enjoying having it to themselves before the rest of them arrived and joined them. It is easy to find Treville’s room and dump his bag in. Then, he takes off his heavy biker jacket and trousers, sits on the bed with the undisturbed linen, and breathes in.

The cottage itself has a smell to it. Old wood, clean sheets, the surrounding trees... Athos lies back and closes his eyes, letting the novelty sensation in this familiar space wash over him. It is so peaceful here. As all the other royal residences, Fontainebleau remains partially open to tourists when the royals are in residence, but the side that opens up to the forest remains undisturbed, so the lodge is completely secluded.

He lies there until he can hear the creaking of the steps. He guesses it’s Aramis - Porthos causes much heavier creaks.

“Are you asleep?” Aramis’ voice asks.

“No.”

Aramis’ scent slowly creeps into the room, filling it up and mixing with the wood and the trees and the linen.

“I came to say we should get going, but you look so relaxed I’m tempted to join you and pretend we both died.”

Athos snorts out a laugh. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to five.”

Athos opens his eyes and looks out of the window. The sun is starting to set, the grey of the winter evening setting in.

“Yes,” he sighs and sits up. “We should go.”

Aramis is looking at him with a gentle smile.

“What?” Athos asks, jolting him out of whatever thoughts Aramis was lost in.

“Nothing,” Aramis shakes it off. “Where are our uniforms?”

Athos shows him the basement, which is hiding a very out of place looking armoury and a walk in full of suits and bulletproof vests. Aramis lets out an impressed whistle as he scans the rifles hanging on the walls.

“It’s a hunting lodge,” Athos reminds him with a little knowing smirk. Aramis looks like he wants to take every single one of the weapons off the wall and look it over in detail.

“And you didn’t show this to me immediately after we arrived?” Aramis turns to him with a mock hurt expression on his face. “I thought we were friends.”

“You were busy cuddling Porthos,” Athos shrugs and starts putting on his uniform.

“I’d much rather cuddle these beauties,” Aramis says whistfully.

“You sound like a murderous maniac.” When Aramis grins at him, eyes shining, Athos adds: “You look like a murderous maniac.”

Aramis wiggles his eyebrows. “I am so tempted to pull a Riggs from Lethal Weapon right now.”

Athos just shakes his head. “You lack his conviction and suicidal tendencies. Get a move on.”

They dress and walk to the palace. Fontainebleau is one of the most beautiful places Athos has ever seen, including Versailles, and Aramis seems to share his opinion, judging by the way his eyes almost turn to saucers at the splendour following them from the first step through the door.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to used to this,” he says in an awed voice. Athos completely understands him.

The Queen and Marsac are in the library, reading together like two best friends. Marsac only ever behaves in Anne’s presence, not even the King has the desired effect on him (Athos is pretty sure Marsac is a royalist as much as a street rat is a member of the academia). He and the Queen match each other’s calm nature, and where Louis would probably tire of Marsac’s fool-like honesty pretty quickly, Anne is more forgiving. She also has him wrapped around her little finger.

Athos schools his face into an inscrutable mask, the way he always does when Aramis and Queen Anne are in the same room. Aramis has a certain charm he doesn’t even seem to be actively aware of, but which comes out anytime he is around beautiful people, of which the Queen is certainly one. Athos has seen him flirt with people on purpose, he knows that that’s not what’s happening here, Aramis simply can’t help himself, but when Anne smiles at him and he lights up like a Christmas tree, Athos wants to bash his head against the nearest surface every single time.

He is not jealous. He is concerned. For the sake of France.

They exchange pleasantries and find out that the King couldn’t wait until the official hunt and dragged Treville out into the woods for “reconnaissance” - meaning they are probably walking around in circles, with Treville holding Louis on a metaphorical leash while the monarch runs around like an excited child asking about tracks and guns and boars.

Athos looks out of the window with a concerned frown. It’s almost dark out. He is sure Treville tried to hold the King back, seeing as he is no fool and knows that two men on their own in the woods could come to all sorts of trouble, but he also knows that the King can be very stubborn when he wants something.

Just as he’s wondering if he should try calling Treville, the doors open behind them and a very tired looking Louis exlaims: “Here you are!” and plops down on a chaise longue that must cost as much as a whole house by the sea, getting mud from his boots all over the gold embroidery. With him comes a burst of life and movement in the form of two lively bourbonnais pointers and behind them, much slower and with more dignity than any of them, enters Treville.

“Oh Louis, not the dogs!” Anne complains when the pointers immediately start sniffing around the books and chairs. Athos is quick to get their attention with a loud, short whistle, and when they notice him, they excitedly come running. He motions for them to sit and they do, each on one side of him, looking up at him like he’s a god. Aramis gives him an impressed look.

“Oh yes!” Louis laughs. “I forgot Athos was a dog whisperer!”

Athos rubs the two spotted heads and can’t help smiling. “Your majesty,” he greets Louis, and Aramis does the same. Louis waves them off like a true aristocrat - hunting breaks always make him act like a pre-revolution monarch, and surrounded by all this splendour, books, and dogs, Athos could easily imagine the same scene with different clothes happening hundreds of years earlier.

Treville and Marsac are dismissed, Athos and Aramis sent to take care of the dogs. The pointers follow Athos to the hall, half a step behind him, so Aramis has to keep his distance.

“Dog whisperer, huh?” Aramis asks once they’re out of earshot.

“I’ve known them since they were puppies,” Athos shrugs. “It was my first week here. I needed a lot of time on my own, so I spent a lot of time helping out with the animals.”

Aramis doesn’t ask why - by now he understands that the first few months of of Athos’ employment for the crown were just after Thomas’ death and therefore more than rough. It was only when Porthos was hired half a year after him that he started to come out of his shell. Until then, there was apparently a bet going around about whether he’d crack and kill himself or everybody else first.

“What are their names?”

Athos points at the one that’s so speckled she almost looks brown: “This is Croissant,” and then to the whiter one: “And Baguette.”

Aramis laughs and crouches down to pet them. “Who named them?”

“Who do you think?”

At that, Aramis laughs even harder, gazing up at Athos in genuine surprise. “I expected you to say it was the dog keeper’s child.”

Athos shrugs, feeling a little self conscious. “I needed something innocent in my life.”

Aramis shakes his head, his smile still wide. Croissant and Baguette let him pet them, but their full attention is still on Athos. They expect a treat, he knows, and he wishes he had some on him. He vows to ratify it tomorrow.

“I’ll take them back to the kennels,” he tells Aramis. “They’re on the other side of the park, one of us should stay.”

Aramis nods. “I’ll be here.”

When Athos returns from the kennels, they start their usual circuit, only it’s Aramis’ first time in Fontainebleau, so Athos takes on the teaching role once again. They tour the large property, and Athos promises to show him the grounds first thing next morning when d’Artagnan and Porthos take over.

It’s a night shift like any other, only it isn’t, because Athos and Aramis haven’t done a night shift together in weeks. Every once in a while the schedule changes, and the musketeers change partners, so they all work together well. For the past month, Athos has been with d’Artagnan and Aramis with Porthos, before that, Athos with Treville and Aramis with Marsac (according to Marsac it was the most uncomfortable month of his life, including the month he had hemorrhoid surgery, and Aramis called it ’spiritual enema’). Athos thinks that the reason they’ve gone back to their original configuration instead of mixing it up again is that Treville knows that Marsac would be too lenient on d’Artagnan, and that handling d’Artganan in a new environment might prove to be too much even for Treville.

Let’s just say the boy... has spirit.

And the impulse control of a five year old in a toy shop.

The evening is progressing the same way it always does - dinner at six, leftovers for staff at seven, royals in bed by ten. Since their beds are all the way across the grounds, they don’t get the luxury of sleeping through their night shift unless they get so exhausted they nap on one of the many couches and chaise longues around the palace. Fortunately, they have things to do - the library, for one, is absolutely stuffed with books of all kinds and dating as far back as the 16^th century (many are so rare they’re locked away, but a surprising amount of them are free to browse).

Aramis follows Athos’ example and settles down with a book. He lasts half an hour before he gives up and starts pestering Athos.

“I’m bored!” he whines. Athos is honestly surprised it took a full half an hour. Aramis usually cracks sooner.

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Talk to me!”

Athos sighs and puts his book down, then leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Good book?”

Aramis makes a despairing noise and sags in the chaise longue. “I can’t read, I’m too restless. I need to do things.”

“Aramis, have you been assessed for ADHD?”

Aramis flips around, hanging his head upside down and kicking his legs up. “No, why?”

Athos stifles a chuckle. “No reason. We could try texting Porthos, maybe he’s still up.”

At that, Aramis perks up. He flips back around and pulls out his phone. “Great idea!”

Athos feels a little hurt, which is ridiculous - he was the one who suggested inviting Porthos, he wants Porthos there, he loves spending time with Porthos. He just wishes he was enough for Aramis.

“I have only about an hour,” Porthos warns as he walks into the room ten minutes later. “I need to get up at seven.

“You two have fun, I have to go do the rounds,” Athos puts his book down and stands up.

“Let’s all go!” Aramis jumps up. “You can give me a tour.”

“I already gave you a tour.”

“No, a real tour. Like I’m a tourist and you’re the tour guides.”

“Good lord, you’re high maintenance,” Porthos shakes his head at him, then turns to Athos. “You’ve dodged a bullet.”

Aramis punches him in the arm, but Porthos just laughs. Athos’ mouth ticks up at the corners, but quickly smooths when Aramis gaves him a murderous stare.

In the end, Porthos stays until two in the morning. The palace is enormous and each room is its own world of intricate details and breathtaking decorations. At a certain point, it simply becomes too much - one person’s focus cannot be continuously strained for long enough to take it all in, especially when said person has been up for seventeen hours and has to have undiagnosed ADHD, I mean come on.

They end up in the chapel, even though it is technically too far from the royal bedroom, but Athos wanted Aramis to see it, what with Aramis being their resident priest in wishful thinking and all that (Aramis? A priest? Is that a joke? Is Athos missing something here?)

“Wow,” Aramis runs his hand through his hair as he walks in, staring up at the intricate ceiling. He crosses himself and kisses the tiny cross that always hangs around his neck. Athos stops at the door and watches Aramis approach the altar, his body a shadow in the automatic lights that illuminate every part of the palace with such eerie faux historical light.

“E-ehm!” Porthos lets out a pointed sound behind him and Athos realizes he is blocking his way in. He quickly moves aside and lets him through, and Porthos gives him a knowing look as he passes him. Athos keeps a blank face, hoping Porthos doesn’t actually know anything.

“It is such a shame,” Aramis speaks up when they join him at the altar. His voice is slightly hoarse and echo-y. “... that there is so much splendour here, yet so much poverty out there. That’s what I think every time I walk into a Catholic church.”

Athos and Porthos exchange surprised looks.

“I thought you were Catholic,” Porthos asks, a frown line splitting his forehead.

“I was brought up Catholic, yes,” Aramis half turns to him to explain. One of his hands is still raised to his cross, pressing it to his chest. “But in the last few years, I have realized that I do not agree with their teachings as much as I thought I did. I suppose theologically you could call me Unitarian, but I am not interested in converting.”

“What’s the difference?” Asks Porthos.

“Shame. Guilt. Righteousness. They are such big parts of the Catholic doctrine. Unitarians believe that Our Lord created us all exactly as he wants us, and therefore we are all perfect the way we are - gay, straight, white, black, disabled or able bodied, binary or intersex... we are all his creations and he loves us all. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told by the old woman I met in a church flying the pride flag in its churchyard.” He smiles, remembering. “I cried that day. She talked to me of God’s love without prejudice, without judgement, without pressure, just with all encompassing love. After the months I had spent at the seminary being taught the opposite, it was like finding water in the desert.”

“I thought that Unitarians didn’t believe in Jesus,” Athos gently tips his head to indicate the cross Aramis is still clutching.

“They don’t believe that Jesus was God,” Aramis corrects him. “They do not dispute his existence. And you can take the boy from Catholicism, but...” he gives a little self conscious chuckle. “As I said, I am not about to convert. How can I choose which church or denomination is right about the myriad of theological questions and theories? I only know that I believe in God because I want to believe in God, and that my God is all loving, not the hateful being who demands money and unquestioning loyalty that the Catholic church tries to paint.”

“Yeah, what is it with the money?” Porthos asks, lifting the mood with his usual cheer. “Is God a banker?”

Aramis laughs. It takes Athos’ breath away a little, and before he can stop himself, he reaches out and touches Aramis on the arm. Aramis turns to him with a question in his eyes.

“Come with me,” Athos asks and turns to lead them up the steps onto the gallery.

“Shit!” Porthos exclaims behind them and they turn on the steps, startled. “It’s two am! You go, I’m going to sleep.” And he stomps off into the night.

“Good night!” Aramis calls after him.

Now that it’s only the two of them again, Athos hesitates, but Aramis nudges him to keep going, so he leads him upstairs, where a lavish gallery opens up a view of the whole chapel while providing comfortable seating closer to the ceiling. He starts pulling the backless chairs together, and Aramis follows his example until they have two rows that they can lie on and look up at the ceiling.

“Do you believe?” Aramis asks after a while.

“I don’t care,” says Athos frankly. “I never needed to believe. I understand why people do, but it doesn’t appeal to me. It’s as you said - how can I know which of the religions is right?”

“So much of what we believe comes from how we were brought up, and what we choose to believe,” Aramis smiles. “I suppose I believe because it brings me immense comfort. It connects me to my mother. She gave me this,” he touches his cross again where it hangs outside his shirt.

“Where is she?” Athos is almost afraid to ask.

“Cancer,” Aramis says quietly. “Two years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Athos says, just as silently. Then, after a short time he offers, even though he doesn’t have to and it isn’t his habit to do so: “My parents died in a car crash over six years ago.”

Aramis doesn’t say anything. Then, Athos feels Aramis’ touch on his hand, and he turns it and holds on. They lie there like that, with their clasped hands hanging in the space between their makeshift benches, and study the beautifully painted ceiling.

When Athos’ eyes drop closed and his consciousness starts to drift away, Aramis pulls at his hand to bring him back to alertness. “We should go back and make sure no Spanish assassins have murdered the royals.”

Athos gives him a bemused look. “We have been at peace with Spain for over two hundred years, Aramis.”

“And how would you feel if that peace broke after all this time because we were here, looking at Noah and his arc, hm?”

When they return, there are no Spanish assassins, or English assassins, or German assassins, or assassins of any kind. Aramis is a bit disappointed.

They are both feeling the pressure of the day now, both ready to fall asleep on any horizontal surface they come in contact with.

“I am starving, but I’m afraid that if I eat, I’ll definitely fall asleep,” Aramis sighs wistfully.

“Coffee and then food?” Athos suggests.

“Fine, but I need a triple espresso, normal coffee just puts me to sleep.”

“Oh, I forgot to ask!” Aramis says half an hour later, as they’re eating sandwiches and drinking strong coffee in the kitchens. “How is therapy going?”

Athos’ hand freezes halfway on its way to his mouth, but only for a second. He supposes this conversation had to happen at some point, and this would be the perfect time for it.

“It’s good,” he says. “You were right, she’s competent.”

Aramis had suggested his own therapist, doctor Besset, when Athos complained that every time he tried therapy in the past, it sucked. Doctor Besset turned out to be an exception to that rule, and he’s been going to her for over a month now, two sessions per week (apparently he needs a bit more intensive approach in the beginnings). It is hard. Doctor Besset is ruthless. She has taken a shovel to the things Athos has buried deep inside himself, and the results are painful and often drowned in alcohol, but Athos knows that they are necessary if he wants to overcome them. He likens it to physical therapy - it hurts like hell, but without it, the muscle atrophies and loses all chances of recovery.

“She doesn’t let you hide, does she?” Aramis says with a knowing smile.

Athos scoffs. “She’s fucking brutal.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Aramis grins. “I think you need it.”

“I do.” He takes a deep breath. “She wants me to go see Anne.”

Aramis puts down his coffee and stares at him. “Your ex wife?”

Athos nods.

“Do you want to go see her?”

“Want?” he laughs without humour, his throat closed off. “No. But I... I need to,” he says a little desperately. He blames the late hour and the hand holding and Aramis’ tongue-loosening scent for the fact that he keeps talking. “I have needed to talk to her for a very long time. I just never could bring myself to. It hurt too much.”

“And now it doesn’t?”

Athos sighs props his head on his elbow, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s getting manageable.”

“Good,” Aramis says and reaches out, covering the fingers around Athos’ coffee. “That’s a good thing.”

Athos nods. He knows. He’s happy for it, or at least he would be if he felt like happiness was a feeling he was capable of. Still, the thought of seeing Anne... of talking to her... it fills him with dread.

“Well,” he says when he surfaces from the darkness a moment later, shaking it off like a wet dog. “At least I won’t fall asleep now.”

Aramis yawns, covering his mouth with the hand that was on Athos’ knuckles, and Athos immediately misses it. “Wish I could say that.”

Athos smiles. “You’re crashing, aren’t you?”

Aramis frowns at him. “Stop talking about me like I’m a five year old on a sugar rush.”

Athos doesn’t say anything to that lest he adds more oil to the flame. Instead, he finishes his coffee and stands up. “Another round?”

Aramis kicks back his espresso and follows him.

Chapter Text

Athos wakes up to the sound of gunshots.

He bolts upright in bed, his training alive in him even after all these years - he takes in his surroundings, locates his clothes, tries to orientate himself in space and time - which country, which city, what year...

And then, just when he’s about to jump out of bed to put his clothes on, the voice of his captain stops him.

“Louis is shooting clay pigeons.”

Athos looks to the side and spots Treville sitting up in his bed, propped up by two pillows, reading glasses balanced on his nose, calmly enjoying a crossword puzzle. At first, Athos’ monkey brain latches onto the calm of his commanding officer, and only a second after is he able to process the words. Of course - he’s in France, not in combat. Treville is no longer his captain, although he still considers him an authority figure. And the King of France is in the chateau de Fontainebleau’s park shooting clay pigeons.

There is commotion on the stairs, and a moment later the door swings open and a half naked and very alarmed Aramis falls into the room. “What’s going on?!”

Athos stares at him for all of one second before saying, quicker than Treville can explain: “We’re at war with Spain.”

Aramis gawps at him, then draws himself up into his full height and crosses his arms. “Am I a joke to you?”

Athos would like to respond, but he has a hard time focusing on words all of a sudden. It has nothing to do with the way Aramis’ biceps bulge in his white t-shirt, or how he’s only in his boxers, which end where his beautifully defined thigh muscles begin. Nothing to do with that at all.

Another shot sounds in the distance and Aramis jerks, looking out in renewed alarm. “Seriously, what is that?”

“Louis is shooting clay pigeons,” Treville says again, not even looking up from his crossword.

“Oh?” Aramis perks up, his face suddenly wistful. “Shooting?”

“You can’t shoot with him,” Athos immediately tells him.

Aramis’ face falls. “Why not?”

“Let’s see. How many moving targets can a man who shoots once to twice a year get out of ten, on average? In your esteemed experience?”

Aramis shrugs. “Depends. Probably not more than three.”

“And how many do you think you can get?”

Aramis gives Athos a look. “What do you think?”

“And how do you think your average King of France would react to his subordinate outshooting him in his own garden?”

Aramis blinks twice. “Hm. I get your point.”

“Now could you go put some trousers on?”

“Why?” Aramis cocks a hip and grins. “Am I distracting you?”

Athos goes red as a beet, and is only saved by Treville’s immediate and indignant: “Stop flirting in my room!”

“Sorry, captain!” Aramis salutes him and leaves. Athos thinks the sight of his arse will stay imprinted on his brain forever.

Treville, thank all the gods, still hasn’t looked up from his crossword, so Athos can pretend the whole exchange was completely innocent and one sided. He burrows into his sheets and tries to get some more sleep, but the shooting outside and his bladder force him to stay awake. He doesn’t want to leave in case Aramis is still out there in the wilderness, trouserless and cocky. Very literally. Athos could see the outline...

No, no, no, no, no. No. Not with Treville in the room. And no. In general. Athos is not going to have sexual fantasies about his co-worker.

He gets up before his brain completely runs away from him. Out of popping a boner next to his boss or popping a boner in his baggy sweats in case Aramis decides to strut around half naked in November, he’ll take the risk of the latter any day.

Aramis is in the kitchen, thankfully wearing his own sweats, making breakfast. Marsac is in the living room, watching the TV with his feet propped up on the coffee table, a plate of apple wedges in his lap. They greet each other with a nod.

When he steps into the kitchen, Aramis looks around from where he’s standing at the stove. “Eggs?”

“Thanks,” Athos agrees and goes to make himself coffee. The kitchen smells amazing - the scrambling eggs, fresh baguettes, probably brought over by a member of the palace’s kitchen staff, coffee... and Aramis. Good lord, there’s no escaping the man. He has thoroughly stunk up the entire house, so even when he’s not physically present, he is in Athos’ nose and in his brain. His scent is even stronger now for some reason, sharp and enticing, making Athos’ head spin and his loins...

“We should take a shower!” Aramis says suddenly and quite loudly, turning the stove off as if it offended him. Athos raises surprised eyebrows at him, so Aramis clarifies: “Separately. Now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Right.

The last time Athos showered was the previous morning, before driving and spending a whole day and night walking around, then sleeping bundled up in a warm feather duvet. He’s basically been marinating in what Aramis is biologically predisposed to be attracted to. And the same goes the other way around. It would seem they are now basically fuelling each other’s attraction, and if Aramis can smell when Athos is distressed, he can definitely smell when he is...

“I’ll go first,” Athos practically runs out of the kitchen. He needs clean clothes. He has another t-shirt he can wear, but his sweats will have to do. He didn’t think about packing for this trip in these new, still unfamiliar terms - he simply packed enough so he wouldn’t stink, it never even occurred to him that he’d be sharing a house with Aramis for a whole week with the added bonus of pheromones cooking up a mating meal.

The tiny bathroom window is cracked open, making the room cold despite the heater being on. He closes it and turns on the shower. There is a low hum of arousal thrumming through his veins, settling in his belly, spreading into his groin, and he considers his options - would it be better to ignore his needs and let them torment him at inopportune moments, or take care of them and risk that they will stoke the flames of his growing infatuation? Any way he looks at it, both options come with risks.

Then he realizes that he only really has one option after all - to turn the shower cold and think of his grandmother. He cannot - cannot - stink up this tiny room with his arousal just before Aramis takes a shower. It wouldn’t be fair, and frankly, it would be mortifying to have Aramis know...

He doesn’t want the bathroom to smell like distress either, but he has to think about the implications of this new torch he seems to be carrying for his friend and colleague, so he prods the little thought he’s been shying away from like he’d test a healing wound for signs of pain. He hasn’t really felt any panic at the thought of Aramis’ and his growing bond in quite some time. He lets himself imagine what it would be like to be with Aramis. To not run away from the moments when they seem too close, too intimate, too charged. To kiss him. To let him be his soulmate.

Surprisingly enough, there is no panic. There is concern, and there is fear, but there is no overwhelming surge of fight or flight, no trembling, no head rush.

He thinks that it’s because there is no actual danger of any of that becoming reality. Aramis doesn’t want a relationship with him. Athos knows why - he has seen Aramis flirt with and go home with too many people over the past few months not to be aware of his promiscuity. Athos doesn’t judge him in the slightest. On the opposite, he thinks it must be rather nice, to not run away from affection, to enjoy short loves and crushes with an open heart and open mind. It definitely seems to make Aramis happy.

Once he’s showered and brushed his teeth and he’s probably cleaner than he’s ever been, he puts on fresh clothes and leaves the steamed up room. Aramis is still in the kitchen, but he’s been joined by Treville and Marsac, who are eating breakfast. Aramis excuses himself from his conversation with Treville and runs upstairs.

“Where are my eggs?” Athos asks when he sees that the pan Aramis was cooking in is empty.

“I think I’m eating them,” Marsac tells him, nonplussed. Athos gives him a dirty look and starts making his own. He opens all the doors to get rid of his and Aramis’ scent. It doesn’t really help, just spreads them to more space.

It doesn’t help that they are off for the whole day. Their next shift is the next day, and it will be a big one - the famed hunt, in which their duties will mainly revolve around protecting Louis from himself. Until then, they can lounge around all they want.

Athos is sprawled on the sofa in the living room with a book when Aramis comes back, drying his hair with a towel. He sprawls on the other couch and looks outside the open window. It’s cold out, but he says nothing about it, probably aware of the necessity to air the cottage out.

Athos manages to get lost in his book for a while and when he looks up again, Aramis is asleep. His hair is still wet, and his skin is covered in goosebumps, so Athos gets up, closes the windows, picks up a blanket, and covers him up. He considers going upstairs and sleeping in his own bed, but the sofa is already warm and so soft, and Aramis’ scent, now only a source of comfort again, is lulling him to sleep here and now. He takes a blanket for himself and curls up, letting the big old cushions swallow his considerable bulk.

When he wakes up almost two hours later, Aramis is already up, and they decide to go for a run before lunch/dinner (they put on their old clothes and have to take another shower when they get back. It’s getting ridiculous.). Marsac and Treville leave them at ten to five, and d’Artagnan and Porthos join them twenty minutes later.

“How was it?” Athos asks when they walk in and beeline straight for the food he and Aramis are finishing at the table.

Porthos loads his plate with gratin and shrugs. “He shot three pigeons, Anne shot five, I had to miss two in order not to lose face but not embarass him, and d’Artagnan didn’t get the fucking memo.” At the last part, he glared at the younger man, who blushed and crossed his arms, staring at the floor.

Athos sighs and gives d’Artagnan a lesson in king-handling. “He needs to see you’re capable at your job, but he can’t feel impotent next to you. It’s a fine balance.”

“Yes, I know, Porthos already told me,” d’Artagnan mumbles. “Next year, right?” he jokes weakly, looking up at them with hopeful eyes. When they’re quiet, he turns begging. “Next year, right?!”

Porthos makes a sign saying “I wouldn’t count on it”, Athos keeps a stone face, and Aramis just shrugs. D’Artagnan looks like he’s about to cry, and Athos takes pity on him and assures him it will be fine.

“Now,” Porthos says with his plate full to bursting, “I want to kick back, watch a movie, and fall sleep on the couch. Who’s with me?”

They settle in the living room. There is an unspoken rule whenever they’re in Fontainebleau - no alcohol in the cottage - so the only drinks on offer are soft and sugary, but then Aramis disappears upstairs and comes back carrying a little pouch. “Guess what I got from my good friend Marsac?” he grins at them, shaking the little bag.

Porthos lets out a low whistle. “Good friend Marsac, is it now?” he asks even as he reaches for the weed.

“Of course! I adore the man!” Aramis sits next to him and they get to work, rolling a big fat joint.

“Oh really?” asks d’Artagnan, his gaze sharp and accusing. “Then why am I the one who has to share a room with him?”

Aramis adopts an air of utter innocence. “I simply wanted him to enjoy one more night alone.”

D’Artagnan narrows his eyes. “You are a liar, Aramis.”

Aramis just laughs, bright and joyful.

“Should we be doing this?” d’Artagnan asks hesitantly when Aramis lights the finished joint.

It’s Athos who answers: “We are off duty. It’s not like we’re likely to be needed anyway.”

“Unless the Spanish invade,” Aramis points out with complete seriousness.

Athos sighs in resignation. “Yes, Aramis. God save us from the Spanish.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchange a look. Porthos shrugs.

“Anyway,” d’Artagnan continues.”We’re still on their property and this is still illegal.”

Aramis nods sagely. “The boy is right. This is filling me with anxiety. I should really smoke some weed to get rid of it.” And then he brings the joint to his lips and inhales.

Porthos chuckles as he takes it from him, handing it over to Athos when he’s done with it.

“Have you never smoked?” Athos asks as he breathes out a cloud of smoke. It’s been so long, but he’s not new to smoking - the trick, he’s found, is in breathing in fresh air right after the smoke, so the smoke doesn’t irritate his windpipe. He breathes out through his nose, so the smoke tickles his brain.

“We don’t want to peer pressure you or something,” Porthos adds. “You don’t have to smoke.”

“The more for us!” says Aramis as he reaches for the joint, but the younger man swats him away and takes it for himself.

“Of course I’ve smoked!” he says with indignation. “Just never on the crown’s property.”

That sends Athos into a fit of giggles. Oh. This is some good weed.

Athos’ giggling triggers the same in Aramis and Porthos. “A word of warning,” Aramis says when he can talk. “Marsac is a professional, so his weed is pro caliber. Don’t overdo it. Being sick on weed is the worst.”

“Oh god, yes,” d’Artagnan groans. “I once puked my guts out.”

“I didn’t know you can puke from weed,” Porthos says.

“Lucky,” d’Artagnan says. “You know how when you get drunk, puking can help you sober up? Weed doesn’t do that. You puke and the world keeps spinning. I think I puked four times.”

“Do NOT puke on us!” Aramis points the joint at him. “Go slow, for the love of god.”

They do. The joint circulates between them, and they sink deeper and deeper into the cushions - or at least it feels that way to Athos. The world gets a little distant, a little blurry, a little sharp.

“I always forget how dry my eyes get,” Athos complains when they’ve finished the first joint and he’s parched all over. He drinks half his coke in one go, but the coke won’t help his dry eyes.

“I’ve got you!” Aramis pulls a tiny bottle of eye drops from his pocket. Instead of throwing it at him, he gets up and goes to sit next to Athos.

“You’re a life saver,” Athos mumbles gratefully as he moistens his eyes. Aramis follows his example.

Athos wants to touch Aramis, so he does - no holding back, no filters, no hesitation, all his barriers dulled by the drug. Aramis makes a pleased sound when Athos’ head lands on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly. His hand rises to Athos’ head and Athos closes his eyes when he feels Aramis’ fingers in his hair, his nails gently scratching his scalp. “Long time no touch.”

“Mhm,” he agrees. Aramis is always so warm and firm. Different than Porthos - Porthos has more cushioning to him, even though it’s almost all muscle.

“Wait, what do you mean “long time no touch?” Porthos’ voice asks from the other couch. “I saw you two in bed together.”

“What?!” d’Artagnan squeeks.

“That was almost four months ago, Porthos,” Aramis says. “And not like that, d’Artagnan.”

“So you haven’t been... that’s why you’re like that!” Porthos exclaims as if everything suddenly made sense in the world. A few seconds later, the couch on the other side of Athos dipps and suddenly he’s being enveloped in Porthos’ bear hug.

Athos is, frankly, a little bit in heaven. He’s missed Porthos’ warmth, the way he just pushes himself into Athos’ space. At first, years ago, it used to be mildly uncomfortable - he’s always had issues with strangers touching him out of nowhere - but Porthos’ easy pats on the back and arms squeezes quickly grew on him, until he most craved them.

“You see,” Porthos said above him, “Athos wasn’t hugged as a child.”

He makes it sound like a joke, but they both know it’s the truth.

“He needs a hug every once in a while, like general maintenance, or he’ll get all constipated.”

“Constipated?” Athos manages to sound mildly offended.

“Emotionally,” Porthos clarifies. “He gets all withdrawn and cold.” He settles more comfortably, jostling them both (the couch is so not built for three grown men, let alone for Porthos). “I thought you were like that because you two were... well. You know.” He shrugs. “That you didn’t need me anymore because you had Aramis.”

“I don’t have Aramis,” Athos mumbles quietly. He’s too high for it to be sentimental, he’s just stating facts.

D’Artagnan gives an awkward cough from the side. “I think I’m too straight for this,” he says and gets up. “I’m going to see Constance.”

“Hand me that before you go, will you?” Aramis asks, referring to - Athos can only guess - the weed.

“What does he mean, he’s too straight for hugging his friends?” Porthos asks even before d’Artagnan’s steps recede. “I’m straight. Aren’t I?”

“Oh, you’re so straight, don’t worry,” Aramis scoffs in amusement. There’s the sound of a lighter and then the scent of burning weed gets stronger.

“Good,” Porthos says. They exchange the joint over Athos’ body. “I’m too old to realize I like cock. Because I don’t.” He takes a deep drag. “Apart from mine. Mine’s lovely.”

Aramis and Athos burst into uncontrollable laughter at that. Porthos joins them very quickly as the weed hits his brain.

Athos finally opens his eyes (they’ve gone dry again but he doesn’t mind much, he’ll close them again soon enough) to smoke.

“I grew up in a big family,” Porthos continues. “All us foster kids only had each other.”

“I grew up with a generational inheritance of a stick up my arse,” Athos drawls, making them laugh again. “I think we only hugged at birthdays, when we congratulated each other, and even then it was this stiff half hug.”

“Well, I grew up in a brothel, so...”

“You did what?!” Porthos sputters on an inhale and starts coughing. Athos stares at Aramis like he grew another head.

“Oh, did I never tell you?” Aramis asks as if he’s talking about his favourite McDonald’s order. “Yeah, my mum was a whore.”

They stare at him some more.

“That’s,” Porthos says at last. “Harsh?”

“Harsh? Oh,” Aramis waves a hand. “I don’t mean that in a negative way, that’s just what she called herself. I’m proud of my mother. She did what she could to raise me and keep us both alive. I respect whores more than I respect kings. But don’t tell them.”

“So...” Athos asks. “How old were you when...?”

“Ever since I remember. My parents came to France from Spain when I was a baby.”

“What happened to your father?” Porthos asks.

“He abandoned my mother. I think life was just too hard for him,” he says with clear disdain. “They were soulmates, too. And he just fucked off and left her alone with a newborn.”

Athos reaches out on instinct, wanting to comfort Aramis, pulling him into their pile. Aramis goes happily, turning so that he can lie in their laps, his feet dangling over the armrest.

Porthos squeezes Aramis’ shoulder.

“Before you ask,” Aramis says when he’s settled. “I did not grow up in a den of sin. It was a house where women cohabited and paid for rent and food by getting visits from men. But I grew up with women, so I got lots of motherly cuddles, and there were some other kids, too. If anything, it made me respect women more than anyone. And be less judgemental about sex than most people tend to be.”

That explains a lot, Athos thinks. He has to admit that he’s never given much thought to prostitution, and if he did, he doubts he would have a positive opinion of it. He knows he doesn’t see it in the same disparaging light his parents did, but it never really occurred to him that he could hold it in high regard.

“You know,” Aramis continues. “They always say that prostitutes sell their bodies, but who doesn’t? I sold my body to the army and they used it to kill people in order to get more money or whatever. Which one is worse?”

“We’re getting way too serious,” Porthos stops him. “I’m not wasting good weed on philosophical debates about the evils of war and international politics.”

“Sorry,” Aramis relights the joint and takes another drag.

“Nah, no reason to apologize. I’m going to look for snacks,” Porthos gets up, forcing Aramis to shift so his head was in Athos’ lap instead.

“Oooh, yes, snacks!” Aramis’ face lights up. The joint is still in his mouth, just idly resting, and Porthos plucks it up for another drag before putting it back and going to the kitchen.

Once they’re alone, Athos gives into the temptation to run his fingers through Aramis’ freshly washed hair. The curls are springy and soft, slightly thicker than Athos’ finer hair.

Aramis closes his eyes for a second, then reaches up for the joint in his mouth. He lifts it up to Athos’ mouth and holds it for him as he pulls from it. Athos’ lips never touch Aramis’ fingers, but he can feel that there are only atoms of air parting them. They hold each other’s gaze.

“There is nothing here!” Porthos shouts from the kitchen, breaking the moment. “I’m going to the palace!”

“Get us something good!” Aramis shouts. Half a minute later, they hear the door shut behind him.

“One high bodyguard is trying to get in bed with the Queen’s best friend,” Aramis says. “And another is raiding the palace kitchen. Treville will have our hides.”

Athos chuckles. “I trust Porthos to be descreet. D’Artagnan, though...” he thought about it for a second. “God, we shouldn’t have let him go.”

“He’ll be fine,” Aramis offers Athos the joint again but Athos declines, so Aramis stretches out and lays it on the coffee table. “If Marsac can smoke on duty, we can smoke off duty. Louis would probably ask to share it, and Anne is chill.”

“Anne is chill?” Athos repeats with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve been getting close to the Queen, huh?”

Aramis shrugs. “We talk sometimes.” He reaches out and strokes his thumb over the wrinkles above Athos’ nose, trying to smooth out his frown. “t’s not like that, don’t worry.” Then, his hand moves to Athos’ hair, moving the strands that fell over his eyes to the side. “Would you care?”

Athos’ breath hitches, but before he can think of an answer, Aramis drops his hand. “Sorry, forget I said anything.”

Athos doesn’t think he will ever be able to do that, but he lets it go. They’ve entered a dangerous territory, he rationally understands, although he doesn’t feel any of the dangerous emotions. That’s just because of the weed though, he knows.

“I like this, though,” Aramis continues, his tone lighter. “You being this touchy. I hope you’ll touch me more when you’re sober, too.”

Athos tries not to think of all the ways he’d like to touch Aramis.

“You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?” Aramis asks.

“I didn’t know how to...” Athos tries to explain but doesn’t quite know how to put it. “I didn’t want to make it... I didn’t think you’d want...”

Aramis reaches up and wraps his hand around the wrist of the hand Athos still has in his hair to get his attention. “Could you please finish a sentence?”

Athos sighs out his frustration. “I didn’t know how to touch you without it turning into something we both agreed we don’t want.”

Aramis’ thumb starts moving, caressing the inside of Athos’ wrist. “Touch is not inherently romantic, Athos. Nor sexual. I would be happy if this was a part of our friendship. Do you want that, too?”

Athos nods without hesitation.

“Will you ask for it when you need it?”

This time, Athos does hesitate, trying to imagine himself requesting Aramis or Porthos to touch him. He shakes his head rather sadly.

“Alright,” Aramis smiles up at him like he understands. “Then I won’t wait for you to. I’ll just do it.”

Athos feels so grateful that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Aramis is still stroking his thumb over his wrist and forearm, so he shifts his hand in his grip to hold his hand. He hopes it’s enough to show his assent.

“But do tell me to fuck off if I ever cross a line, OK?” Aramis asks and Athos nods.

“I will.”

The front door hangs open and closed, and a few moments later, Porthos shows up in the room carrying a plastic bag. When he sees them, he stops and leans against the doorway, a big grin spreading on his face.

“Look at you,” he says. “You don’t need me at all.”

Aramis has to crane his neck to look at him upside down. “Stop being an idiot, come join our puppy pile, and give us snacks!”

Porthos does. Aramis has to sit up to eat anyway, but he stays plastered to Athos’ side. Porthos sits in his old spot on his other side, and unpacks the spoils of his quest on the coffee table. They light the half finished spliff, and smoke and eat together, the atmosphere light again.

“So,” Aramis starts at some point. “When are you going to see Anne?”

Porthos looks up from his crisps. “What Anne? Not your evil ex?”

Athos frowns at his bottle of coke. “She isn’t evil.”

Aramis and Porthos exchange a look, and Porthos hedges: “Not to be cruel, but... she did murder your brother.”

Athos tenses - even weed can’t cushion such an impact. He then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I never did tell you what happened, did I?”

They both shake their heads, looking at each other with hopeful trepidation. Athos sighs again, looking up at the ceiling. He’s gonna get a golden star at his next therapy session.

“Anne, as I knew her, showed up in my life after my parents died. I immediately fell in love with her. She made everything about the process easier, more bearable. She was... the light of my life. Truly.” Saying it hurts even through the fog. “But she was a con artist. She stole a dead woman’s identity, had some minor convictions under her belt. When Thomas found out, he tried to blackmail her into sleeping with him. They were in his kitchen, she reached for a knife and stabbed him. I learned about her past during the trial. When she was fourteen, she started to run cons with her first lover - a caregiver at the orphanage she lived at.”

That piece of information has the desired effect  on Aramis and Porthos. Aramis goes white, then red, his face turning hard. Porthos leans back as if he doesn’t have the strength to stay upright, and says: “Shit.”

“Yes. Can you believe that’s what they called him at the trial? Her lover?” Athos scrubs his face with his hands, then tuns hem into his hair. “They tried to paint her as some sort of serial seductress. But I knew her. Whatever name she adopted, whatever she wanted from me, I knew her. I should have listened to her when she begged me not to call the police.”

“Wait,” Aramis leans in, shock written on his face. “Are you blaming yourself for her incarceration?”

Athos doesn’t know how to answer that. He oscillates between guilt and anger like a compass in a magnetic storm. Between hurt and regret. Between blaming her, blaming himself, and blaming Thomas.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “That’s why I need to see her. I need to look her in the eyes and talk to her.”

He needs a drink, but that’s not possible, so he reaches for the weed, but before he can light it, Aramis plucks it out of his hand. “No, that’s not a good idea. I’m not letting you exchange one addiction for another.”

Athos frowns at him. “You’re not my mother or my therapist.”

“Aramis is right,” Porthos says from his other side. “No shortcuts on our watch.”

“You are the one who brought the weed!” Athos accused Aramis.

“Yes, for fun and games, not to suppress feelings. We will help you feel better the old fashioned way.”

Athos frowns. “Alcohol and a strip club?”

Aramis gives him a pleased grin. “See? You can joke, that’s a good sign. No, I meant hugs and comedy films.”

They turn on the TV and find a film that’s lighthearted and not a rom-com, then Aramis wraps himself around Athos like a koala bear, barely giving Porthos any room to join, so Porthos leans on the armrest and swings his legs over them both.

It takes Athos some time to relax. He is so used to numbing his mind when it gets like this that he doesn’t know how to distract himself in any other way. In the end, he gives into the temptation to bury his face in Aramis’ neck, where his scent is strongest, and draw comfort from it. Aramis hums, pleased, and cradles Athos’ head close. Athos falls asleep like that, with his nose on Aramis’ pulse point and Aramis’ fingers combing through his hair.

Chapter Text

Louis is a terrible shot. He shoots too soon and too wide, and rarely ever hits anything, which is a true feat of incompetence, given that the woods around Fountainebleau are supplied with game for the sole purpose of letting him hit something.

They’re on foot. The first time Louis tried to have a ’proper’ hunt, as he called it, meaning on horseback, he almost shot his own foot off, so in the interest of saving the King from himself, he was barred from ever trying that again.

Aramis, who was excited at first to finally be doing something fun, soon realized that the hunt would consist of making sure Louis’ rifle was pointing the right way, and trying not to trip on one of the many dogs.

“He’ll let us shoot some pheasants when he gets bored,” Athos assures him.

“You know, I’ve never actually been on a hunt before,” Aramis tells him. “I’ve never even fired a hunting rifle. What if I’m bad at it?”

“Then I will never let you live it down,” Athos gives him a small smirk.

In the next three hours, Louis tries to shoot a rabbit, a deer, and a pheasant, all of which escape with their lives intact. The fact that they keep running into animals is a testament to just how packed the woods are with game, since their party is not quiet, especially not when Louis goes on a shooting spree.

The hunt started early, but by noon, they’re all fed up. Athos knows from experience that it won’t be long before they head back for lunch - Louis’ mood drops when he’s hungry, so his excitement at the hunt will turn into frustration and anger over not being able to shoot himself dinner. He can see it brewing in him already, his commands are turning snappy, his reaction to a miss more and more aggravated.

They are about to turn and head back when there is a commotion in the front ranks of their party. The dogs start barking at something, and Louis, his patience at an end, starts towards them.

“What?!” he snaps at them. “What is it?”

“Majesty!” Athos calls and sets off after him as quickly as the uneven terrain will allow him to. “Please, let the handlers take care of it!”

Louis doesn’t pay him any mind. Then, he stops, and his voice gets all excited as he exclaims: “Oh! Babies!”

The European forests are not a very dangerous place, not compared to places like the US or Australia. The two biggest threats lurking in the majority of European forests are bears and boars. Most people know that bears can shred you into pieces if they’re in the mood, but they rarely are in the mood - bears are much more likely to run away from you, if they even get close enough to see you. Of course, that changes if the bear is a mother with its cubs.

Boars are largely underestimated. Not many people expect to be gored to death by a hairy pig. This is a mistake. Just like bears, boars are usually timid and prefer to stay away from people, but if they feel like they’re backed into a corner or feeling threatened, they can get very aggressive very quickly, and their large bodies are surprisingly fast. Now let’s say someone invaded the boar’s natural habitat, released a big number of prey animals in their woods, and began to hunt them, stumbling on a pack of boar piglets.

That would be the worst case scenario. That would be what has just happened.

When Athos hears the word “babies”, his blood runs cold. Many animals can have babies, and even the gentlest of them can turn dangerous when protecting their young. He runs towards Louis, hoping to reach him in time, when he gets a glimpse of white stripes on tiny backs, and he knows they’re in deep shit.

“Boars!” he screams as loud as he can. “Boars!”

The party, made up of experienced hunters, mobilizes. There are screams all around, dogs are running wild, chaos erupts. Amid all this, Louis stands alone, confused by the sudden activity. Athos is only a few meters from him when he sees the mother sow. She is standing about a hundred meters from the party, on the edge of the clearing they’re in, staring at them with death in her small beady eyes.

“Majesty, watch out!” Athos yells. The sow charges at them, so he does his job - he pulls Louis behind him by his coat, making himself into a human shield. He has no time to draw his rifle or his gun, and unfortunately, he knows that a boar filled with adrenaline wouldn’t go down before it would gore him on its tusks. He pulls out a knife, prepared for what might be the last fight of his life.

The sow is almost on him, only ten or so meters between them, when a loud shot echoes in the air, and a bullet flies straight through the animal’s head. It’s so close that its blood and brains splatter over Athos’ trousers and boots.

Panting, Athos looks around - several of the huntsmen are trying to load their guns, but it is Aramis who stands where he stood when Athos started running, his feet wide apart for balance, his rifle poised, butt resting against his shoulder, his head bowed. He looks up from the scope at the dead animal, then his gaze travels to Athos and he finally lets himself breathe, big gulps of air that make his chest rise as quickly as Athos’. They stare at each other, and nothing else matters.

Then reality comes crashing in. There is a lot of shouting, a lot of fussing over Louis, a lot of questions being asked about where the boar came from (as if it needed a visa to be in its natural habitat), a lot of congratulations to Aramis (who is paying them half a mind, unable to take his eyes off of Athos), and a lot of back pats for Athos (who is paying them absolutely no mind, fuck them, Aramis just saved his fucking life). The boar is taken away - it will be skinned and butchered, and probably served for dinner tomorrow after a very long roast, since it’s the gamiest and toughest meat they could have scored. The piglets are an unexpected problem, as leaving them to their fate will probably mean their death. Athos has no idea what the others decide to do with them, even if he hears them say anything, the information goes in one ear and out the other, completely inconsequential.

He tries to wrench his focus away from Aramis for the walk back, but Aramis falls into step next to him and their the backs of their hands brush against each other.

“Are you alright?” Aramis asks.

“Yes,” Athos responds.

They escort the King back to the chateau. Porthos has spent the day with the Queen so she wouldn’t be alone, and when he hears what happened, he sends them both to the cottage, telling them to send whoever is available for the remainder of their shift. They comply only too readily.

The moment they’re in the cottage, Aramis is in Athos’ space, pushing him against the front door and patting him over as if to check that he was still there, that the boar hasn’t bitten off a chunk of him. “Are you alright?” he asks again, this time more insistent, more real.

“I’m fine,” Athos takes his face into his hands and looks him in the eyes. “You saved me.”

Aramis’ hands wrap around Athos’ wrists, keeping his hands where they are, and looking straight into his soul.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan’s voice cuts through to them. Athos doesn’t know whether he wants to strangle the boy or thank him, because if they were left alone, he doesn’t know if he could stop himself from pulling Aramis in and kissing the life out of him.

Aramis steps away from him and looks back at d’Artagnan. “We had an incident. Everyone is alright, don’t worry. I’m going back in.”

“Wait, what?” Athos frowns.

“I need to... be active,” Aramis says. “And I...” he stops himself, his eyes flickering to d’Artagnan. Athos thinks he understands - the only activity they could get up to right now would not be very friendly.

When Athos moves away from the door, Aramis hesitates. He leans in and whispers: “Could you please take a shower? You smell like fear.”

Athos blinks, then, as gently as he can, he says: “Aramis, that’s you.”

Aramis stares at him for a few seconds. “Right,” he finally says. “I will.”

And then he’s out. Athos is left standing there with their youngest team member staring at him.

"Is that blood?” he points to the splatter on Athos’ trouser legs.

“And brains,” Athos nods. “I do need a shower.”

“Whose...?!”

But he’s already running up the stairs and into the bathroom, taking the steps two at a time. He locks the door and strips so quickly he almost rips a shirt button. When he takes off the bulletproof vest, he wonders how much it would’ve helped him against a boar attack - it he protected his head, he could have survived, the calculations and images are running through his head, images of himself like a test dummy being mauled by a giant pig. He wasn’t scared, not for himself - he was worried about the King, but ready to meet his end with calm determination. But Aramis was. Aramis was fucking terrified, Athos could smell it, and is that what Aramis smells on him when he’s going into a panic attack?

The water hits him too cold before it warms up to his preferred temperature, but it doesn’t cool Athos down in the slightest, even though in all honesty he should be freezing after such a long time spent wondering in the forest. His skin is cold, but it doesn’t register beyond the way the water burns at first. He can’t stop thinking about Aramis’ eyes on him, Aramis’ hands on him, his gaze full of concern, full of fear. The way he stood after he shot the threat to Athos’ life. Athos’ blood has been boiling ever since his eyes landed on him, on those strong thighs splayed wide, those wide shoulders - did they even move under the recoil of the rifle? - that wild head of hair bouncing as he raised those big brown eyes to his and held them.

He grips his hard cock, and the images in his head are replaced with memories of the night before. Aramis with his head in Athos’ lap, his hand in Athos’ hair, on his brow, on his pulse point. His body wrapped around him.

He comes embarrassingly quickly and with such force his knees almost buckle. He catches himself against the tiled wall, his hand squeezing every last drop from his pulsing cock, his whole body shaking. The water washes his cum down the drain, but the memory of the act can’t be washed away. Athos doesn’t know how he will look Aramis in the eyes, how he can look at Aramis at all without going red, hard, or climbing him on the spot.

But he has to. Things would get too complicated if they gave into this temptation. Aramis is right not to want a relationship with him - Athos is a washed up alcoholic terrified of commitment. Even if Athos could get over his issues, it would take him ages, and it would be full of fumbling around and hurting Aramis. And Athos really doesn’t want to hurt Aramis.

He will not let his dick lead him astray. They’ve agreed on friendship, so they will be friends, nothing more, hopefully nothing less. Athos can’t imagine not having Aramis in his life.

Chapter Text

The women’s prison in Rennes, the only female penitentiary in France, is three and a half hours by car or two hours by train from Paris, so naturally, Athos chooses to go by train. He almost regrets it, as the train journey gives him too much free time and nothing to do. He tries to read, but is unable to focus on the words. He ends up pacing the entire length of the train.

He would have liked to have timed his visit for the holidays, but getting Christmas off was out of the question as it was the time of all the balls and parties and state visits and so on. Louis’ mother and brother visited Versailles for Christmas Eve, which is always fun - not in the haha kind, more in the “we actually have to stop these people from hurting each other” kind.

Now, the royal couple are in Spain so the Queen can see her own family, which means that the entire team is free, as overseas trips are managed by a completely separate team. Athos has no other choice but to do what he’s been postponing for weeks - go see Anne.

He’s on the visitor’s list, but it still takes a long time for them to process him and escort him into the meeting room. It’s a tiny cell with a single table and two chairs, one of which is occupied. A guard is standing by the door.

Anne is chained to the table, but she makes it look almost comfortable. She is just as beautiful as the last time he saw her, only her hair is no longer bleach blonde but her natural dark colour, the colour of her eyebrows. He doesn’t know if he prefers her this way. She is another person now - the physical a reflection of the way her essence has changed in his mind since he had learned about her truths.

“Hello, Olivier,” she says when he sits down.

“I don’t know what to call you,” he says after a short pause. It feels wrong to call her by the name she assumed, but - maybe laughably - no one had ever introduced them with her real name, so it feels wrong to use that one, too.

“Just keep calling me Anne, please. It’s the only name I ever liked having.”

He nods. He understands , he thinks. Hearing the name Olivier feels strange, like that identity is tainted, like it never fit him. Being Athos is something he chose, something he earned, something he can be proud of. He doesn’t tell her that, though. To each other, they are Anne and Olivier.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he says.

“Thank you for coming to see me. Although I don’t know what to think of your visit. I thought you wanted to forget I existed. You never even responded to my letter.”

“I never opened it.”

She seems taken back by that. “Was I not worth it to you?”

“You were everything to me!” he exclaims, his temper flaring. This is why he never came to see her before - she triggers such rage in him as he never knew himself capable of. He’s been doing better lately, but coming face to face with her is ten times as potent as imagining their meeting.

He reigns in his anger when he sees the guard tense up. “Don’t play games with me, Anne. You know very well how much I cared. You must know that I avoided you because of how much I felt, not how little.”

She nods. She didn’t even blink in the face of his outburst. “Alright then, let’s do away with the pretence,” she agrees, but she steels herself by donning her cold persona. Athos knows she is not the heartless bitch she portrays when her neck is on the line. “What do you want?”

He takes a deep breath in and lets it out, centering himself. What he is about to say has been brewing in him for a very long time, and it has some difficulties coming out.

“I am sorry.”

Shock completely shatters her mask of indifference. “What can you be possibly sorry for?”

“I’m not sure. My brother’s behaviour. Your past. Your imprisonement.”

“None of those things are your fault.”

“I’m still sorry that they happened to you. And I was the one who called the police on you, so partly, it is my fault.”

“You didn’t call the police, Olivier, you called the ambulance. Because your brother was bleeding out on the floor.”

“I knew there was no coming back for him.” There is a lump in his throat. “And you begged me not to.”

“For fuck’s sake!” She leans in, the chains at her wrists rattling. Her face is twisted in a sneer. “Did you come here for therapy? You are not a simpering idiot, Olivier, you know that you did everything right. Do not crash my pity party with your misplaced guilt!” She sits back, the sneer gone.

“I came here to tell you the truth, and to ask you to do the same.”

“You could’ve read my letter. It said everything I wanted to say.”

“I think we owe it to each other to look each other in the eyes.”

As he says it, he realizes that they haven’t, yet. They might not have looked into each other’s eyes since before the day Thomas died. When Anne raises her eyes and they finally do, it’s like looking into the sun. It’s raw, intense, it hurts, it opens his chest and exposes his heart.

“I loved you, and I am sorry for everything bad that ever happened to you,” he says, and they’re the truest words he’s ever said. “I am angry at you for everything that you did, and some things I know weren’t your fault. And I am desperate to know the truth. Please. Tell me the truth.”

“About what?” she asks in the smallest voice he’s ever heard from her.

“Did you love me?”

“I loved you, Olivier de la Fere. I loved you with my whole heart. You are a hard man not to love.”

He wants to close his eyes to take it in, but he doesn’t want to lose the connection they have now. “Was that really you? Or was Anne just a persona?”

“It was me... as much as I was capable of being me.” Then she shrugs. “I smiled more, forgave more easily. But... most of the time, I was being the best me I’d ever been. But the whole truth...” she continues and he takes a deep breath. “... is that I fell in love with you by accident. At first, you were just a mark. I am sorry for that.”

He nods. He is sorry for that, too, but not as much as he thinks he should be. “Did Thomas really try to rape you?”

“Yes,” her tone doesn’t harden, but her face does. “I swear to you. I wish things went differently. I wish I let him. Grabbing that knife was the biggest mistake of my life, not just because it ended my free life, but because it ended my life with you. That stupid impulse destroyed the happiest time of my life. But it was instinct.”

He nods. The lump is back. He understands that instinct now.

“That’s all I needed to know.”

“Wait!” she calls when he starts to straighten in his chair, panicking that he would leave.

“Anne...” he sighs, but stays put.

“Just... tell me how you are,” she begs. “Tell me I didn’t completely ruin your life.”

“You didn’t ruin my life, Anne.” His life was ruined, but it wasn’t her fault alone. Things happened. She didn’t set out to do evil, now he was sure of it. “It took time, but now I have a good job and good friends. And I... I’ve met my soulmate.”

Her face falls, but she quickly puts on a brave smile. “I’m glad. You deserve to be happy.”

He mulls it over. Is he happy? He’s had flashes of happiness. When Porthos hugged him at Fontainebleau and Athos realized he never stopped being his friend. When Aramis told him he’d never wait for him to ask to be touched. When Aramis saved his life. Every time Aramis smiles at him. Every time Aramis...

“What is she like?” Anne asks. She is trying so hard to be the good Anne, he can see the strain it puts her through. He wonders if he was blind before for not noticing, or if she’s gone out of practice in prison.

“Do you really want to hear that?”

“Well, this is the place for punishment, isn’t it?” she tries for humour.

“He is... good. Too good for me.”

She frowns. “If you believe that, I must have done more damage than you give me credit for.”

“Oh no, you have complete credit for this,” he agrees. He’s been nice to her, she deserves to know the truth about that part of his life. “You destroyed any trust or goodwill I had, in others as well as in myself. I can’t trust myself to know other people, and I can’t trust other people to be who they claim to be.”

She reaches out her hand, making the chains rattle, and touches one of his.

“They’re not all me, Olivier,” she says seriously. “You say I didn’t destroy your life. Then don’t let me.”

“No touching!” the guard reminds them, but it’s half-hearted at best. She lets go with a brush of his fingers, her face longing.

Athos’ skin tingles where she touched him, but he doesn’t miss her touch the way he misses Aramis’ every time he pulls away.

“I have to go, Anne,” he says and this time, she lets him.

“Will you come again?”

He stands up. “I don’t know.”

“Will you write to me?”

He stops halfway out the door. “That I can do.”

“Goodbye, Olivier.”

“Goodbye, Anne.”

Aramis knocks on Athos’ door at half past six. The last he’s heard from Athos, he was in the prison waiting room. That was at twelve. Since then, radio silence. At eight, Aramis could no longer bear it, and now he’s in Athos’ building with a bag of take out and no idea if Athos is even in Paris yet.

Nobody comes to the door. He knocks again, then pulls out his phone and dials Athos’ number. He can hear the phone ringing inside.

“Athos!” he calls. “I know you’re in. Just tell me you’re OK and I’ll go!”

After what feels like an age the door opens. The flat is completely dark, but Aramis sees enough to know that Athos is drunker than he’s ever seen him and absolutely miserable.

“I’m not OK,” he says.

“Then I won’t go,” Aramis answers and pushes his way inside the flat.

It stinks inside - alcohol mixed with stress - so Aramis opens the windows and lets in cold evening air.

“Have you had anything to eat?” he asks Athos, who shakes his head. Aramis goes into the kitchen and plates some of the food he brought. “It’s OK if you throw it up, but you need to eat.”

Athos lets himself be manhandled into a dining chair and coaxed into swallowing the food without tasting, functioning seemingly on autopilot. Aramis joins him because he hasn’t had anything for dinner, either.

“Good,” Aramis praises when Athos’ whole portion is gone. “Are you going to keep it down?”

Athos seems to be wondering the same thing, if his concerned frown and thousand yard stare are anything to go by. Aramis abandons his food, grabs him by the shoulders, and steers him towards the bathroom.

Athos does end up throwing up, and Aramis is there to hold his hair out of the way and stroke his back through the spasms. When he’s done, Athos wipes his mouth, and sits back, resting against the tiled wall.

“Better?” Aramis asks. Athos nods. The take out was Chinese, and Aramis trusts that it was greasy enough to bind with some of the alcohol in Athos’ system. He had a long way to sobriety yet, but at least Aramis didn’t have to worry about alcohol poisoning anymore.

“Any more coming out?”

Athos shrugs, so Aramis sits down opposite him, right next to the toilet bowl. He flushes before settling down, but the acrid smell of vomit stays in the room.

“You shouldn’t...” Athos mumbles, his head lolling in a mockery of a head shake.

“I do what I want, Athos.”

Athos looks at him with those giant eyes of his. “You like your freedom.”

“Yes, well, who doesn’t?”

“I wouldn’t take away your freedom.”

Aramis frowns, confused. “Of course not, Athos, I know that.”

Athos nods and closes his eyes. He is beautiful even like this, sitting on the floor after puking his guts out, almost unintelligible.

“I wouldn’t abandon you, either,” he half whispers after a while. “Or your baby.”

“Right,” Aramis says, realizing that Athos is probably not talking about him. Maybe he shouldn’t rule out alcohol poisoning just yet, after all. Athos is obviously drunker than he thought. Wait, did Anne have a baby? Athos never said anything about a baby. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what if she was pregnant when she went to prison? What if she had a baby he never knew about?

Athos starts sliding to the side, so Aramis quickly stops his descend. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me! Come on, up you get!” He helps him up and into the bedroom. There is no chance Athos could brush his teeth or change his clothes, so Aramis just takes off his sweater and trousers, leaving him in very distractingly tight underwear and tank top. Athos is no help at all, barely able to do more than crawl under the covers. Before Aramis can leave, Athos shoots out an uncoordinated hand and wraps it around his thigh.

“Don’t leave.”

Aramis sends a prayer towards the ceiling. Athos’ hand is nowhere intimate, but the way it loses strength and slides back down means it feels like a caress.

He sits next to Athos on the bed, above the covers. The room smells so much nicer than the living room did, and Aramis wants to air it out, too, because if he stays here too long, he will undoubtedly start having certain... urges. He doesn’t want to think about why it smells so good here, or the fact that most of it is coming from the sheets, and what it might be that Athos did in those sheets to make them smell that good...

Athos hugs his waist and buries his face in Aramis’ stomach, because maybe God doesn’t exist, or he really hates Aramis. Or maybe Aramis is his special little lamb who just needs to go through this one very difficult test before he can ascend to heaven. That’s what Aramis’ mother would probably say. He looks around the room to take his mind off of the man in his lap. He’s been in Athos flat once before, when all four of them went out to celebrate d’Artagnan’s birthday last month. Athos didn’t even drink, and the others were so happy about it they didn’t drink, either. He’s been doing really well lately; Aramis hopes this is just a temporary set back. Those will happen, recovery is not straightforward. As long as he keeps on the trajectory he is on now, Aramis has every hope that Athos will be able to stop using alcohol as a crutch one day.

When he looks down at Athos again, he is fast asleep. Aramis can’t help succumbing to the temptation to touch his face. This might be the only time he will ever be able to - even if he does wake him up, chances are Athos won’t remember a thing. He traces a feather light finger over his nose, cheekbones, forehead. He takes his time mapping every wrinkle, every scar. The one on his upper lip, where it disturbs the grain of his beard... he’s fantasized about kissing that scar a thousand times. About what it would feel like under his lips and under his tongue. And his hair... he touches that hair as often as he can get away with and yet it isn’t enough. It’s even softer than it looks. It begs to be pulled in passion.

He has to get away before his thoughts run any further away from him. He gently extricates himself from under Athos and leaves the bedroom. He considers leaving completely, but can’t make himself. He reasons that it’s best to stay in case Athos needs something (like saving if he pukes in his sleep), but he knows that the reason is much simpler. He just doesn’t want to leave.

He finds a spare toothbrush still in its packaging in the bathroom, and a blanket on the sofa. It won’t be the best sleep of his life, but he’s had worse. Or so he thinks before he lies on the sofa and realizes his mistake - it smells like Athos, of course it does. So does the blanket. He buries his face in the space where the cushions meet, and settles down for one of the best sleeps of his life.

When Athos wakes up, he’s still a bit drunk, his mouth feels like he ate a cockroach, he needs to pee, and the sheets smell like Aramis.

He groans. He has a vague memory of Aramis feeding him and sitting on his bathroom floor with him, but he doesn’t remember him in his bed, jesus christ, what did Athos do? But when he checks, Aramis is nowhere to be found, nor are any signs of any... activity. Daylight is streaming from behind the curtains in tiny rays on the floor and furniture, informing him that he’s slept through the night. He gets up to pee, stumbling a little on his way, and then goes straight back to bed.

He finds the spot where the smell is the strongest, and lets himself breathe it in. Why was Aramis in bed with him? Did they... but no, surely Athos would be too drunk to do anything if he was too drunk to remember. Still... Aramis was in his bed. All six foot of him. And he didn’t remember it. He could kick himself.

He buried his face in the sheets. He also doesn’t remember how he ended up only in his underwear and tank top. Did Aramis take off his clothes? His hips jerk of their own volition, and he gasps as he realizes he’s already half hard. The image of Aramis taking of his trousers loops in his brain - how he’d pop the button, drag down the zip. Slowly pull the trousers down, brushing over his arse and hips and god, over his cock. In his fantasy, Athos is hard, and sober, and looking down at Aramis as the other man kneels at his feet, his face level with Athos’ groin. Athos runs his hand through Aramis’ hair, and Aramis smiles at him.

In reality, Athos has his face pressed to his sheets in a way that barely lets him breathe, and the little air he gets is so permeated with Aramis’ scent that Athos’ head spins. His hips are moving steadily, dragging his hard cock through the sheets that Aramis lay in, and that is almost as exhilarating as the images in Athos’ head.

Athos has never been with a man, never even wanted to before he met Aramis, so he doesn’t really know what to expect from a man’s touch. He imagines it’s rougher than a woman’s, but also more knowledgeable, more certain. Would Aramis try to do what he likes himself? - Athos’ hips stutter at that, the idea that Aramis would touch Athos the way he touches himself overwhelming for a second. He reaches down and grips himself through his boxers, imagining it’s Aramis’ hand. That he’s looking up at him with that playful smile of his, his beautiful brown eyes watching his face, watching him lose himself to the pleasure he’s providing. Aramis has been with enough people to know what to do.

The thought of Aramis’ sex life adds a tinge of anger to Athos’ arousal, like a dash of spice. He was never a particularly jealous man, but he wants Aramis all to himself, every bit of him. He wants Aramis to choose him, to want him, to forget the others the same way Athos has been able to forget even Anne.

The friction of his hand over the fabric, now damp with his precum, is delicious. It’s taking him towards an orgasm at a maddeningly gentle pace, but that only means that when it does eventually hit him, he won’t rush those last few seconds, that rapid acceleration, he will feel every beat until his brain whites out, unable to handle anymore.

He is high on the lack of oxygen to his brain and so close... he loves this feeling, when his entire world narrows down to the pleasure in his body, but he’s not usually the one to enjoy it, preferring to inflict it instead. Would Aramis like that? Would he let Athos lay his hands on his throat and squeeze?

That’s what tips him over the edge. As his cock starts to pump out cum, he lifts his head, takes a big breath, and then bites down on the sheets, imagining he can taste Aramis instead of dry fabric. Oxygen floods his brain and endorphins explode in it, completely wiping out any awareness and leaving him to just feel, feel every spasm, every drop, every breath.

He lies there boneless and sated, not a single thought in his brain, for a whole minute. When awareness trickles back to him, it’s all Aramis again, and it’s the best afterglow he’s ever had. But after some time his hand goes numb, the wet patch he’s lying starts to irritate him, and his stomach starts growling for food.

He takes a long shower and puts on fresh clothes, finally feeling good in his skin after days of worrying and barely sleeping. Something has settled in him, a deep, unruly thing he lived with for the last five and a half years.

When he enters his kitchen, he’s almost completely sober, and has a headache coming on, but he’s pretty sure he can eliminate it if he takes two ibuprofen right now, before it spreads. His flat is open plan, so his kitchen opens up to his living room, and on his couch... is Aramis.

Asleep, thank fucking God. Athos still freezes and thinks back to the way he woke up, playing it back for any sounds he may have made. He is a quiet man, in sex as in most else, and his bed has a sturdy frame, but it wasn’t like he was paying attention to his noise levels at the time.

Aramis has his back to him, his face hidden in the corner of the couch, and under the blanket he seems to be fully dressed. Athos tries his best to be quiet as he opens the drawer that has all his painkillers in it, but Aramis still stirs, visibly jerking.

“Good morning,” Athos says, and Aramis looks up at him with bleary eyes, blinking away sleep.

“Morning,” he finally rasps. Athos is glad he rubbed one out, cause he’d have trouble hearing that voice and not popping a boner. “You’re up already?”

Athos shrugs. “Internal clock.”

He goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water from the tap and swallow his pills. Aramis gingerly sits up on the couch, dragging the blanket over his lower half.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, rubbing his face and yawning.

“Good, actually,” Athos says, leaning his hip against the kitchen island. There are two plates on it, one empty, one half full, and take out boxes around them.

“Really?” Aramis seems surprised. “I mean, that’s great, but... just a few hours ago you seemed like one tequila shot could send you to the hospital.”

Athos supposes that’s a fair assessment. Maybe his tolerance has gone down in the last few months - he has been drinking less. He definitely didn’t intend to overdo it so much yesterday.

“In a way, I feel... cleansed,” he tells Aramis. “Yesterday was hard, but it was an end to something.”

Aramis gives him a startlingly bright smile that does worrying things to Athos’ heart rate. “That’s good. I’m really happy for you, brother.”

Brother. Well, ain’t that a kick in the nuts.

“Just, ehm,” Aramis continues, somewhat untypically awkward. “Did Anne... I mean... does she have a child?”

Athos blinks, not computing. “A child? Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

“Oh, that’s a relief. Nah, just... yesterday, you said that you wouldn’t abandon me and my baby.”

Athos almost swallows his tongue. Fuck. He is so lucky Aramis didn’t make the connection to his mother. “I was very drunk,” he says, hoping that it will be enough.

“That you were,” Aramis agrees.

“Speaking of...” Athos lets himself pinch the bridge of his nose, the gesture a familiar coping mechanism that lets him hide his face. “What did I do last night, Aramis?”

“You ate some food, threw it up, and then promptly fell asleep. You did ask me to sit with you, but you behaved admirably well, really. And I swear I took no advantage,” he jokes.

“Did I undress myself?”

“Yup, that was all you.”

Well, there goes that fantasy. Although. Just because it never happened doesn’t mean he can’t imagine it did.

He turns to the kettle. “Coffee?”

“Thank you, that would be nice.”

While the water is reaching its boil, he prepares the cups, and starts on a breakfast. He doesn’t have much, but he can put together a plate of cold meats and cheeses with some stale bread. Or they could just eat the Chinese leftovers.

“Stale bread or Chinese for breakfast?” he asks.

“Hm? Oh, whatever’s fine. I’m going to the bathroom, OK?”

“Sure.” There’s movement behind him as Aramis stands up. “Wait!” Athos belatedly realizes that his bathroom is an ensuite, meaning Aramis will have to cross his undoubtedly sex infused bedroom. “Can you use the other toilet instead?”

There’s an awkward silence, then Aramis says: “Sure,” and goes to the little toilet in the hall. By the time he comes back, Athos has found the bread, deemed it too tough, and reheated the take out. Aramis takes a seat at the dining table, where his coffee is waiting for him.

“So how did it go?” he asks. “What did she say that settled your mind? If I may ask?”

Athos brings over the food when it’s piping hot. “She answered some questions that have been bothering me for the last five years.”

“Which were?”

They both tuck in.

“Whether she loved me or if I was just a mark. If Thomas really tried to rape her. And if I really loved her or just a persona she made up for my benefit.”

Aramis whistles. “That must have been one hell of a conversation.”

Athos wonders whether he should have had it years ago. Probably. But he is pretty certain that it wouldn’t have helped as much back then as it did now. He needed the time to process things, he needed time to heal his wounds and his emotions. Facing Anne five years ago, or even one year ago, would have been a disaster that might have made things worse. They have both cooled off in the last five years. They have accepted their lots in life.

“I have been thinking,” Aramis starts after a while. He sounds uncertain. “There is a place I’d like you to take.”

“Yes?” Athos prompts him after a moment of silence.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Are you having an internal monologue out loud?” Athos drawls. Aramis gives him what is probably meant to be a nasty look, but only manages to resemble an angry baby owl, what with his bed hair and big eyes.

“I’m trying to be responsible, but I have terrible impulse control.”

Great, now Aramis wants him to be his common sense.

“I want to take you to a BDSM party.”

Huh. That did not go where Athos ever expected it to go.

“Well, it’s not a party per say, it’s a munch. A social gathering. With the possibility of play. It’s a really amazing place, and the people there are just lovely, and no sex is allowed, so you’d be under no pressure to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Athos can’t stop staring at him. Finally, he gets out an incredulous: “But why?”

“Because I want you to see a different side to sex and intimacy. It’s not the BDSM part I want you to experience, it’s the freedom these places offer. And hey, I don’t have to go at all if you don’t want me to, you can go alone.”

“So now you’re sending me to a BDSM club alone?”

“I’m just giving you the option, in case you don’t want me there.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you there?”

Athos is so caught up with posturing that he completely forgets that he really doesn’t want Aramis anywhere near him in the context of BDSM, intimacy, or a sex club. Even if no sex is allowed. By the time he realizes what a dangerous bargain he’s making, it’s too late.

“Then you’ll go with me?” Aramis asks, and he’s so hopeful that Athos almost says yes.

“I’ll think about it. Can you send me some info? So I know what kind of den of sin you’re dragging me into?”

“Sure,” Aramis smiles, and Athos is sold. Oh god, he is so fucked. How is he going to get out of this one?

Chapter Text

Athos can’t believe he’s doing this.

He didn’t think he would.  Saying a tentative “I’ll think about it” to Aramis that day was meant to be a firm no down the line, once Aramis didn’t look quite so much like a hopeful puppy about to receive a treat.

He mentioned it to Porthos the next time they worked together, expecting him to be as incredulous as Athos was, but he was barking up the wrong tree.

“Now, he wants to take me to a BDSM club.”

Porthos raised his eyebrows at him. “I’m happy to hear your relationship has progressed, but do I need to know the details?”

“It hasn’t. It won’t. But this proves my point. Friends don’t take other friends to sex clubs, right?”

Porthos just grinned at him. “Good friends do.”

Athos was almost too stunned to walk for a second. Porthos continued on without him, leaving him in the middle of  the Ground Gallery of Versailles. “Have you been...?”

“Yup!”

“What?!”

Aramis sends him the address and meets him outside the front door. It looks nothing out of the ordinary, it’s not within the Red Light district, there is nothing that would denote it as a place of interest, just a simple black door set in a mundane building on an ordinary street.

“Is this where you took Porthos?” Athos asks.

Aramis doesn’t even blink. “No, Porthos wanted something more sexual. And I didn’t take him, he tagged along and stole all my spotlight.”

Athos smiles at that - the most reaction he can muster right now - and follows Aramis in. The front door is open, but there is another inside that requires a code that Aramis knows by heart. Inside is a small room with a reception desk, behind which sits a middle aged woman with a giant tattoo of a dragon on her large arm, poking from a sensible, if bohemian, dress. When she sees them, she gives Aramis a big smile.

“René! Aren’t you early?”

“I’m bringing fresh meat,” Aramis returns her smile and pulls Athos close by the shoulders.

“Oh, we love fresh meat!” she says, and smiles at Athos. Her smile is completely friendly, not a drop of flirtation in it despite the nature of the words, and it puts Athos at ease a little. “We’re still waiting for a few new faces, I’ll call you when we’re ready to do the tour.”

Aramis thanks her and leads Athos through to another room full of comfortable looking couches and an unoccupied bar. “There’s an introductory half hour before the main event starts, for new members,” he explains. “Drink?”

Athos nods, and Aramis goes behind the bar and opens a fridge full of soft drinks. He picks two San Pellegrinos and goes to sit next to Athos on one of the couches, handing him one of the opened bottles.

“It’s an honest system,” he explains to Athos. “We just tell them what we had at the end of the night.”

“That’s... very trusting.”

“You need a lot of trust in a place like this.”

He is echoing what Athos said to his therapist two days ago. She was just as unhelpful as Porthos about this whole thing.

“Why does he want me to go with him?” he asked her. Her chairs were too comfortable - the kind where if you let yourself, you could sink so far it would look indecent in this setting, and so he had to be constantly minding his posture.

“I don’t know, Athos. Why don’t you want to go?”

He looked out of the window, not liking how quickly this conversation turned into dangerous waters. “Because it’s too intimate.”

“You don’t have to do anything with him, though, right? You said that there will be no sex, and that he offered not to go at all. That sounds like there is something there he wants you to experience, with or without him. Why don’t you eliminate your worries by asking him to let you go alone?”

“Because he’s the only reason I’m going.”

More people trickle into the room, until there are seven of them including Aramis, who stays behind during the tour. A man in his sixties with two prosthetic legs comes out, welcomes them, and shows them around. The big room they’re in right now is the social zone, he explains, and there is another one outside, but please, don’t talk about kink there as it’s within hearing distance of a window belonging to a Chinese restaurant. Then, he leads them downstairs into the dungeon, which is full of everything Athos would expect in a BDSM dungeon - spanking benches of varying kinds, some with cuffs attached to them; a St. Andrew’s cross and wheel with cuffs hanging from it which can’t be turned because the crank requires too much strength; a big bed covered in some sort of black material Athos can’t identify; suspension points in the ceiling for rope play; and various implements hanging from hooks along the walls, including a duster, a flystrap, and a paddle with a rubber sole like that of a shoe. One part of the wall is dedicated to belts of varying lengths, their metal buckles looking particularly unpleasant.

They are reminded not to take any pictures during play so as to respect everyone’s privacy. Then the man, who introduced himself as Pierre, tells them not to feel pressured into anything. Everything is optional, nothing is expected - just as Aramis told Athos from the start. If all they want to do tonight is sit upstairs and chat to people, then that is completely fine.

They get back up, where Athos finds Aramis chatting with a tall, skinny man with grey hair and a smile that could only be called sinister. When Aramis sees him, he beckons him over.

“Armand, meet Athos,” he introduces them. “It’s his first time, so be nice!”

Armand gives Athos a smile bordering on a leer. “First time, is it? And what brings you here?”

“He did,” Athos tips his head to Aramis.

Armand turns to Aramis and asks: “And does he share?”

“We’re not together,” Aramis says while Athos goes red at the implication that he belongs to Aramis, that Aramis has any right to share him. “Athos makes his own decisions.”

Armand opens his arms in a sweeping gesture. “I would love the chance to persuade you to join me some time, although maybe not the first time,” he tells Athos, leaning in and winking. “I do not enjoy teaching quite as much these days, it requires too much holding back.”

When they extricate themselves from the conversation some time later, Aramis quietly says: “Sorry, meeting Armand at the beginning of this is like going to the ocean for the first time and brushing against a great white shark. He can be quite intense.”

“Have you two...?”

“God no, that man is an extreme sadist. I saw him stick needles under someone’s toes once.”

Athos shudders.

“If it wasn’t for that, though...” Aramis looks wistfully after Armand’s straight back. “I totally would. There is something about that man...” he sighs. “Just like Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot, I am too dumb for my own good.”

They sit down again, this time on the only unoccupied couch. The room has filled up pretty quickly. There are people of all kinds milling around - most are dressed in ordinary clothes, but a few spot fetish wear. One woman is clad in latex, while a very large, very bearded bear of a man is in a kilt and nothing else. One trans girl in a very short skirt is now sitting on Armand’s lap, and excitedly lifting her top to show someone what looks like a butterfly made out of scar tissue, exposing her slight but pretty breasts in the process.

Despite all that, Athos is surprised at how casual and not charged the atmosphere is. He was expecting to be on needles, especially with Aramis here, but he’s put at ease by the way everyone else is relaxed. People come and go, talking to them, welcoming Athos and greeting Aramis like an old friend.

Aramis shuffles closer to him during a lull in conversation, bumping their shoulders together. “Not what you expected?”

Athos reaches for his water. “Not really.”

“It’s the perfect way to get into this world, if you ask me,” Aramis says. “Most parties are too hardcore for some people, too intimidating, with strict dress codes and whatnot, and most munches are just meetings in a pub where you end up talking about politics with strangers, but this is the perfect mix. You can spend the whole evening just talking, or you can go and see what is happening downstairs, or even participate, depending on your comfort levels and interests.”

“Is that why you brought me here?”

“I brought you here,” Aramis takes his hand in his and tugs, drawing his attention to the group of people at the next table. “To show you this.”

Armand’s companion is still sitting in his lap, now across it, and he absendmindedly strokes her bare thigh while talking to an older woman who is, inexplicably, crocheting something small and yellow. A young man in a puppy mask is kneeling between another man’s knees, his head pillowed on a thigh, while the other man is petting his hair.

“These people are into some of the most ostracized acts you can think of, and yet they are the kindest, most understanding, least judgemental people I know. They are free with their bodies, not bothered by conventions.”

Athos looks at him with raised eyebrows. “Are you telling me I’m a prude?”

“In a way, but most people are. And most people would benefit from coming here, if you ask me.” He fidgets with Athos’ hand. “I think you are very tightly coiled, and it would be good for you if you relaxed.”

Athos stares down at where Aramis is running his fingers over his knuckles. “And how am I to do that?”

“Try new things, maybe?” Aramis suggests. “With new people?”

“I don’t really have your talent at making new friends, Aramis.”

“Is that all that’s stopping you? Because I can help you there, all I need to know is what you want to do.”

Athos lets his head fall back onto the backrest. What does he want to do? He has no idea. He wants Aramis, of course, he always wants Aramis now, but Aramis has made it clear that he’s open to everyone apart from Athos.

Although... maybe the reason he has been resisting the temptation is not a reflection of his personal wishes, but was him respecting Athos’ boundaries. Until now, it hurt a little that Aramis was willing to sleep with any stranger over Athos, but it never even occurred to him that Aramis might want to sleep with him.

He should ask him. The question is on the tip of his tongue when Aramis tugs him up and says: “Why don’t we go and see what’s on offer first, huh? And then you can decide. Call it window shopping.”

Athos lets himself be led into the dungeon. He didn’t even realize that people were down here already, so he’s surprised to see that two benches are occupied, and that there are people standing around the room, watching the scenes unfold. On one bench lies a mature woman, almost completely naked apart from her panties, but she’s on her stomach, so all Athos sees is her long back. The bearded man in the kilt is using what looks like a really heavy bat on her, hitting the backs of her thighs with the length of it, not very hard, but by the look of it, hard enough to create deep bruises. On the other bench is a younger, chubbier woman - Athos almost wants to call her a girl, even though she’s obviously at least in her late twenties. She is gorgeous - her long black hair is curled and styled into two ponytails, and her supple, soft body is clad in a cute flowery sundress, which is barely containing her large breasts. She even has glasses, good lord, and she is so lively under the assault of the implements her partner is using - she goes from almost pornographic cutesy whimpers and faces to genuine laughter when he strikes hard. Her chubby arse is covered in red streaks, and it looks like something broke the skin at least in one place. Athos is mesmerized.

“Ahhh, Julie,” Aramis whispers next to him knowingly. “A rare beauty. You know, I’m sure she’d be open if you wanted to approach her after they’re done. They have an open relationship.”

Athos tears his gaze away from the writhing, laughing nymph to look at Aramis. Let’s see, does he want to approach this Julie? Yes. But he has no idea what he’d want from her, and he absolutely does not want to go through the fumbling of figuring it out.

“Maybe,” he says. His eyes fall on the other couple again. Their scene is so subdued, and yet so intimate, maybe because they’re almost naked. “What is the deal with the no sex and no nudity rule?” he asks. “Where is the line? Who decides?”

“That is a great question,” a new voice says from behind them. They turn, Athos with a question in his eyes, Aramis with a pleased smile. The speaker is a beautiful dark skinned woman with wild black hair and strong eyebrows set in a pleasant face with expressive brown eyes. “In this case, it’s the law. This venue doesn’t have a licence, so if they were caught allowing sexual acts on their premises, they could be closed and even prosecuted for solicitation. It is ridiculous, of course. What makes touch to an arm different from a touch to a penis? Skin is skin.”

“Sylvie!” Aramis hugs her, and her hair almost completely swallow his face. “I hoped we would run into you! Athos, this is Sylvie, our house activist.”

“Athos?” Sylvie frowns up at him. “That’s a peculiar name. Do you by any chance know Ninon de Larroque?”

He stares at her in utter shock. “Sylvie? As in Ninon’s lawyer Sylvie?”

“Yes!” she laughs, just as shocked. “Oh my god, you are real! I thought she made you up!”

“Wait, what is going on?” Aramis asks, looking from one to the other. Sylvie turns to him.

“I’ll tell you later,” Athos says. Explaining his arrangement with Ninon is far from appropriate dungeon topic.

“Right, not the time, not the place,” Sylvie says, reading his mind. She looks around the room, at the two couples. “I see the party is in full swing. I was also hoping I’d run into you,” she tells Aramis. “I have something I think you’ll like.”

Aramis’ eyes light up, but then he looks over at Athos and says: “I’d love to, but I’m Athos’ chaperone today.”

A warmth spreads through Athos’ chest when he realizes that Aramis is choosing him over what is obviously a good time with a beautiful woman.

Said beautiful woman looks to him with a small smile on her lips. “Athos is welcome to join.”

His mouth goes dry at that. He’s pretty sure he’s staring like an idiot.

Sylvie turns so that she’s fully facing him, and slowly lifts her hand, stopping just before her fingers reach his chest. “May I?”

Athos’ kneejerk reaction is to say yes, and he opens his mouth to do just that, but before he can, his mind rushes a series of memories at him - Aramis saying “I won’t ask, I’ll just do it” and Armand asking “And does he share?” at the forefront.

He knows what he wants. He turns to Aramis and raises his eyebrows in question.

It takes Aramis a few seconds to realize what Athos is asking, and when he does, his eyes go wide and his pupils blow up.

He says: “You may touch him.” He’s staring into Athos’ eyes when he says it. Athos’ breath catches.

Sylvie’s quick mind is following all this, and a tiny smile is playing on her lips. She half turns to Aramis, her hand still poised above Athos’ chest. “How should I touch him?”

Aramis’ eyes never leave Athos’. “Touch his lips.”

Sylvie’s hand moves up, and she brushes her thumb lightly over Athos’ bottom lip. Aramis’ eyes flick to it and he watches the movement like a hawk. Athos’ breathes out, and can feel the warm breath as it meets the barrier of Sylvie’s hand.

“I’m sorry, Sylvie, will you excuse us?” Aramis asks, reaching for Athos’ hand. “I need to talk to Athos.”

He drags him into the tiny space under the stairs just outside the dungeon. Athos doesn’t have the time to wonder if he did something wrong, because Aramis turns to him and says: “I need your verbal consent so I know I’m not reading this wrong. What do you want, Athos?”

Athos takes a deep breath through his nose. Speaking it out loud is so much harder than letting it happen. “I want you to take charge of me,” he says, and his voice comes out low and raspy. “Show me what you want me to do.”

Aramis takes a shaky breath in. His pupils are so large his eyes look black, and he has to control his breathing. “You will tell me if you’re uncomfortable at any point, understood?” he asks, and Athos nods. “Come with me.”

He leads him back inside, where he quickly tells Sylvie: “We’re on, just give us a moment, OK?” and then walks over to Julie and her partner, who are winding down their scene. “Hey, may I disturb you?”

“Hey, René!” Julie smiles sweetly when she looks up.

Aramis smiles at her and crouches to be on her level. “Hey, Julie. Would you mind if my friend joined in?”

She looks up at Athos, then twists to exchange a few looks with her partner. Athos feels surprisingly calm, but really, is it that surprising? This is exactly what he hoped for. None of the social interaction, just standing there and letting Aramis do everything for him. It is head-spinningly liberating.

“Sure, why not,” Julie says, then drops her chin down on her folded arms and sticks her arse up in the air, wagging it for good measure.

Aramis checks with the partner, then turns to Athos. “Athos, go look at Julie’s beautiful behind.”

Athos walks over to the said behind. As he suspected, she has one long line where the skin broke, but it isn’t bleeding, just very red and beginning to swell. The rest of her skin is bright red.

“Touch her,” Aramis commands, so Athos does. Her skin is hot to the touch. He traces the broken skin with his thumb, and she whimpers, but then she pushes her arse into his hand, so he continues, pressing gently.

“Paul, would you teach Athos some of your tricks?” Aramis asks the man, then turns back to Julie, caressing her face with one hand. “You OK with being our teaching aid?”

Julie groans. “God, that is hot. Yeah, go on.”

Paul shows him how to use a cane. Athos always thought canes were the harshest of the implements, so it surprises him just how light and gentle their taps can be, just as much as they can hit devastatingly hard and leave behind angry red welts. Paul tells him to aim at Julie’s thighs, just where they meet the arse, and he lands a blow that makes her scream and then moan. The sounds go straight into his groin, as does the sight of Aramis soothing the sub. When he looks to him again, he finds him watching, and that only stokes the fire in him.

“Are you alright?” he asks Julie, and she nods and giggles.

“You brought a good one,” she tells Aramis.

He smiles wickedly at her. “Yeah? Did he give you a good caning?”

“Mhm,” she nods. “Very good.”

“What do you say he kisses it better, hmm?”

Athos takes it as the order it is, puts the cane down, and bends to lavish small kisses along the line he’s just made. Julie reacts with wild giggling, trying to wriggle away, but Paul grabs her by the waist and pulls her into place. Her skin is hot under Athos’ lips, but otherwise smooth, even where her skin is broken. Her reactions are getting to his head, as is the scent of her arousal, so close to his face. He darts out a tongue, and licks the sweat off her skin, tasting faint hints of copper from the blood just under the surface.

“Oh god!” she moans at that. When he runs out of skin, he straightens up, looking straight at Aramis, who is watching him with rapt attention.

Julie twists to look at Paul. “That’s it, then, you’re getting a beard.”

Paul laughs, petting her head.

“Alright,” Aramis says, tearing his eyes away from Athos. “Thank you for letting us join in.”

“No, thank you, that was lovely!” Julie stretches out, then raises up on all fours.

“Do you want to thank Athos with a kiss?” Aramis asks her. Athos walks over to them, and when she says yes, Aramis moves aside for him.

Athos bends a little - even kneeling on the bench, Julie is too low for his tall frame. The kiss is not passionate, but it isn’t tame either, and they take their time before Athos straightens up again. “Thank you,” he says quietly, meaning it.

“You’re welcome,” she says just as quietly and with a small smile.

Sylvie is still standing near the door, her arms crossed at her chest. “That was a very nice scene,” she comments appreciatively. Aramis stops in front of her, towering over her.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice low and suggestive. “Want to recreate it with us?”

She returns his smile. “So eager to be in Julie’s place, aren’t you?”

Aramis grins, and Athos thinks he might be having a stroke. All his blood is definitely not in his brain.

“We’ll make it a bit more interesting,” Sylvie continues.

“Oh?”

“I brought rope.”

She goes to fetch her equipment, leaving Aramis and Athos alone. Well, not alone per se, since there are at least ten more people around them, but... alone in their little bubble, with nothing else to occupy them than each other.

Aramis turns to Athos, and takes his hands in his. “All good?”

Athos nods. “Very good.”

There is a little voice in the back of his head telling him he should be panicking over what comes next, but that voice is very easy to ignore right now. Lately, he’s always been worrying almost on Aramis’ behalf, but now, Aramis is the one pulling the shots, so whatever he tells him to do is what Aramis wants to happen.

Aramis says: “I am going to ask Sylvie to take over. Knowing her, I won’t be in any state to be taking care of you,” he gives him a little apologetic smile. “Is that OK with you?”

Athos’ stomach does a little somersault at the implied ownership of his person, that he could be just handed over to someone else. “Does she know you enough to direct me right?”

Aramis’ smile widens a little. “Yeah, don’t worry. But the rule stands, you tell her if she asks you for anything you don’t want to do. For any reason.”

Athos nods.

Sylvie walks back in, and she directs them to a corner of the room. “René, strip to your underwear and set up. I need to talk to Athos.”

She motions for him to follow her into the hall, and he marks how she didn’t ask, just took charge.

“So,” she smiles at him, and her smile is so bright it instantly puts him at ease (and, if he’s being honest with himself, it makes him a little star eyed). “Before we start, I need to know a few things. Do you always take a submissive role?”

He thinks back to his life, wondering if there is any “always” to speak of. He supposes there’s always been a hint of a dynamic between him and his partners, but it was always fluid. He doesn’t think he’s been inherently submissive in his sex life, but he did always like to be told what to do, even if what to do was to be dominant.

“No,” he says. “t just felt natural tonight.”

“What experiences do you have?”

“Not much. This is the first formal event I’ve ever been to. But... there is something I’ve always liked.”

When he doesn’t immediately tell her, she prompts him. “There’s very little that could shock me, Athos.”

He doesn’t know why it’s difficult to say. It’s too intimate, he told his therapist. It shows a glimpse into who he is, what he enjoys on a primal level, and what he is slightly ashamed of. But this is the place where people don’t shy away from their desires, no matter how much the outside world would shame them for them. He thinks back to Armand and his extreme sadism, and how no one shies away from him, how Aramis’ only reason for not playing with him are personal preferences.

So he tells her. “Choking.”

She tilts her head with an intrigued smile. “Interesting. How do you do it?”

“With my hands. It’s easier to control than rope. I block the carotid artery here,” he shows her on his own throat. “Apply just a little pressure on the windpipe to make it feel real.”

Her face turns appreciative. “You know your stuff. I can work with that.”

When she beckons him back into the dungeon, she throws over her shoulder: “You know, this is still the least surprising thing about you.”

He has to smile at that.

Aramis has laid a thick blanket, folded for extra padding, under one of the suspension points, and a neat pile of rope is laid on top of it, off centre, next to it safery shears. Aramis is wearing only his boxer briefs.

Athos stops and stares. He has seen Aramis like this before - they change at work together all the time. Granted, he has been trying to look away for as long as he’s known him, but the image is nothing new. Still, in this setting, with what they’ve done and are about to do, the sight hits him like a ton of bricks.

Aramis is gorgeous. He is all lean muscle, not too defined, not in the way some men now try to look like movie stars, obsessively chasing the muscles of a Greek statue - Aramis’ muscles have a purpose, they are working muscles, they are his tools.

“He’s really something, isn’t he?” Sylvie asks when she catches him looking. He tears his eyes from Aramis’ torso, and looks up at Sylvie, who is standing next to Aramis. She trails her hand over his arm, and Athos’ eyes glue to the movement. “And he knows it. He likes to be looked at.”

Her fingers trail up onto his shoulder, neck, and into his hair. Aramis is blushing, Athos realizes.

“Sylvie,” Aramis says, catching her hand. He turns to look her in the eyes. “You’ll take care of Athos, won’t you? While I’m... preoccupied.”

She blinks at him, mildly surprised.

Aramis continues in a subdued voice that Athos barely hears. “I trust you with him like I trust you with myself.”

She seems pleased at that, if a little shocked.

“Alright then,” she says. “I’ve never owned a millionaire before. What a role reversal.”

Aramis does a double take, staring at Athos like he grew another head. “What?!”

Athos, for his part, does his best not to burst out laughing. He is only guessing, but that might have been a slavery joke that his ancestors would have found incredibly scandalous.

“Later,” Sylvie tells Aramis.

“You can’t drop that on me and expect me to...”

He’s cut off by Sylvie’s hand in his hair, grabbing and violently jerking his head back. “I said: later.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Athos is no longer fighting laugh. He is admiring the column of Aramis’ throat, stretched to it’s limits, and his face, the way it twists in pained pleasure. When Sylvie releases him, his hair is a mess and he’s breathing has picked up a notch.

“Athos, come sit by the rope. You’ll hand me a new length when I’m out.” Sylvie bids him, and he complies immediately. He kneels down, his back ramrod straight, his eyes on the rope. It’s natural fibre, jute, and quite rough to the touch.

Sylvie guides Aramis to stand under the suspension point, then pushes him down to kneel, staying above him and guiding his arms above his head. She accepts her first piece of rope from Athos, shakes it out until the bundle unravels into a single length folded in half, and starts by looping it around Aramis’ wrists. She then lets him drop his arms, tied as they are, with a long length of rope trailing from the double column tie. She kneels behind him, taking another bundle.

“Sit on this side so you can watch,” she tells Athos, so he shifts on his knees to sit next to her. She loops the rope around Aramis’ torso with practiced ease, her movements dynamic, going from quick pulls to sensually sliding the ends across his skin. There’s only one knot at the start, and then everything else holds together through a series of loops, tension and friction. The rope creates patterns in Aramis’ skin, makes it bulge out, and Athos wishes he could see it from the front, as it is becoming obvious that the back is the working part, although Sylvie decorates it with a braided pattern to hide where the ropes criss-cross too much.

He realizes how quite they are. This might be the longest he’s heard Aramis not speak while awake in all the time he’s known him. He is quiet, his head is bent down, his breathing is even, his chest straining at the ropes with every inhale.

“It settles him,” Sylvie says quietly to Athos. “He likes the constriction. Likes to mentally map what I’m doing, imagine it in his head. What am I making, René?”

Aramis stirs a little at that. “The pentagram tie. Like the witch you are.”

She pulls at the rope to yank him off his balance. “Don’t be a brat!” But she’s smiling, and when he apologizes, Athos can hear that he’s smiling, too.

When the tie is done, Sylvie picks at the rope trailing from Aramis’ wrists, and stands up. “Athos, lift me up,” she commands. He gets to his feet, hugs her around the waist, and lifts her until she can reach the hook in the ceiling through which she loops the rope. It pulls Aramis’ hands up. “OK, down.”

She hands him the tail end of the rope. “Slowly pull until I tell you to stop.”

Athos follows the order, pulling down, making Aramis get to his feet and stretch up. Sylvie only stops him when all that’s supporting Aramis’ weight are his tiptoes, and his body is stretched almost painfully. Aramis is gasping for breath a little.

“I’m being mean, aren’t I?” Sylvie asks when she ties the rope so that Aramis can’t slip back down. She walks over to his front. “You shouldn’t have called me a witch.”

“I apologized!” Aramis argues. “And it was meant as a compliment.”

“Hm,” she tucks two of her fingers under the rope on his chest and pulls, making him sway. “Apologies can’t take back actions or words. I don’t like being called a witch. I do like the sight of you like this, though. What do you think, Athos?”

Athos walks over to his front to finally see Aramis in all his glory. The harness frames his chest, making it bulge out, and above it the ropes make the shape of a pentagram. The cross he wears on his neck is trapped in the middle of it.

“He looks obscene,” he says. “And good.”

And obscenely good, but he’s not far enough to say that. He wants to bite his pecs.

“Since you did apologize, you can choose,” Sylvie says. “Flogger or a whip?”

Aramis licks his lips. “Flogger, please.”

“You’ve found your manners?” she laughs. “Too late, darling. Too late.”

She goes to take the biggest flogger f the wall.

“Come here, Athos!” she calls him over, and hands her the flogger. “Start slow and light, I’ll tell you when to increase. Focus on the back, be careful not to hit his head.”

Getting the hang of the flogger isn’t easy - it is large and intimidating, but if he doesn’t give it enough force, its tails stay limp and ineffective. Sylvie teaches him where to stand, what position to take, and how to hit lightly by being so far the tails barely graze skin. Once he’s confident enough, she allows him to hit harder, cover broader stretches of skin, painting it red where it’s bulging from the ropes. He catches Aramis’ shoulders and arms as well, before Sylvie directs him to his arse and thighs, avoiding his lower back and kidneys.

After a very long time, she stops him. “How are you feeling, René?”

Aramis is panting, his muscles tense and trembling, his skin angry red. “Green.”

“Good. Time for my surprise.”

She pulls something out of her pocket. It’s a little pinwheel, its head covered in spikes.

“Athos, go to his front,” she asks him gently. “If he tries to move away, hold him in place.”

Athos does as commanded. Aramis looks equal parts concerned, intrigued, and aroused. Actually, stratch that - Athos’ can’t help it but look him over, and he can see evidence that Aramis is more than a little aroused. The bulge in his underwear definitely didn’t look that big before.

The moment the pinwheel touches Aramis’ skin is obvious. He sucks in a startled breath and immediately tries to wriggle away. Athos catches him around the waist, careful not to let their groins meet - they would be definitely breaking the venue’s rules about sexual contact - and steadies him. Sylvie runs the pinwheel down his back, and Aramis groans. “Fuck, that’s good!”

Athos absolutely agrees. He’s now got an armful of an almost naked, obviously aroused, sweaty Aramis, and he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more than to lose himself in this moment. He would be hard just from Aramis’ scent alone; there are waves of faint pleasure coursing through his veins, as if the air between them was enough to stimulate him. He’s never felt like this in his entire life.

At some point, Aramis lets his weight rest on him, giving some reprieve to his tired muscles, but Sylvie notices almost immediately. “I said hold in place, not support. Don’t make me punish you, Athos.”

Athos reluctantly steps away, just close enough to keep Aramis steady. It gives him perfect view of Aramis’ entire front. He still tries to jerk away on impulse when the sensation of the pinwheel’s spikes on his overheated, abused skin becomes too much. Athos notices that his thighs and ribs are especially sensitive.

He suddenly gets the mental image of being on his knees with Aramis’ cock down his throat while Sylvi works him over, every jerk away pushing him into Athos’ mouth. It makes his blood burn in his veins and his cock twitch.

Sylvie finally gives Aramis a reprieve. She strokes her palms over Aramis’ back and down his thighs, and Aramis breathes out a sigh of relief.

“You’re doing very well,” Sylvie tells him. “You too, Athos. I think you deserve a reward.”

Athos isn’t sure which one of them is getting the reward until Sylvie raises her hand and brushes Aramis’ throat. His focus narrows down to that stretch of skin, the way the tendons are so pronounced like this, when Aramis is stretched out and tense, the way his pulse hammers almost visibly. He raises his right hand and gently brushes it. Aramis’ Adam's apple bobs up and down on a swallow.

Sylvie is watching his every move as he find Aramis’ pulse on each side of his throat, just under the jaw. He appreciates that she’s looking out for Aramis’ safety, but this is something he could never forget to do right. He presses his thumb and forefinger on the two spots where Aramis’ carotid artery pulses under his skin, and covers his windpipe with his palm, applying gentle pressure there to give Aramis the feeling of being short on breath. The real strangling, however, happens in the fingers. As he cuts off the main supply of blood into the brain, he deprives it of oxygen, causing Aramis to feel lightheaded.

Aramis reacts with a shocked, choked off moan, and his eyes snap open to stare at Athos. Stretched up like this, he’s almost taller than Athos, but their eyes are still level.

Athos relaxes his hand after fifteen seconds, before Sylvie has the chance to tell him to. He knows that Aramis can take more, but it’s not about pushing him quickly too far, it’s about building the feeling up. Aramis takes a few deep breaths as his brain floods with oxygen and endorphins, and then Athos does it again.

Aramis’ face grows red, and the veins in his forehead bulge, but he is no less attractive this way to Athos. In Athos’ mind, there is nothing unattractive about another human being trusting him enough to let him play with his life. To give themselves to him completely, at their most vulnerable.

This is why he said it’s too intimate. This is why he is ashamed of this part of him, why he doesn’t want people to witness it. Because deep down, he doesn’t know what it means that he wants to hold someone’s life in his hands.

But now, he is letting himself enjoy this moment. Aramis is not only letting him, he is craving it, pushing his throat into Athos’ palm with frenzied urgency any time Athos lets him breathe. When Athos looks down, he sees a wet spot on Aramis’ boxer briefs. He licks his lips at the sight of the fabric clinging to Aramis’ length, showing clear contours of his cock.

He closes his hand for the final time. Aramis’ is gone - his hips start to move with no clear connection with his higher brain functions, his eyes are rolling back in his head. Athos is so close to him he can feel his panting breaths on his lips, so tempted to kiss him, but settling on sharing his exhales.

“Athos...” Aramis whispers. Athos shudders, and he lets go.

Aramis slumps in his bonds. Athos catches his entire weight on his shoulders, hugging him around the torso, lifting him up. Sylvie doesn’t say a thing to reprimand him. She is busy untying Aramis and slowly letting his arms down. Together, they easy him to the ground, on the soft blanket, where he lies with his head in Athos’ lap, completely boneless. Sylvie unties his wrists, then the chest harness, massaging every muscle on the way, rubbing blood into his aching limbs.

Athos cradles Aramis like a baby bird, all thoughts of arousal forgotten. He is stunned beyond words. His heart is so full it could burst. Aramis is breathing steadily, conscious but in a trans-like state, only responding with twitches of his fingers or humming, but even that takes him several moments. Athos would be a little afraid he caused him brain damage, but Sylvie looks very proud of them, so he forgets to worry.

When Sylvie is done bundling up her rope, she kneels at their side and puts an affectionate kiss on both their cheeks. She folds up ends of the blanket over Aramis, swaddling him like a baby, and Aramis hums gratefully.

“He’ll need a moment. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this far gone.”

Athos nods his understanding. There are fewer people in the dungeon now, and some of the bystanders come to compliment them on their scene. Athos wishes they did it after, when Aramis was alert enough to appreciate it, seeing as he would bask in their appreciation the most.

When Aramis does come to himself, he stretches like a cat, blinking up at them. “That was the best not-sex I’ve had in my entire life. Hell, that was better than any sex I’ve had in my entire life.”

Athos burns at that. He is abruptly reminded of his arousal, which has waned, but couldn’t completely go away, seeing as he is still breathing the potent mix of their sweat, with a dash of Sylvie, who smells delightful herself.

“Did everyone have a good time?” Aramis asks. They both nod. “Good. I wish this could go on forever, but as it can’t, why don’t we do it again sometime?”

Sylvie agrees easily, and Athos finds himself nodding as well. He did it. He was intimate with Aramis on a level he never even dreamed of, and the world didn’t come to an end. They didn’t miraculously tip into a committed relationship. They are just as they were two hours ago, the same people, only a little bit more acquainted with each other’s kinks.

And then, Sylvie says: “Why don’t you thank Athos with a kiss, René?”

Chapter Text

”Why don’t you thank Athos with a kiss, René?” Sylvie parrots his words to Julie to Aramis with a knowing smile

Aramis is not thinking completely straight yet. He has just been through the most intense scene of his life, and that says a lot, because he’s been to some very interesting sex parties.

But kissing Athos registers as something he should be wary of. Something that could tip them over the invisible line between friendship and something more.

Which is ridiculous, really. He’s not a fictional whore, refusing to kiss on the mouth (complete myth, by the way, and something only pearl clutching prudes would believe). They’ve just done something so intimate Aramis might never be able to think about it without getting hard, so deeply personal that it makes his heart feel as raw as his back and thighs are. What is a kiss compared to that?

And so he sits up, noting the hot tingling in his back and thighs, and reaches out for Athos. He has seen Athos kiss Julie, knows that the man kisses as if he’s breathing for the first time after being buried alive, and Aramis is sure he couldn’t withstand that level of passion and not try to climb him like a tree right on the spot. So he makes the kiss slow and chaste, just a brush of lips.

He has to forcibly tear himself away, already missing the taste of Athos’ lips. Athos is looking at him with those big eyes of his, in this light dark grey, and Aramis needs to distract himself, so he turns to kiss Sylvie, too. She goes willingly, her lips softer, her kiss familiar. When Sylvie turns to kiss Athos, Aramis stares, transfixed, not knowing if his stomach is twisting in jealousy or in desire. Probably both.

He pulls the blanket tighter into his lap, knowing that he’s not fooling anyone. God, now he wishes he kissed Sylvie after Athos, so he could feel him on her lips.

He needs to cool off. Literally. He lies down on the cold hard floor, almost yelping at how it feels against his hurt skin.

“That floor is so dirty, René,” Sylvie sighs, but he doesn’t care, it’s helping him think clearly. It’s also making him shiver. Now that the adrenaline is leaving his body, he is getting cold. Somehow, the outer temperature is not cooling down the boiling in his loins, however, so he stays like that, shivering and horny, hoping God is looking away.

His t-shirt hits him in the face. He pulls it down, and looks at who threw it, finding it was Athos, looking decidedly bemused. Sylvie is gone. “Hey, you’re your own man again,” Aramis smiles.

“Yeah, well, you’re broken and Sylvie’s tired, I figured it was time.”

“I’m not broken,” Aramis scoffs.

“Really?” Athos raises his eyebrows in challenge. “What’s seven plus four?”

Aramis stares at him for an embarrassingly long while, trying to process the words. Fuck, he forgot what numbers are for.

“Ok, fine,” he concedes. “I’ll need some time to gather my... you know.”

Mental... something...

“Did I permanently damage your brain?” Athos nudges his temple with his knickles, making Aramis’ head roll to the side.

Aramis swats him away. “If that’s the price I have to pay for what you did... then you can make me braindead.”

Aramis has been choked before during sex, of course he has, but he doesn’t think anyone has ever done it with the amount of expertise Athos showed. Usually, the lack of oxygen would heighten his pleasure. This was the first time that it created it.

He was flying high as a kite with Athos’ hands on him, completely lost to the world, aware only of every single breath Athos took, feeling the molecules of air move between them, drinking in his exhales. Each time Athos let him breathe, he breathed in more of his scent, and then he was locked in his head with its echo while his consciousness was slowly falling to pieces.

“You have no self preservation skills whatsoever,” Athos shakes his head in amusement.

Aramis sits up to pull his t-shirt on, now really shivering. Sylvie comes back with a bottle of water that they gratefully both drink from. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Cold and amazing,” he smiles at her. “Thank you, that was amazing.”

“It was group effort,” she returns his smile in that bright way of hers that makes him like her so much. “Newbie here is very talented.”

“Who would’ve thought,” Aramis shakes his head in awe. “I had to drag him here, you know?”

“Well, thank you for doing that,” Sylvie leans back on her arms, looking at Athos with open appreciation. “I enjoyed his imput immensely.”

Athos blushes when he realizes that Sylvie is, well... interested. Aramis is not surprised in the least that she would be - who wouldn’t? It still punches the air out of him a little.

“Hey,” he remembers something. “What were you saying about Athos being a millionaire?”

Sylvie turns to him with an incredulous expression. “How do you not know this? He’s Olivier de la Fere.”

“I know his name,” Aramis bristles. “Although it would be fucked up if he was here incognito and you just outed him.”

She looks appropriately scolded, so Athos takes over, probably to get things over with as quickly as possible. “I told you I was Anne’s mark. When my parents died, I became the heir to a large estate. After the humanitarian work I did in the army, I didn’t want the money, but of course Anne and Thomas convinced me otherwise. After... I didn’t know how to use it for good, but Ninon did. So I named her the executor.”

“Ninon is a philanthropist with her own considerable wealth,” Sylvie adds. “She uses Athos’ house as a boarding school for victims of sex trafficking. That way they have a place to live and gain skills for further life.”

Aramis stares at Athos. “You just gave away your inheritence?”

“Not really. It’s still technically mine, Ninon is just much better at managing it. She has been making very good investments.”

“Actually, we have been making very good investments,” Sylvie corrects him. “I’m Ninon’s lawyer,” she reminds them. “I honestly thought Athos was a feel-good story to tell the girls to make them believe good men exist. No offense.”

“None taken,” Aramis says absentmindedly.

“I thought you knew,” Athos says. “You commented on my name the first day we met.”

“Well, yes, because it sounds posh. Anyone who is a de la something is either a pretentious poser or some sort of nobility, but nobility in France doesn’t mean shit anymore, does it? I just thought you went to private schools and stuff. You never seemed rich. Well, not that rich.”

Of course he noted that Athos’ apartment would be at least twice as expensive to rent as his, and there were small clues - Athos never seemed to care about expenses the way Aramis had to. But anyone would class it as a giant leap of imagination to go from that to Athos being a millionaire aristocrat who lets a strange philanthropist house victims of human trafficking in his family mansion while living in a one bedroom apartment and working as a bodyguard.

Fuck. Aramis did not need to fall in love with him even more than he already was.

Unfortunately, Sylvie is looking at Athos with much the same feeling Aramis is feeling. Athos is just looking... uncomfortable.

Francois comes to remind them that they’re closing in ten minutes. The dungeon has been quite empty apart from them for quite some time, Aramis has no idea if the last people left while he was tied up or after. They quickly pack Sylvie’s things, Aramis dresses himself (the wet spot in his underwear grows cold and very unpleasant when exposed to air, but it does keep his erection down, so that’s a win). When they pay and walk outside, Sylvie kisses them both again before walking away with her usual enigmatic smile.

“Do you want a ride home?” Athos asks. He’s wearing his biker jacket again, the one that always infuses his skin with the smell of leather, and Aramis is wearing his coat, but it is still really cold, January being the undisputed king of winter suffering. It is also almost midnight, so any public transport Aramis takes will take twice as long to reach home, and he’ll have to walk to and from the stops. On the other hand, he is still strung up from the scene, feeling quite vulnerable, and a hair’s breath away from an unwanted erection at any given moment.

He does have the coat to cover it up, he supposes. And he can survive the few steps from the bike to his flat before he can finally take care of things.

“Fine,” he agrees at last. Athos pulls a balaklava from his jacket pocket, and Aramis’ heart gives a little flutter at the fact that Athos keeps one for him in this cold weather.

The ride home takes only about ten minutes, but that’s plenty enough to get Aramis into a state of... let’s call it excitement. When the bike slows down to a stop and the engine cuts off, he can’t make himself get up, instead hugging Athos harder and bringing his knees up, pressing them into Athos’ thighs.

Athos takes his helmet off, his leather clad shoulders moving around where Aramis is pressing his face into his back. “Aramis?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you back in subspace?”

“Not completely. I’m just tired. And horny.” And unfulfilled, and in love with you.

Athos huffs  what Aramis can only guess is a laugh. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”

Athos coaxes him off the bike and into his building. Aramis fumbles with the keys until Athos takes them from him and unlocks the door, pushing it open. Aramis doesn’t let go of him when he’s inside the flat, and Athos lets him cling for a while. Aramis is cold - he pulls down Athos’ zip and crawls inside his open jacket like a little marsupial baby, seeking out his warmth.

“Aramis, you’re not thinking straight,” Athos says, his deep voice quiet.

“Not even a little bit,” Aramis agrees. There’s a joke there about doing anything straight, but it’s as tired as him, not worth the effort.

Athos sighs, then reaches for Aramis’ coat. Aramis shudders as Athos slowly undresses him, first the coat, then his sweater, his t-shirt.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Athos warns him when he reaches for his fly.

“I’d never,” Aramis grins. Truth be told, he is beyond ideas. All he can do now is try to keep a hold of himself long enough to not dry hump Athos like an unruly puppy.

Once he’s only in his boxer briefs again, Athos guides him to his tiny bedroom and straight into bed.

“Don’t leave,” Aramis grabs him by the jacket when Athos tries to pull away.

Athos sighs. “Wait, I’ll give it back to you.”

Aramis lets go on impulse, even though he has no idea what Athos means. The other man takes off his big heavy jacket, and covers Aramis with it like a blanket. Aramis curls up on his side, clutching it to his face.

“Good night, Aramis,” Athos brushes his hair out of his face, and bends to kiss his forehead. Then he’s gone.

Aramis waits until he hears the front door close, then gives into the temptation. He clumsily pulls his underwear down, finally freeing his cock, and ruts into the velvety lining of the jacket. It takes less than a minute until he’s cumming, repeating Athos’ name like a mantra. He’s asleep even before the last echoes of the orgasm have died out.

The text comes at four in the afternoon on the next day.

Athos is sitting in the parlour outside the Queen’s chambers while she’s having a dress fitting inside. She has no need for him, inside or outside, since the only thing posing any threat to her are currently pins, but Porthos is with the King at the opening of something that required bow cutting, and if Athos is left completely alone and without purpose, his mind immediately goes to the previous night.

He can’t stop playing the entire evening over and over in his mind. Julie’s pale curves and red ass occupy a considerable part of his brain, the way she laughed the harder the pain got, the way she looked up at him, how she kissed him, how easy and familiar she and Aramis looked together. He also thinks of Sylvie, of her playful smile, her confidence, her passion, the way she knew what Aramis liked, how his mind worked, how she played him like a fine instrument.

Everything comes back to Aramis. Aramis, who was so tired at the end of it all that he basically crawled into Athos’ clothes. Athos can still feel the echo of his moustache tickling the skin of his throat, his hot breath brushing his clavicle. If Aramis was any more aware of what was going on, Athos doubts he could have resisted him. As it was, it felt wrong to give in.

His phone vibrates, and he takes it out of his inner suit pocket to find a new message from an unknown number.

?: Hey, this is Sylvie. René gave me your number, hope that’s OK.

Athos stares at the message. If Sylvie wanted his number, she could’ve asked Ninon. Granted, Ninon might not have given it without an explanation, but still. Sylvie asked Aramis, and Aramis gave it to her.

Athos: Hi Sylvie, that’s fine.

Sylvie: I really enjoyed yesterday. Would you have coffee with me sometimes?

He stares at his phone in mild panic. Sylvie’s interest didn’t bother him yesterday when he felt like they were in it together with Aramis, but now, with the implication of just the two of them going out, his discomfort roars its ugly head again. He doesn’t know what to reply. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, or that he wants to flat out refuse, but he know he can’t give her what he thinks she wants from him.

Finally, because he doesn’t want to be rude, he answers:

Athos: Can I think about it?

Sylvie: Of course, no pressure. Aramis mentioned you might be hard to get.

Athos thinks about it the whole rest of his shift. At five, he and Porthos switch over with d’Artagnan and Treville instead of d’Artagnan and Aramis - the rotation is changing again, so Aramis gets two evenings off in a row, a rare luxury.

He texts him once he gets home.

Athos: Why did you give Sylvie my number?

Aramis: Because she asked for it.

Aramis: Are you going out with her?

Athos: I don’t know.

Aramis: I thought you liked her.

Athos: I liked her well enough.

Athos: Why do you want me to go out with her?

Aramis: Because I don’t want you to be alone forever.

Aramis: I know you enjoyed yourself yesterday.

Athos: That wasn’t down to Sylvie. That was down to you.

Athos is pacing up and down his kitchen. The microwave keeps beeping at him every once in a while, reminding him that his sad supermarket lasagna is ready, but he ignores it every time. He shouldn’t have said it. He hesitated to, but the way Aramis seemed to want him to be with anyone but him made anger flare up in his gut, and he thought, fuck it, and just pressed send, come what may.

What came was... nothing. No response. He could lie to himself, tell himself that something pulled Aramis away, that he will respond when he can, but he’s not optimistic enough by nature to believe that. He fucked up, and now there’s no taking it back.

He imagines being friends with someone who has feelings for him that he doesn’t return. It sounds dreadful. The pressure, the constant knowledge that another person wants you more than you want them, would make him not want to be around that person anymore. Now he’s made himself to be that person, he has admitted to wanting Aramis more than anyone else in that dungeon, and Aramis is pulling away.

He finally caves in to the beeping of the microwave. The lasagne has gone almost cold again, but he eats it anyway, barely tasting it. He hates how much he cares. This is why he doesn’t do relationships anymore - they hurt.

He thinks back to the past several months, to everything Aramis did and meant to him, and wonders if the pain is worth it.

Maybe, he thinks. Probably. But not right now. Right now, it just hurts to imagine his future without all that in it.

There is a knocking at his door that startles him out of his gloomy thoughts. He’s not expecting anyone, but he could use a distraction, so he goes to open it.

Aramis is standing on his doorstep, holding his jacket.

“I came to return your jacket,” he says with his usual smoothness, but Athos knows him enough now to call his bluff. He’s nervous.

Athos is nervous himself, so he just takes the jacket from him and moves aside to let him in. “You could’ve left it at work.”

“Yes, well... I didn’t know if you had another one.”

“I do.”

His other jacket is significantly lighter, meant for hot weather, but he survived his ride to and from work today. He’s not sure he’ll be able to wear this one before airing it out to get rid of Aramis’ smell, anyway.

Aramis saunters into his kitchen, running his hand through his hair in his usual nervous tick, his back to him.

“How is your back?” Athos asks for a lack of a better topic.

Aramis turns to him, his hand dropping to his shoulder, which Athos remembers shining red from the flogger. “A little sore, nothing dramatic. Sylvie went light on me.”

Athos hangs the jacket over a chair, like he usually does when he gets home. He’s trying to decide whether to mention the message or just pretend it never happened, when Aramis approaches him and says: “I have a proposition for you.”

Athos gives him a look that says: I’m listening.

“You can say no, of course,” Aramis prefaces. “It’s just an idea. But it feels like something you might be interested, and I would definitely be interested, so if you’re on board...”

Athos reaches out to touch him on the arm. “Aramis.”

Aramis stops his rambling, takes a deep breath, and asks: “Would you like to be friends with benefits?”

Athos stares (he feels like he does that a lot around Aramis). “Friends with benefits?” he parrots.

Aramis, a little emboldened now that he’s said it, starts to trace the contours of Athos’ cable knit sweater. “Be how we are now, just with sex. We could stop with all the dancing and avoiding what is obvious. I mean, we are genetically predisposed to want to have sex with each other, so why don’t we? As friends. No commitment, no relationship, nothing scary or formal, just... fun.”

Athos mulls it over. In a way, it would be the perfect solution. For Aramis, that is. For himself... he knows he would find it difficult to have so much of Aramis and not have all of him. To have him in his bed and know that someone else can have him, too. But it is the best he can get, and it would definitely ease up a lot of the tension that exists between them. Tension that is crackling even now, awakened by Aramis’ deft fingers on his chest.

“You’re not playing fair,” Athos accuses without a bite.

Aramis seems to take that to heart a bit too much. He drops his hands and starts pulling away, but Athos grabs him by the collar of his coat and hauls him in for a hungry kiss.

He kisses him the way he wanted to kiss him yesterday, when he had to hold back. There will be no holding back anymore - not in this. He licks into Aramis’ mouth, swallowing his gasp of surprise, then his groan of arousal. His moustache and beard prickle him, but he keeps forgetting to mind, too preoccupied with the taste of his mouth and the way their tongues slide against one another.

Aramis pulls away a little to ask: “Is that a yes?”

Athos presses him against the kitchen island. “Yes, Aramis, I want to fuck you,” he growls into his mouth. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Fuck!” Aramis exclaims with feeling, and throws himself into another kiss. His hands are suddenly at Athos’ waist, pulling at his belt, opening his fly. Athos takes off his own sweater, then pushes Aramis’ coat off his shoulders and yanks at his sweater, quickly pulling is over his head and arms so Aramis can return to Athos’ trousers.

Only when both his sweater and t-shirt are off does he get a proper look at Aramis’ throat, which is marred in bruises from Athos’ hand.

He doesn’t know if the sound he makes at the sight is in any way articulate, but Aramis seems to understand him well. He throws his head back, exposing his throat as much as he can, and pulls Athos closer. Athos goes willingly, mouthing all along the bruises, licking and biting and sucking, listening to Aramis’ gasps of pleasure.

They never manage to properly undress the first time. When Aramis musters enough brainpower to open both their trousers and pulls down their underwear, they both reach for the other one’s cock, but there isn’t enough space, not if they insist on clinging to each other, which they do. Aramis wraps his hand around them both, grabbing Athos by the arse with the other and pulling him even closer. The slide of their lengths against each other is a completely new feeling for Athos, and it takes some time for him to understand the rhythm of things, but once he does, it doesn’t take long for him to get to the edge. The novelty of feeling another cock against his, of having another man’s fist wrapped around him, coupled with the knowledge that that man is Aramis, is a potent mix. He bends his head lower, biting Aramis’ pecks like he wanted to the night before, then bites his nipple, making him moan. His hands are on Aramis’ back, scratching down the sensitive skin, making him buck into his mouth.

The freedom of finally smelling their scents mixed together during sex is almost as intoxicating as the scent itself. Athos wants to lick it off Aramis’ skin, get drunk on it, bottle it like the finest whisky. He wraps his right hand around Aramis’ throat - loosely, just a shadow of yesterday’s act - and Aramis’ hips buck up, throwing them off rhythm. He reaches down and takes over, holding thier cocks, standing still and letting Aramis set his own rhythm. It takes effort not to move into the thrusts, but he wants to see him lose himself in the pleasure without being interrupted by fumbling. He doesn’t tighten his hold on his throat enough to cut off air or blood, wanting to give him time to recover, so when Aramis tries to push into his hold, he pushes him back by pressing his elbow into his chest.

“Be good,” he says into Aramis’ mouth. They’re not kissing, but he’s so close he’s inhaling Aramis’ exhales. Aramis whines, but he stays put, only moving his lower half, fucking up into Athos’ fist, his cock sliding against Athos’ cock, slicking it up with his precum.

“That’s it,” Athos whispers encouragingly when Aramis’ breaths start coming out in frantic gasps. He shifts his grip to his neck and pulls him in for a filthy kiss that’s half Aramis moaning and half Athos biting at Aramis’ lips.

When Aramis cums, it’s all over them - drops land on his own stomach, on Athos’ right hip, and then trickles over their cocks, adding more lubrication. Aramis keeps thrusting long after his cock stops spurting, into what must be oversensitivity. When he finally pulls away, he wraps his hand around Athos’ cock and starts a quick, relentless rhythm, whispering filth into Athos’ ear the whole time.

“I’ve thought about this a thousand times,” he says, his lips brushing against Athos’ ear. “I’ve thought about all the things I want you to do to me, and now I can have them all. I want you to fuck me, I want you to suck my cock and I want to choke on yours, I want your cum all over me so you can smell yourself in my skin. I’ve thought about you fucking me on my bed, on your bed, on the fucking King’s bed, I’ve thought about you fucking me in front of a whole fucking audience...”

Athos cums with his nose buried in Aramis’ hair and his teeth in Aramis’ throat.

They stand there for a while, just breathing each other in, recovering from their orgasms. Then, they start to laugh - Athos has no idea who starts first, but they are both letting out the tension they have felt for the last half a year. Finally, he kisses Aramis, calmer now, and asks: “Do friends with benefits cuddle each other in bed?”

Aramis gives him a huge grin. “Absolutely.”

They take off their trousers and underwear before stumbling into the bedroom. Athos can’t stop touching Aramis everywhere, spurred on by a primal need. Their cum has mixed and dried on their skin, and neither of them can get enough of the way it smells. Athos doubts his refractory period has been this short even in his teens - it can’t even have been ten minutes before he’s hard again, and Aramis - who is currently nosing along it and kissing the dip where his thigh and groin meet - wastes no time sucking him down like he promised. He’s a pro - he manages to deep throat him after just a few tries, and the feeling of Aramis’ beard scratching the sensitive skin around his dick and balls is unlike anything Athos has ever felt. He can’t take it for long, has to guide Aramis back a little, and then fucks his mouth in quick, shallow thrusts, having no patience for anything slower.

When Aramis kisses him afterwards, his mouth tastes of cum, and Athos is fucking drunk on it. He presses Aramis down on the bed and returns the favour - more slowly and hesitantly, taking his time, learning him, learning what it’s like to have a cock in his mouth. Aramis teaches him how to touch him, where to lick, where to suck, how to compensate for having the gag reflex of a normal human being instead of a porn star. A thought flashes through his mind, very briefly and faintly, that maybe it isn’t the best idea to swallow the cum of a man with such a varied sex life, but that thought is in the part of his brain that’s on the back burner right now. He learns that he rather likes the taste of cum.

He also learns that the back of Aramis’ knees is extremely sensitive to touch, and Aramis has to be held down if he touches it. This, naturally, results in him sitting on Aramis’ back, with his legs pinning down Aramis’ arms and his hands pinning down Aramis’ legs, licking that sensitive spot until Aramis begs him him to fuck him. Athos doesn’t think he has it in him to open that door into sodomy just yet, so he hauls Aramis up into a kneeling position, embraces him from behind with one hand on his dick and the other on his nipples, and politely asks him to cum on his sheets so that he’ll get to smell him when he’s not there. Aramis obliges him.

It’s almost ten when Aramis regretfully parts from him. Athos wishes he could ask him to stay, but friends don’t sleep wrapped up in one another, so he doesn’t protest.

He doesn’t have a reason to put his jacket on until he’s heading to work the next day for his night shift with Athos. He had to open all the windows to get rid of most of the smell of their almost coupling, otherwise he’d never get anything done and would have just jerked off until his dick was raw. That’s the only reason he can catch the faint whiff coming off of his jacket. He looks closer and finds...

Athos: Did you jerk off on my jacket?!

Aramis: Oh yeah, sorry about that.

Aramis: In my defence, I was tired and horny and you wrapped me up in it after not-fucking my brains out, you must have known there was zero chance I wouldn’t.

Athos sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. This man is going to be his death.

Chapter Text

When Athos arrives at Versailles, Aramis and Marsac are already dressed in civvies and Porthos in his uniform. Aramis is wearing a blue scarf, undoubtedly to hide the bruises that are still blooming all over his throat.

“Sorry, there was traffic,” he says in lieu of a greeting. He takes off his jacket and shoves it into his locker while shooting Aramis a meaningful glare. Aramis just grins and wags his eyebrows at him. Athos wants to strangle him, which naturally leads to many other ideas, and they must be showing on his face, because Aramis’ grin morphs into something hungry.

“Are you two fucking?” Marsac asks, very effectively yanking them back to Earth. Aramis turns to answer, then frowns and looks at Athos, as if searching for permission to tell them. Athos sighs.

“Wait, what?!” Porthos is looking from one to the other, reading them like open books. “Fucking finally!”

Athos blinks, and even Aramis looks surprised.

“You took your sweet time!” Porthos continues, coming over to clap them on the shoulders. “I’ve never seen two people want to have sex more than you two, it was tragic. Now we can finally stop pretending you’re not in love with each other and move on!”

Athos almost swallows his tongue. Aramis is as red as a beat. Athos didn’t even know Aramis could get red.

“We’re still just friends, Porthos,” Aramis is the first to protest. “Not in love, just letting off some steam.”

Porthos’ face disappeares comically fast. He stares at them as if they told him they killed Santa. “For fucks sake!” he swears and storms off.

Marsac just shakes his head. “You two are like a Jane Austin novel if she lived in a brothel.”

Then he’s off, too, leaving them alone. They don’t even look at each other, just say their goodbyes before Aramis scatters off.

Porthos doesn’t mention it again. Athos tries not to think about it, because he doesn’t know how to get past Porthos accusing them of being in love. He must have been mistaking their lust for feelings. It’s not like Porthos is the best authority on relationships.

“I met someone,” Porthos says during their evening sweep, proving him wrong.

“Really? Who is she?”

“Her name is Elodie,” a tender smile comes over Porthos’ face. “Her soulmate died when she was pregnant,” the smile grows sad.

“A widow with a baby?” Athos has never thought about Porthos’ love life in much detail - Porthos dates rarely despite having chemistry with so many people. That’s because Porthos falls easily, and he loves fiercely. In a world where most people are waiting to meet a potential soulmate one day, his heart makes him vulnerable. To start a relationship with a woman whose soulmate was already dead... in a way, Porthos could be doing it in an attempt to save himself from further heartbreak at the heart of a woman who would leave him for her soulmate. Problem is, this Elodie could still find another soulmate. But to take on someone else’s baby... “You must really like her.”

“I do,” Porthos looks him in the eyes as he says it and Athos believes him. “She is brave, and smart, and pretty... and the baby doesn’t cry much.”

Athos is startled into a laugh. Trust Porthos to put things bluntly.

“I’m happy for you. Do I get to meet her?”

“Of course!” Porthos pats him on the back, almost knocking the air out of him. “We should all go out one day, what do you say? Us four and our partners. Well. Partners and ’friends’, right?”

Athos gives him a look.

“Seriously, though,” Porthos stops and Athos follows suit, seeing that there’s no way out of the conversation. “Should I avoid the topic because of your... panic management issue?”

Athos blinks a few times at the choice of words, then says: “No, I don’t think so.”

“Great, because I have thoughts. Why the fuck are you two not together?”

Athos sighs, his eyes drifting away. “We agreed. From the beginning, we said that we wouldn’t date just because of chemistry.”

“Yes, at the beginning,” Porthos agrees impatiently. “More than half a year ago, when you first met and knew nothing about each other. Don’t tell me you still don’t want him! Hell, if I was even a little bit gay, I might want to date Aramis!”

Athos raises his eyebrows. “Not me?”

Porthos punches him in the arm. “Of course you, too. Stop avoiding the question!”

Athos gives him a little smile that melts away the second the thinks about the reasons why he can’t be with Aramis. “You’re forgetting that it’s mutual. It doesn’t matter if I want to be with him, he also needs to want to be with me.”

“And you don’t think he does?”

Athos shrugs, but in a way that clearly conveys that no, he does not.

“Rubbish! That man adores you. If you can’t see that, you’re blind as a bat.”

No, Athos can’t see that, but that’s beside the point. “He deserves more than me. You went with him too, you must have seen him,” Athos thinks back to the BDSM club, to the way Aramis was open and in his element, familiar with everyone around him, free to do whatever he wanted with whomever wanted him. “He loves everyone, he doesn’t want to settle for just one person. And I don’t want to force him to.”

Porthos makes a dismissive sound. “That’s just sex.”

“It’s not just sex. It’s much more to him. He connects to people in a way I never could.” And when he does it, he’s beautiful. His eyes shine, his smile is infectious, he gives himself into pleasure, into sensation, into pain. He lives fully. Why would he want to chain himself to a man who’s barely surviving?

“So you’ll live on the scraps of affection he gives you on the side?”

Athos looks him in the eyes. “Yes.” Then he marches off, effectively ending the debate.

He tries not to think about it, but the words “scraps of affection” keep finding its way into every corner of his mind he tries to retreat into. It definitely didn’t feel like scraps of affection the night before, or at the club. Whatever it is Aramis and he have together, Aramis gives his all in those moments. It’s just that he also gives his all to the rest of the world.

At seven fifty eight in the morning, just as Athos is opening his locker right next to Porthos, while Treville and d’Artagnan are chatting at the table, already dressed, Athos’ phone vibrates. He takes it out, unlocks it, finds a message from Aramis, opens it, and then closes it so quickly he almost drops the phone. He goes bright red.

Porthos noticed, of course, and gives him a questioning look. “Care to share with the class?”

“No.”

After they say their goodbyes, instead of out, he locks himself in a toilet. He opens the message to find a picture of Aramis in his bed, naked, the head of his hard dick poking out from under the sheets. A text asks: Care to join me?

Athos: I opened that in front of Porthos.

Aramis: Did he like it?

Athos: Pervert

Athos: Are all your friends friends with benefits?

Aramis: The hot and willing ones are.

Athos: Which one am I?

Aramis: Come over and I’ll show you.

Athos makes it to Aramis’ flat in record time and expects at least one speeding fine to find its way into his letterbox. Aramis opens his door in only low slung sweats.

“Well, you’re definitely willing,” he says with a small smile. Then he leans against the door frame, looking him up and down. “And still hot.”

Athos doesn’t see what Aramis sees, but he accepts the compliment. He steps up to Aramis, trying to project a mildly threatening air. “You jerked off on my jacket.”

Aramis licks his lips, looking at said jacket with hooded eyes. “Actually, it was more like rutted into.”

Athos takes the jacket off and presses it into Aramis’ chest, making him jump from the contact of naked skin to cold leather. “Show me.”

Aramis’ eyes light up. He takes the jacket and steps away from the door, finally allowing Athos to step inside. Athos follows him into the bedroom, where Aramis takes off his sweats, revealing he’s wearing nothing under them. Naked, he crawls into his bed, his eyes locked on Athos’.

“If I remember correctly, you covered me up with it,” he spreads it on top of himself, covering his half hard cock. “To be completely honest, I don’t really remember much after that, just that I wanted to feel...” the barest hesitation, just a split second, as if he has to mentally check his choice of words. “... your scent and your warmth around me. So I wrapped it around myself...” he does so, turning away from Athos, to his side, then his stomach, trapping the jacket underneath himself. “And then I let nature take over.”

He demonstrates by moving his hips, which gives Athos unrestricted view of the way his glutes tense and relax, how his muscles shift under his skin from his shoulders to his calves. He is beautiful and he knows it.

There is no trace of their recent activities on his skin anymore - Athos wonders how hard and for how long he’d have to hit to make those bruises more permanent. He can’t wait to find out. The bruises around his throat have almost completely faded now, too, and Athos shouldn’t want to make new ones, especially not if Aramis has to hide them from friends and co-workers - and the fucking King and Queen of France. But he doubts he’ll be able to stop himself.

He watches the show Aramis is so generously providing, feeling himself harden. After a while, he walks over to the bed and traces his hand along Aramis’ back, making him sigh in pleasure, his hips picking up speed. Athos trails fingers down his shoulder blades and lower back, hen cups his arse cheek. He’s exploring him, still finding novelty in touching a man this way. He kicks off his shoes and takes off his motorcycle trousers so he can kneel on the bed. He straddles Aramis’ thighs and kneads both his cheeks, pushing him into the thrusts. Then, he shifts his hold to Aramis’ hips and leans so that Aramis’ arse brushes against his groin on every backward move.

Aramis groans and doubles his efforts as much as he can with Athos sitting on his thighs. Athos pulls his underwear down, hooks it under his balls, and watches as his cock fits itself along Aramis’ crack.

“Wait,” Aramis lifts up on his elbows to look for something in a bedside table, and he tosses Athos a tube of lube.

Athos catches it rather awkwardly, then says: “I’m not going to fuck you, Aramis.”

“And I don’t want you to right now,” Aramis reponds. “You can fuck between my thighs, or just rub against my arse, and that will go much better with lube.”

Athos follows that tip, slicking himself up and letting his dick slide between Aramis’ thighs. Aramis clenches them and starts thrusting again, and Athos can’t help the groan that escapes him. If he squints, it almost looks like he’s fucking Aramis, and it feels unlike any other act he’s ever done.

He splays himself along Aramis’ back, holding himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t crush him, and loses himself in it, imagining he really is fucking into him. Aramis is panting under him, the task of humping himself into an orgasm proving to be quite the workout - Athos bets the night they went to the club, Aramis was so exhausted and pent up that it took him no time at all, but this morning is a different story.

He proves him right in a few moments. “Wait, Athos,” he pushes up, dislodging him. “I’m gonna rub my dick raw.”

Athos pulls him up on his knees, dribbles some lube into his hand, and slides it over Aramis’ dick. “Better?” he asks into his hair.

“Fuck yeah!” Aramis moans.

Athos looks over Aramis’ shoulder at his rumpled jacket. There are streaks of precum in the lining.

“Do you know how hard it is to wash a jacket like that, Aramis?” he asks. “I’m going to have to have it done professionally because of you. Someone is going to have to clean your cum off of my clothes.”

Aramis swears and his hips stutter.

“Unless,” Athos continues. “You do it yourself.”

He reaches over and pulls the jacket higher up on the mattress, high enough so Aramis can reach the stains with his mouth. Aramis doesn’t wait for the command, goes straight in, sucking the velvet lining into his mouth.

Athos feels a wave of arousal wash over him at the sight. Aramis does these things so easily and without an ounce of shame, not during or after.

When he’s done, Athos hauls him up so that they’re kneeling up, pressed from knees to shoulders, and mouths at his shoulder and neck.

“Are you imagining that you’re fucking me?” Aramis asks him and Athos nods. “Mmm, yes,” Aramis sighs. “One day we will. I want to feel you inside me.”

Athos swears and bites him, and Aramis laughs. “You like that, huh? You want to bury your dick inside me? Feel me squeeze around you?”

He demonstrates by tensing his thighs around Athos’ dick. The images are dancing in Athos’ mind, making his cock leak and his hips pick up speed. Aramis twists in his arms and kisses him, hungry and demanding and a little off kilter, jostled by Athos’ thrusts. Athos pumps Aramis’ dick in time with them until Aramis is gasping into his mouth. He grabs Athos’ other hand and brings it up to his chest, and Athos hugs him close and starts playing with his right nipple.

“Yes, fuck!” Aramis moans, throwing his head back. Athos immediately starts sucking his throat. “Fuck me, Athos, fuck me!”

Athos does, he pinstons into him until he spills, with Aramis not far behind. They collapse on top of each other, panting, and it takes them both a while to gather their senses. When they do, Athos rolls off and sits up against the headboard, tossing the jacket to the floor to make space.

“Now, that’s a good way to start a day,” Aramis says as he languidly stretches out on his back next to him, smiling up at Athos like a cat that got the cream. Even after an orgasm, Athos still finds him beautiful, especially with the morning sun falling on his long torso, his dark pubes, his limp cock. He reaches out and strokes his chest, and Aramis preens under his attention, pressing up into his palm.

He didn’t sleep much during the night shift, and as he lies there spent, the sheets are calling for him, but he resists them.

“Should I call you René?” he asks after a while. “When we’re...?”

Aramis shrugs. “You can, if you want to. But I like what you call me now. And how often you do it,” he smiles.

Athos is playing with the hair on Aramis’ chest. “Doesn’t it feel... ingenuine? When I know your real name?”

“It’s just a name, Athos,” Aramis trails his fingers along Athos’ forearm. “Do you want me to call you Olivier?”

The reaction is immediate - Athos tenses all over, shaking his head. “No.”

Aramis sits up next to him and lays a calming hand on his thigh. Athos forcibly relaxes.

“You don’t like being him?” Aramis asks gently.

“I am him. But the name... it holds too many bad memories. Who I am now... it incompasses who I was, but it’s more.”

Aramis nods his understanding. “For me... I am who I am, and my name doesn’t change that, it only names me. It is a sound people make to refer to me. You know me as Aramis, so it would be strange if you called me René when you never otherwise do. Does that make sense?” Athos nods. “What are those names, anyway? Where do the code names come from?”

“Some 16^th century musketeers. Louis has a flair for the dramatics.”

Aramis snorts. “You don’t say.”

“Oh, by the way,” Athos remembers with a smirk. “Porthos would date you if he were, and I quote, even a little bit gay.”

Aramis’ face lights up with genuine surprise and glee. “He said that?”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant! Do you think I should pretend to be in love with him?” his eyes are shining with mischief.

Athos is grinning, too, just more subdued. “I think you should tell him you turned me gay and that he’s next.”

Aramis laughs. Then, he looks to Athos when his words sink in. “Wait, I didn’t...?

“No,” Athos shakes his head. “But you were the first man I ever slept with.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Athos nods. He thought Aramis knew that, but then, he never actually said as much to him, so how would he?

“You have some natural talent then,” Aramis says appreciatively. “I am happy you weren’t keen on fucking me just yet, though. You can’t rush into anal sex.”

Athos goes back to stroking him, this time on the thigh. “Do you like getting fucked?”

Aramis looks like he has to think about it. “Yes, but the moment must be right. And I don’t love the preparation,” he pulls a face. “It’s a lot of hassle for a few minutes of prostate massage, and that can be done quicker and cleaner with a slim toy.”

“I don’t have to fuck you,” Athos says, meaning it. He likes what they’ve done so far, he’s not missing anything.

“No, I meant what I said,” Aramis turns his head closer to Athos’. “I want to feel you inside me.” He kisses him, but pulls away before it could get heated. “But I can’t fuck through the whole day, I have errands to run before work.”

He jumps out of bed. Athos is about to get up, too, when Aramis says: “You can stay if you want to, you look like you could use a nap.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Athos grumbles. “But I have to go, too.”

He could use a shower, but it will have to wait - for now, he wipes off what he can with wet wipes and puts on his clothes. Aramis gathers fresh clothes from his closet and is about to head to the shower, and Athos realizes he has no idea how to say goodbye - should he kiss him? They did just have sex. Or is that too much, since they’re ’just friends’?

“What are you having a stroke about?” Aramis approaches him, always astute.

“Should I kiss you goodbye?” he asks somewhat awkwardly.

Aramis smiles at him, fondly. “You can do whatever you want, Athos.”

Well, that’s not true, is it? What he wants to do is stay here, have a shower, sleep in Aramis’ bed, kiss him when he leaves and when he comes back. But he’s not supposed to.

Now that he asked, though, he can’t just leave without it, so he settles on a quick peck on the lips, saying: “Bye.”

Aramis is still smiling. “Bye.”

Athos goes to his flat, takes a shower, puts on fresh clothes, and heads out again.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, meeting Sylvie. He thinks he probably wouldn’t if Aramis hadn’t push him in the beginning, but he’s not doing it for him. Sylvie is beautiful, and smart, and funny, and passionate, he has every reason to like her. It’s not that he wants to pursue something with her, it’s that he doesn’t want to not pursue anything. He just has no idea how to convey that to her without disappointing, or maybe even insulting her.

Sylvie seems to be open to... alternative relationships, but Athos has no idea how far that openness reaches. He himself is very new even to the idea of ’alternative’. In his world, there used to be only one kind of partnership, the kind for life, monogamous and, frankly, conservative. Even though he was afraid of stepping into such a relationship again for a very long time, he is aware that that is what he ultimately wants, if anything, and he only wants it with the one person. If he can’t have Aramis, he doesn’t want to have anyone else. It does leave him with a rather bleak future of clinging to a man that will never wholly belong to him, but that’s still better than the loneliness he saw for himself before.

He meets Sylvie in a cafe in Montmartre. She’s wearing a bohemian dress with a big, long skirt and a multicoloured woolen sweater, her hair is loose, and when she sees him, she gives him a big smile.

“Can I hug you?” she asks.

“You can do whatever you like,” he says awkwardly.

She gives him a strange look, then hugs him. “You have no personal boundaries, do you?” she asks, still with that look, and sits down.

“I have too many personal boundaries,” he says. “But we did more than hug before, it would be strange to deny you now.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” she says, frowning. “Just because you let me do something once doesn’t mean you have to always be in the mood for it. Right,” she says briskly, as if she came to a conclusion about something. “A posh boy like you, I’m going to guess your sex education was about upkeeping the family line and not getting poor girls pregnant.”

He chokes on his coffee. That is... actually pretty close, jesus fuck, his family was weird.

“Things have been evolving in the world of pleb like me,” Sylvie continues good-naturedly. “You are allowed to say no to anything at any time, even if you said yes to it in the past. It’s called consent. You don’t owe anyone your body.”

He mulls that over while she orders. “What if you don’t know what you want?” he asks when the waitress leaves.

“Is that why you let us decide for you?”

He nods. “I have too many boundaries,” he repeats. “My friend calls it emotional constipation.”

She huffs a little laugh at that. “Well, I suppose that’s one way to go about things. Giving control to someone else, I mean. You just have to be mindful of the fact that you still share the responsibility of stopping them if you’re uncomfortable.”

He nods. The waitress brings Sylvie a cappuccino.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask you how you’ve been?”

“Oh no, let’s not do that,” she waves him off. “I hate small talk. How is Aramis?”

“Isn’t that small talk?”

“Only if you say he’s fine and don’t offer me any interesting information. How’s his back?” she grins. Athos finds himself smiling back.

“All healed, you didn’t leave a mark. He said you went easy on him.”

“If I remember correctly, it was you who went anything on him. I didn’t touch the flogger.”

“You...” he almost says ’wielded it through me’, but stops himself just in time. “You told me how hard to go.”

“We’ve got an interesting philosophical debate on our hands,” Sylvie leans back in her chair, sipping from her cappuccino. “And Aramis is crediting me?”

“So it seems.”

“So if he told you to give him a handjob, would that be masturbation?”

Athos goes red to the tips of his hair.

“Do you like that idea?” she asks with a knowing smile.

He has to take a steadying sip of coffee. “If this is your coffee date idea of conversation, I shudder to know what you’d do at a dinner.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started. I can’t have dinner without falling into an orgy.”

He laughs a genuine laugh, even if it’s his usual subdued kind. Sylvie seems pleased with herself for inducing it, nonetheless.

They take a walk to the Sacré-Coeur afterwards, finding new common interests outside of Ninon and Aramis to talk about. Sylvie is obviously passionate about many causes, and she finds her way to speaking about them at every turn. Athos listens - he likes seeing her perspective on things, often one he’d never consider himself, never really had a reason to. It becomes obvious that the reason she and Ninon work together is that they both feel strongly about injustice, and want to help out as much as they can. Compared to them, Athos feels inadequate and spoiled.

“Do you want to go up?” Sylvie asks when they end up in front of her front door.

He hesitates. He could. There is nothing stopping him from accepting the invitations from this amazing woman. He could even explain that it won’t lead to anything serious, Sylvie would probably take it in stride and only enjoy it for what it was. But he’s not sure he does want to go up with her.

“Sylvie, I like you,” he says, and her face falls a little. “I do want to know you, and I would like to repeat the other night, just... not without him.”

“Oh,” she knows exactly who he’s talking about, and he can see she’s surprised. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were together, he didn’t say anything when I asked for your number.”

“We’re not. It’s just me who is with him.”

The truth must be written all over his face, because Sylvie’s face softens and she reaches out to touch his face. “Oh, Athos,” she says with such pity that it makes his heart ache, and he has to close his eyes to escape the tenderness she’s showing him.

“It’s fine, no one is dying,” he tries to deflect.

“Come up with me, anyway,” she asks. “I swear I won’t molest you.”

He goes. Her flat is like her - small and bohemian, with a nice view of Paris on one side and the tiny courtyard of her building on the other.

“Will you let me take care of you?” she asks. He nods.

She tells him to find a book in her vast collection and read it on the couch while she makes them lunch. He picks a collection of plays by Racine and settles down with it, getting through a third of a play by the time Sylvie calls him to eat.

“Lasagna? You didn’t cook that just now?”

“No,” she laughs. “Took me three hours yesterday. I don’t have a smaller dish to bake them in so I always eat them for days.”

The lasagna is so delicious he has to stop and process after the first bite. It is very simple - obviously the food of someone who can’t smell, full of easy, straightforward flavours, lots of tomatoes, lots of cheese. It’s heavenly, especially when coming in from the cold. He would love a glass of red wine with it, but he’s betting on Sylvie not drinking wine. He never used to. And anyway, better not to indulge in alcohol.

Athos still gets the urge to drink - every day he thinks about it, every time he looks at a bottle in the supermarket or the thousand other places where alcohol just exists. He can’t have any at home or he’d drink it all at once. But he doesn’t often need it these days, so he tries to take advantage of that at kick the habit for good. He never had any physical problems, no withdrawals that would leave him sick. His problem is not medical, it’s mental.

“When did you last have a home cooked meal?” she asks him when’s cleared his plate.

“We eat at the palace all the time.”

“That’s not the same. When did you eat a meal that was cooked at home by someone you liked?”

That stumps him.

“Does the nanny count?” She gives him a look and he returns it. “You’ve seen my family’s house, do you really think my mother cooked?”

She sighs but concedes his point. “Alright, your nanny counts.”

“Then about seventeen years ago.”

That pitying look is back. He finds that he doesn’t mind it as much as he would from most other people. Her pity almost feels... comforting. She folds the blanket she had at the club, the very thick one, and puts in on the floor in front of the couch, then sits on the couch, beckoning him to sit between her spread legs. He sinks into her skirt and closes his eyes while she plays with his hair, listening to the music she puts on - Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Nick Cave on shuffle with some others he doesn’t recognize. He listens to the words and his head grows heavier, until Sylvie tells him to lie on the couch. She kneels in his spot and traces the lines in his face with feather-like touches until he falls asleep.

Sometimes, Aramis worries that he tricked Athos into a relationship.

He catches himself selfishly hoping that Athos will just... tip over into being his boyfriend, and it makes him question his own actions. Was he unconsciously running some elaborate scheme to trap Athos into having feelings for him? Athos is obviously the kind of man who associates sex with love, so was Aramis conditioning him to love him?

Or was he just imagining the way Athos looks at him? The way he kisses him? The way he is hungry for him? If Aramis just told him the truth, would Athos stop everything and pull away? Or would he let Aramis in like Aramis dreams of?

Athos is in his bed again. They went two days without seeing each other and it felt like an eternity, at least to Aramis. Now they’re sated and Aramis is wrapped around him like an octopus, like Athos is his giant teddy bear that he never wants to let go of. Athos is massaging his scalp and Aramis could purr if he was a cat. Actually, he once met a sub who could purr. She tried to teach him, but either she had an extra bit of anatomy others don’t posses, or Aramis just couldn’t figure out the basics.

“Did you ever talk to Sylvie?” he asks out of nowhere.

“Mhm,” Athos’ chest vibrates with the sound and Aramis can feel it in his bones. “We went out on Saturday.”

Aramis’ feels his stomach drop. He should be happy - he was the one who pushed Athos into accepting Sylvie’s attempts at closeness. He wanted him to open up to more people, to have a choice, to not be limited to Aramis just because Aramis was bold enough to ingratiate himself into Athos’ personal space. But the idea of Athos actually being with someone else hurts.

“How was it?” he asks, sounding completely at ease. He’s good at pretending, always has been.

“It was nice. She made me lunch.”

“Very domestic.”

“Mmm. It was, actually.”

There it is. Athos having a nice domestic life with a nice woman, one who is open to exciting sex that he won’t get bored of. The prefect relationship. Even Athos can’t fear that forever.

“And did you...?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

Aramis raises up to frown at Athos, dislodging his arm from his hair. “Did I make you too gay?”

Athos gives him the look TM, but the corner of his mouth is twitching up.

“No, really,” Aramis insists. “Why not?”

Athos sighs and strokes Aramis’ face, watching the path of his fingers instead of looking in his eyes. “Because you are enough.”

Aramis’ heart skips a beat.

Athos drops his hand. “I have to go.”

He extricates himself from Aramis and starts pulling on clothes. Aramis realizes what’s happening - Athos must be getting scared of what they have. It’s becoming too real for him, he is catching feelings. It won’t take long for him to pull away into his safe little cocoon of loneliness, the one Aramis found him in all those months ago.

If he wants to keep him, he needs to act aloof. No more cuddling in bed, no more spending every free second together. Aramis has to make it look like Athos is one of many, not the only one who matters.

He can do that. He’s good at pretending, always has been.

Chapter Text

Athos likes working at the Louvre. It’s like a little holiday - it has its own security, so they can relax a little, it is tiny compared to the vast complexes of places like Versailles or Fontainebleau, and it’s just ten minutes from his apartment. Yes, Louis spends the entire time moaning about his golden cage, but Louis spends most of his life moaning about something, so Athos learned to live with it a long time ago.

He doesn’t know if he’s excited about working with Aramis again. Not that he doesn’t like spending time with him, or working alongside him, but they haven’t really spent this much time alone together in... almost a month. Aramis has pulled away, he’s grown colder, more matter of factly - they’re still friends and they definitely still have benefits, but there is an air of reserve about their interaction now. Athos knows what it means.

Aramis got him out of his system. They were pent up and frustrated for so long that their first days of freedom were like an explosion of passion, but once that fire died down, Aramis moved on to other conquests.

It’s fine, really. Athos expected it. He just didn’t expect it so soon.

They take over from Treville and Porthos, who were doing the day shift. Before Treville leaves, he points a finger in both of their faces.

“You two, behave!”

Aramis raises his hands as if in surrender “When did we not?”

“You know very well when.”

Oh, yeah. The way Treville found out about them was by walking in on them during a team building exercise two weeks ago, when the royal couple was in India. All six of them went to a paintball arena, which turned to be an almost exercise - six vets, at least two of them with PTSD, and giant guns did not mix well. Treville was already battling a migraine when he went to the toilets only to find the two of them occupying the same stall. He never really got over that.

“No fucking on the job!” he tells them now, waving that finger like a weapon of doom.

Aramis puts a hand on his heart. “We would never, captain! What do you have us for?”

Treville does some more pointing at staring before he finally leaves. Porthos looks highly amused.

Huh. Fifteen hours together without sex. Now that hasn’t happened in a month, either.

As much as it’s been more of a wham-bam-thank-you-man in the last weeks, they still can’t go without each other, not if they’re alone. They’ve been spending more time in public places - again, Aramis is the one who usually suggests that - but if they’re alone in one of their flats, whether that’s for dinner or (non-alcoholic) drinks, or to watch a film, they always end up in bed. Even when it’s all four of them, or, more often, them and Porthos (since d’Artagnan spends most of his time off with Constance), they always end up the last two standing. Or lying. Or sitting, really, they’ve tried all the positions.

When they walk in to the royal chambers to check in with the King and Queen, Anne looks like she has to stop herself from an excited reaction. She exchanges what she thinks is a secret look with Aramis, but Athos sees it. And he hates it.

Louis sees nothing, as usual. He is in a gloomy mood over his meeting with the president who, as it seems, denied Louis’ request for expanding their Louvre apartments to include another wing of the palace. Absolutely no one is surprised by this apart from Louis.

“I want to go out!” Louis suddenly gets up from his chaise longue. “Athos, you’re coming with me.”

Athos suppresses a wince. “Where are we going, majesty?”

“I want to shoot!”

Versailles, then. Great.

Leaving Aramis and the Queen alone together. Even better.

By the time they come back, it’s nearly ten. Louis forgot about dinner, so they stopped in a McDonald’s drive through on the way back, where all the blacked out windows of their bulletproof car couldn’t hide the identity of the King when the King insisted on pulling them down and greeting the shocked employees (including a Syrian refugee who had absolutely zero idea what was happening. Selfies were taken, extra food was thrown in, and a migraine was created. In Athos’ head.

He bids Louis farewell at the door to the royal chambers and sets out to find Aramis. They texted throughout the evening so they’d both be updated in case of any unusual events. He finds already performing a sweep and joins him.

“All good?” Aramis asks.

Athos nods. “What about here?”

“Great. Anne went to sleep ten minutes ago. We watched a film,” he smiles at Athos like that’s a good thing. Athos very much hopes that Aramis and Anne watching a film doesn’t look anything like Aramis and Athos watching a film.

“What did you watch?” he tries to act natural. Would he normally ask for specifics? He’s not sure.

“Bridget Jones’ Baby. I must say, that film is absolutely hilarious. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that much at anything in my entire life. Anne almost pissed herself laughing.”

Athos stops and gives him a really significant look.

“I’m sorry, the Queen almost pissed herself laughing,” Aramis corrects himself. Athos just shakes his head and walks on. Incorrigible.

Athos is glad he gets to sleep first (it’s a routine they’ve kept since the beginning) because his headache is growing and the excursion with the King took a toll on him. Aramis wakes him at one because he can’t keep his head up anymore, and promises to let him sleep in the morning. Athos doesn’t expect that to happen - Aramis likes to sleep and Athos likes to let him sleep - but at five, Aramis’ phone wakes him up with an alarm.

“I’m up, I’m up, you can go back to sleep,” he says before his eyes are even properly unglued. Athos watches him drag himself out of bed like a zombie with amusement.

“Go back to sleep,” he tells him, but Aramis shakes his head.

“I promised,” he says, getting up. “It’s not long now, anyway.”

Athos tries to sleep, but it’s too close to daylight and he’s too alert for it to take. He gives up when Aramis comes back from his sweep half an hour later.

“Can’t sleep?” he looks fresh now and doesn’t take his trousers off before falling into bed, just toes off his shoes to make himself more comfortable. Athos nods. He’s sitting across the bed, his back leaning against the wall, his elbow on his knee and hand supporting his head. He needs to wash his hair, it’s getting greasy.

Aramis stretches out on the bed like a cat, groaning as his muscles protest after hours of inactivity. His back almost completely comes off the mattress, only his arse and his shoulders supporting him. When the tension leaves his body and he slumps back down, he looks over to Athos and sees him watching. A grin spreads over his face.

Aramis lifts his hands and starts unbuttoning his shirt from the collar - or, better said, from the middle of his chest, because that vain minx likes to show off as much skin as possible. He opens up his shirt, not even bothering taking off his suit jacket, just pulling it and the shirt open to reveal a tantalizing sliver of skin. Athos lifts his eyebrows, but he keeps watching and doesn’t say a word.

When his chest is as exposed as it can be while technically fully clothed, he reaches for his groin and kneads himself through his of trousers. When the bulge grows to what Athos already knows is its full size, he flicks the button open, pulls down his zip, and pulls his cock out of his underwear.

“Didn’t you make a promise to Treville?” Athos drawls through a dry mouth. Aramis looks obscene - in his full uniform, only his chest and his dick shining against the backdrop of royal colours and insignia. Athos is already hard, just looking at him.

“We’re not fucking, are we?” Aramis grins. “We’re not even touching each other.”

Athos doubts Treville would see this as outside the scope of what he forbade, but what he can’t see can’t hurt him.

Aramis strokes himself slowly and languidly, the motion of his foreskin sliding over the head of his dick and back almost mesmerizing. He cants his hips up, his long back and torso in a constant wave. His other hand reaches up to pinch at a nipple. He moans, and Athos knows he’s overacting for his benefit, but it still has the desired effect on him. Aramis plays him like a fiddle.

He reaches into his trousers himself. Aramis looks over when he sees movement, and he licks his lips at the sight of Athos drawing his cock out and stroking to the rhythm of Aramis’ fist.

“You’re not going to give me a show, too?” he asks, his voice husky - and that is not an act, Athos knows, because he’s heard that voice many times by now, that is real arousal.

“No,” he says.

Aramis doesn’t look like he minds that all he’ll see is Athos’ cock. Athos has it on good authority that Aramis rather likes his cock.

They watch each other jerk off until they spill - Aramis onto his exposed chest, Athos into his hand, careful not to stain his uniform. Afterwards, Aramis stretches out just like before, now luxuriating in the post-orgasmic bliss Athos is more practical - there’s jizz on his hand that he needs to get rid off, so he goes to the tiny attached bathroom to fetch toilet paper. Once clean, he makes himself presentable, then goes to clean Aramis up.

Aramis startles at the touch of the toilet paper to his chest, his eyes flying open, but he immediately settles when he sees it’s Athos. “You always take such good care of me,” he purrs with a smile. Athos gives him a little smile back. He should just let Aramis take care of the rest, but he looks so vulnerable and soft like this, the way he always does after an orgasm, and Athos can’t resist. He drops the toilet paper to the floor and starts donning up Aramis’ clothes, tucking his soft dick into his boxer briefs, closing his fly, then buttoning up his shirt. He leaves the top three buttons undone the way Aramis always does.

Aramis watches him with that soft look in his eyes. So very soft. Athos could almost believe it was more than the look of a friend.

“Thank you,” Aramis whispers when Athos is done. Athos nods, then goes to throw the toilet paper into the toilet.

Afterwards, he lies on his bed again, his mind blissfully blank. He feels sleep pulling at him - maybe he could close an eye, let himself drift, they have almost two hours left on their shift.

“I’ll go get us some breakfast,” Aramis says, hauling himself out of bed, and Athos hums, his eyes already closed.

He drifts somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, aware of the passage of time but not its specificity. When he opens his eyes again, his phone tells him it’s almost seven. He goes to check on Aramis - that’s a very long time to be making breakfast.

The palace is completely silent. The night cleaners tend to leave before six and day workers don’t arrive until before eight, so this is always the calmest, eeriest time. He walks to the kitchen, sees that the light is on through the very typical circular window - most of the furnishings down here are quite modern, not like upstairs. He looks in and freezes.

Aramis is in an embrace with the Queen of France.

Aramis leaves Athos to his nap, smiling when Athos can’t see him. He feels sated and tired, but he can make himself busy and forget about that until eight, then crash in his flat. He wonders if he can convince Athos to go with him. He’s been really good at putting space between them, a few hours of indulging his domestic instincts here and there can’t hurt, right? The way Athos dressed him just made him all gooey inside. He longs to feel more of that, wants to make Athos breakfast in bed, wants to kiss him good morning, to take him home.

Hm. The kiss might be too much. But the rest he can have, he decides.

The palace is as quiet as it ever gets, the royal couple still asleep and all the staff gone or in another part of the building. He turns the kitchen lights on, takes out a big plate, and opens the fridge to find food - there’s always more than what the royal couple needs, one of the benefits of a very fat state purse and a very generous Constance. Leftover hard boiled eggs, sliced ham and salami, brie and cheddar, and a tiny jar of jam no one will notice going missing. Butter, of course, Athos loves the simple things like butter on fresh bread. There is no fresh bread, of course, food delivery will arrive after eight, but there is yesterday’s bread, and when Aramis slices off the first dried slice, it’s almost as good as new.

He’s almost done when he hears the door open and he turns around to see Anne walk in. She’s still in her pyjamas - the most expensive silk sleeping suit Aramis has ever laid his eyes and hands on - and rubbing sleep out of her eyes. When she sees him, she gives him a sweet smile.

“Good morning, your crusty-eyed majesty,” he says with a flowery bow. She swats him on the arm with the back of her hand.

“Are you making me breakfast?” she asks, knowing very well he isn’t. She hops up on the counter in the most un-queenly manner and steals a piece of ham. Well. Steals is a strong word, it is technically her ham.

“Of course, who else would I be making it for?” Aramis says with perfect innocence. It makes her smile.

“How was the night?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. He ducks his to hide his smile, but she sees it and immediately knows what it means. “Aramis! What did you do?!”

“Nothing!” he raises his arms in surrender, the picture of innocence. “Because that would be very unprofessional and we are both consummate professionals.”

“Aramis.”

“We didn’t even touch! Each other.”

She shakes her head with a little chuckle.

“No but seriously, please don’t tell Treville, he’d have our heads.”

“That would be a shame, they’re very pretty heads,” she says seriously, eating more of his lunch. He sighs and starts taking out ingredients to replenish the plate. He knows that she wouldn’t eat a full slice of bread if he made her one, so he just lets her pick what she wants. She likes to have proper breakfast with her husband, she just never manages to sleep long enough and she always wakes up hungry. Of course she does - with a body like that, her metabolism must be insane.

“But don’t worry,” she continues. “Louis wouldn’t let him. He’s secretely rooting for you.”

He stares at her. “I’m sorry, are you saying the King of France is invested in my love life?”

She bristles. “Oh, so that’s impressive? Not that the Queen of France is?”

“I’m still in shock over the fact the Queen of France is even talking to me,” he said honestly. Being friends with Anne was probably the most mind blowing experience of his life. Behind that generous and benevolent public persona, she was all that, but also a very down to Earth young woman who desperately wished for more in her life. She worked hard - it might not seem that way, but the life of a Queen involved a lot of work - but she had very little fun and very few real friends.

“Who else would I be talking to?” she says self deprecatingly.

“Constance?”

“Oh, I talk to Constance too, she’s also rooting for you.”

“There’s nothing to root for,” he says, his smile turning sad. Anne was such an optimist when it came to Athos and him, treating them a bit like her own personal reality TV if he’s honest, so convinced that it was just a matter of time before they got happily married and rode into the sunset on Athos’ motorcycle.

“Don’t be like that, Aramis!” she leans in to pull him closer by his suit jacket. He goes reluctantly, lets her put her tiny hand on his gruff cheek. “I see the way he looks at you. Don’t lose hope just yet.”

He nods, but it’s empty. Athos has been pulling away more with every day. Aramis has been working hard on their friendship, but the more they pretend there’s nothing wrong, the weirder it gets between them when it’s not supposed to be weird.

“I made a mistake, Anne. I should never have slept with him. Everything is weird now and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Well, it’s not the way I would go about it,” she agrees. “But it’s done now, you can’t take it back. You can only find a way forward. Can’t you just... stop sleeping with him? Go to the way things used to be?”

A bitter laugh escapes him. “I don’t know if I can. I think I’m too selfish for that.” He runs a hand through his hair, then leans on his the counter on his elbows with a deep sigh. “Nobody measures up to him. Everyone else is just a cheap imitation of what I could have. Until he gets tired of me, I’m his. In any way he wants me.”

“Oh, Aramis,” she sounds so sad. He lets her pull him up and into a hug. Her pyjama set is so soft, her detergent and shampoo both of the highest quality and therefore smelling divine, and he buries his nose in her hair and closes his eyes. She’s so small in his arms - such a tiny frame for such a big responsibility and even bigger heart. He’s not sure where she stores it all.

When they break apart, he gives her a thankful, if sad, smile and starts slicing bell peppers.

“Right,” she says. “I’m getting cold.”

He puts down the knife when she slides off the counter. “I should walk you back to your room.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Go feed your boy, I’m sure he needs to replenish his nutrients.”

“My boy? Have you met Athos? He exudes dad energy for miles. I’m pretty sure d’Artagnan has imprinted on him.”

He lets her go, finishes the plate, and goes back to the room. Athos is sitting on his bed, fully clothed. Aramis carries on as if he hasn’t noticed that something is off.

“Did you sleep?” he asks as he sits next to him and setting the plate down. Athos nods. He’s looking at the plate like it’s full of poison. “Bad dreams?”

“No.”

“Then what? Come on, I’ve been gone for like half an hour, what could have happened since then?”

Athos clenches his jaw and his fists. “Can you sit over there?” he asks. Aramis is stunned.

“What? Why?”

Through clenched teeth, Athos says: “You smell like her.”

Aramis puts the plate on the floor away from them, afraid of its safety. “You mean Anne? Since when do you hate the Queen?”

“I don’t hate the Queen. I hate that you’re fucking her.”

Aramis stares at him with his mouth hanging open before his brain kicks into overdrive. “I’m not fucking the Queen! I’m not fucking anyone but you!”

Athos sneers. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes! Because it’s the truth! When have I ever lied to you?”

“I don’t know,” Athos turns to face him, a challenge in his big eyes. “Have you?”

Aramis reels back, face a mask of indignation and shock. “Of course not! Why would you ask that?”

“You’ve lied to other people in my presence.”

“When have I lied?!”

“Just now, you lied to Treville. You promised him we wouldn’t fuck.”

“And we didn’t!”

“You know very well what he meant.”

“Fuck’s sake!” Aramis gets up, properly angry now. “Are you seriously accusing me of cheating on you because I exploited a loophole?”

“Not cheating,” Athos’s face twists, the emotion too complicated to understand. “We’re not together, remember?”

Aramis has to stop himself from spitting that yes, they bloody well are, at least in his book, because he is with Athos, as fucked up as their arrangement might be. It would only escalate the situation if Athos started feeling trapped by a relationship he never agreed to. Instead, he says: “Fine. You’re still accusing me of lying, of sleeping with a married woman, who is the Queen of fucking France, all based on a stupid half arsed white lie. I thought you knew me better than that. I thought you respected me as your friend.”

The words seem to finally penetrate through to Athos. “I do,” he says, contrite. “I’m sorry.”

Aramis is too angry to let it go. This hurt his pride. It questioned his integrity. His loyalty. It exposed what Athos really thinks about him.

“I don’t always tell the truth, fine,” he says hotly. “Stupid little things - jokes, mostly. But I don’t lie about what’s important.”

With that, he storms out of the room, paces up and down the corridor, then comes back, resolved. Things are crumbling around them, so why not go all out? Get it all out in the open, once and for all, and Athos can do with it what he wants.

Athos is on the bed still, his head in his hands, his hair shielding his face. He looks up when Aramis storms in.

“And you know what? We are together! I am with you! I’ve been in love with you for almost as long as I’ve known you. I haven’t been able to fuck anyone without thinking about you ever since I first smelled you, and I haven’t needed anyone else since we started sleeping together.” Without you, I might as well become a fucking priest again, he wants to say but stops himself - don’t trap him, don’t trap him, don’t trap him! He storms out again before Athos can say anything.

He tries to do a sweep but he only manages to scare a maid that came in early. He pulls out his phone and dials Porthos.

“Hmph?” his sleep-addled voice comes through the speaker after the fourth ring. “’m’rg’ncy?”

“Athos thinks I’m a liar,” he spits out, still furious.

“Wha’? Aramis? I’s the mi’le of the fuckin’ night.”

“It’s seven in the morning. Did you hear me? Athos accused me of lying to him, of sleeping with...” he drops into a hiss at the last second, conscious of the ears that could be listening in. “... with Anne.”

“His wife?”

“No! The other one!”

“The Queen?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Wait, I gotta piss.”

The line goes quiet for quiet for a minute, then Porthos’ voice comes through again, this time more aware. “So let me get this straight. Athos got jealous and insecure and that warranted waking me up?”

“Do I have a reputation as a liar?” Aramis is almost afraid of the answer.

“No. We know you like to bend the truth sometimes, but you usually do it too obviously to call it real lying. Did he say you’re a liar?”

“He said I lied to people around him. That I lied to Treville yesterday.”

Porthos sighs. “Did you fuck at work?”

“No! Not technically.”

“Aramis.”

“I jerked off while he watched.”

“Ah.”

“I exploited a loophole, that’s not the same...”

“I know, Aramis, I get it. No, we don’t think you’re a liar. I don’t think Athos thinks you’re a liar.”

“That’s not what he said.”

“What did he say?”

Aramis doesn’t have to think back, every word of that conversation is imprinted on his memory. “He said that he doesn’t know if I ever lied to him.”

“Mhm. And you’re surprised that the man whose wife stole a dead woman’s identity in order to steal his inheritance from him has trust issues?”

Aramis is shocked into silence. Fuck. How did he not think about that? Of course. This is not about Athos not believing Aramis. This runs so much deeper than that.

“Shit, fuck, I fucked up. “

“Glad I could help.”

“I have to go!”

Aramis hangs up and runs back to the room. He just left, he dropped a bomb in there and left Athos to get torn apart by shrapnel.

He finds him just as the first time, with his head in his hands, staring at the floor. The room smells of both of their misery, but not of the sharp stink of panic. Still, Aramis dives to his knees in front of Athos, putting his hands on Athos’ knees.

“I’m sorry, Athos, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking...”

Athos lifts his head to frown at him. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I shouldn’t have said all that, I knew it would freak you out and I did it anyway.”

But then he finally stops rambling and looks closer. “You’re not having a panic attack.”

“I’m not,” Athos confirms. He sounds so tired.

“Then what...?”

“We have to end this.”

Aramis reels back. “What?” There is a sense of rug being pulled from under his knees. Only reality keeps him from face-planting. “Anne is just a friend, I swear...”

“I know,” Athos stops him, his voice hollow. “But I still accused you.”

“I understand why you did it. We can go back to just... I’m fine with whatever you want to do, I don’t want to trap you...”

“Trap me?” Athos frowns. “I’m the one trapping you.”

Aramis blinks through confusion. “What?”

Athos reaches out to touch his cheek, running his thumb through Aramis’ beard. “I love you.”

Aramis feels like his lungs are filling up with air for the first time in months. He takes a stuttering breath, staring into Athos’ eyes, seeing the truth in them. But then, those eyes cloud over.

“I love you too much. I want you all for myself, every part of you. I don’t want to share. I don’t want others to lay hands on you.”

He says it as if it was a bad thing, but Aramis shivers at the possessiveness in his tone.

“I told you. I don’t need anyone but you.”

“Really?” Athos frowns, willing him to understand. “Are you sure about that? No more clubs, no more friends with benefits, no more freedom? That’s the one thing you wanted from the start, Aramis, and I’m threatening to take it away from you.”

Aramis thinks about all that Athos is saying he’d be losing. He’d miss it, yes. But Athos is being over-dramatic. It’s not like he hasn’t had relationships before, like he never stayed faithful to only one person.

“I can live with that.”

“But I can’t. I can’t have you be my everything, I did that with Anne and I can’t fall into that obsessiveness again. And I don’t want to force you into a prison where I am your everything. That’s not who you are.”

Aramis can’t argue with that. He doesn’t want to force Athos into the role of the jailer he’s imagining for himself. And to be completely honest... he is starting to see Athos’ point.

He lets Athos leave the room without him. He sits down on Athos’ bed and stares at the opposite wall. In the fear that gripped him when he realized Athos was slipping away from him, he let himself become desperate, but now, Athos’ words ring true. The kind of relationship Athos is proposing is exactly what Aramis rejected his whole adult life. He never wants to have to explain every look and every touch he shares with someone that isn’t his partner. He doesn’t want to fall so deep that his partner becomes his whole world, doesn’t want to fall apart without them like his mother did without his father.

The memory of Athos, drunk, sitting on his bathroom floor, comes to Aramis’ mind. “I wouldn’t abandon you or your baby.” Did he mean... “I wouldn’t take away your freedom.” He said that, too. So he was already...

The door opens. Aramis looks up, expecting Athos, but it’s d’Artagnan. He checks his phone - ten past eight. That means that Athos is probably already gone.

“Hey,” d’Artagnan says, and his tone belies that he knows what’s happened, or at least that something is wrong. “Athos said I’d find you here. Are you OK?”

Aramis shrugs and rubs his face with his palm. D’Artagnan goes to sit next to him.

“I think Athos just broke up with me.”

D’Artagnan gives him a sympathetic look. “I thought you two were just...” he makes a vague sort of gesture in the air.

“I think we were both trying to be together without letting the other one know we were together.” He has to laugh (sadly) when he sees d’Artagnan’s face. “You know, with all the communication and making sure we never did what the other one didn’t want, we still managed to hide the most important things from each other.”

D’Artagnan lays a hand on Aramis’ hand on the mattress. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I was already torn up about Constance before I even knew her, and you two... well, I’m sorry.”

Aramis nods in acknowledgment.

“God, but it stinks here,” d’Artagnan scrunches up his nose. “What have you been doing here? No, wait, don’t tell me!”

Aramis gives him a grin that almost feels natural and gets up. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He feels wrong, like his world has been tilted off its axis. Normally, he would call Athos to feel better, but now, that option is gone. Instead, he dials Porthos again.

“I need copious amounts of weed.”

“Then find it and bring it to my flat. Who do I think I am, the local drug dealer?”

“Hm. No, but I see one right now. I’ll be there in an hour. Marsac, my friend!”

Chapter Text

Sylvie always thought she would hate people like Athos.

He grew up rich and spoiled, in a nuclear family, with the world at his fingertips. Sure, he has learned a lot about suffering, first as well as second hand, and he gave up a lot to alleviate some of that suffering, but he doesn’t have the fire to make things right, just the will to give away what he feels he doesn’t deserve. When she talks about the causes she feels most passionate about, he understands, even agrees, but the passion doesn’t touch him. He doesn’t get angry at the injustices of the world the way she does.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t fear falling in love with him anymore. At the beginning, when all she knew was how much he sacrificed, she got excited about the prospect of being with him, but with time, she realized that the fact he didn’t want her back wasn’t going to hurt her.

She does like him. Athos is a decent man with a strong moral compass, he is honest and upstanding, always respectful. Quite good looking, too, if not in the way Aramis is, but then again, not many men are. Athos is more real, though, when he looks at you, it feels like he’s looking into your soul. Sylvie always had a weakness for the brooding types.

When he knocks on her door at half past eight in the morning, he catches her by surprise just as she’s about to leave for work.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He looks like shit. “You can tell me to fuck off. You should tell me to fuck off.”

“Athos, what’s wrong?” she frowns in concern.

“I had a fight with Aramis.”

She can see that there’s more to it, but he finds it hard to say so she doesn’t push him.

“I don’t want to bother you, but... it was either this or getting drunk.” Then, he looks her in the eyes, and she can see such helplessness in them that she immediately knows she’s going to help him. “I really want to get drunk, Sylvie.”

She ushers him inside. “I have to make a call, give me a second.” She goes to her bedroom to call her office - she’s the boss so she can give herself the day off. When she comes back, Athos is not wearing his big biker jacket. He looks lost.

“What do you need from me, Athos?” she asks gently.

“I don’t know, Sylvie.”

She feels a bit out of her depth. What Athos probably needs right now is a therapist, not a Domme, but sometimes, that’s the same thing. Athos likes to give up control and not to think, but in a headspace like this, she doubts he’d be able to do that. Her expertise is rope - it allows her to be creative and to use more power than she has. A well placed rope can make even bigger men than Athos bend to her will.

Rope it is, then. She tells him to strip to his underwear and he does so mechanically, his mind a thousand miles away. Or just as many miles away as Aramis is.

She uses dynamic moves, jostling him from side to side, not letting him get too much time for thinking. His hair is perfect for gripping and the pain it inflicts is just enough to keep him grounded in the moment. Her knots are simple and effective, nothing too elaborate, no time to play with the form - this is about plain old physical submission.

There is something so empowering about having another human being under your control like this, especially when it’s a strong man like Athos. This man has gone to war, but here she is, making him gasp and writhe at her feet. He is surprisingly lean but strong. She can see his muscles work under the rope when she makes him hold a stress position, can see the way his tendons flex at the strain.

But no matter what she does, he doesn’t let go. She can see him fighting himself, holding onto whatever happened. This approach is not helping. She isn’t going to break him just to make him let go.

Just as she’s thinking this, standing above him with her arms crossed, a strange vibrating sound makes them both jump. It’s coming from Athos’ jacket - his inner pocket is leaning against the chair leg, making the vibrations of his phone reverberate through the room.

She goes to check and isn’t surprised when it’s Aramis. She wouldn’t normally pick up someone else’s phone, especially when they’re tied up, but knowing Aramis, he’s surely worried sick, probably imagining the worst - she’s heard enough about Athos’ past to know that his worst can get pretty bad. So she picks up.

“Hi, Aramis. He’s with me.”

There’s a small pause on the other line, then: “Sylvie? He went to you?”

She can’t do anything about the hurt she can hear on the other line, but she tries: “He was trying to find a healthy outlet. Instead of drinking.”

“So he’s not drunk?” he asks with obvious relief.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll do what I can for him. Do you have someone to be with?”

“Yeah, I’m with Porthos.”

“Good. I need to...”

“Wait, Sylvie! Can you tell him... please tell him that I’m always going to be his friend. That’s never going to change.”

She smiles. “I will. Bye, Aramis.”

She hangs up and puts the phone back. Athos has been listening, of course, she didn’t want to leave him alone, didn’t want to have a secret conversation on his phone with his soulmate. She can see the effect it’s had on him, though - now, when he’s vulnerable, it’s so much more obvious.

“Shhh,” she runs a soothing hand through his hair, petting him like a spooked horse. “Aramis just wanted to check that you’re alright. He was worried about you.”

He shudders and screws his eyes shut. When the wave of whatever emotion he’s feeling passes, he asks: “Does he... have someone?”

“He said he’s with Porthos.”

A bit of tension leaves his body, but then another shudder wrecks it. “I should’ve believed him,” he whispers.

It’s difficult to say something helpful when she doesn’t know what happened, but it looks like Athos is feeling a lot of guilt, but Aramis has no anger, at least none that she could sense. “He wanted you to know that he will always be your friend, no matter what.”

He hangs his head even more, as if under the weight of his emotions. Then, he raises it to look up at her. “Sylvie... please, hurt me.”

She kneels in front of him and takes his face into her hands. “No, Athos. I won’t do that.”

He seems taken aback by that. Maybe that’s what he wanted the whole time - instead of drinking himself into oblivion, he wanted something more drastic.

“If you came here to exchange one form of self flagellation for another, I won’t be your tool to do that, Athos. You can take my help or leave it - you can go, I’m not holding you here, you are free to leave and do whatever you normally do to get through bad times. But I urge you,” she makes sure he’s listening. “I really believe you should stay here and for once let yourself feel.”

Because that’s what drinking is, isn’t it? Alcohol provides a cushion between yourself and reality. It softens all those pesky feelings. If you go far enough, it puts you to sleep so tough no memories can get through, and in the morning, it gives you real pain to worry about instead of the mental one. None of it is pleasant. None of it feels good. But it feels better than the harsh reality of awareness when awareness is agony.

He’s tempted, she can tell, but in the end, his bravery is stronger. She smiles and kisses his forehead. “I’m proud of you, Athos.” She looks him in the eyes to drive her point through. “Truly. You are doing something very difficult. I’m going to help you through it, alright?”

He nods, grateful, and closes his eyes. His face is a mask of misery.

She holds him as he starts to cry, as his body is wrecked by silent sobs, as his big tears fall from his cheeks to the padded blanket. When they cease, she slowly unties him and lets him curl up with his head in her lap, covering him up with a fleece blanket she pulls down from the couch. She plays with his hair and gently rubs his shoulders and arms. “See? You survived the emotions.”

He turns his big eyes up at her. They’re wet and bloodshot and surely will hurt the whole rest of the day. “My therapist things I should try medication,” he croaks out through a hoarse throat. “For depression and anxiety. Do you think I should?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

He sighs. She knows the answer, really. Athos is a strong man from a rich family, men like him were conditioned to despise psychiatrists and their meds. But Athos is also intelligent and open minded, so he might see the light.

“I don’t want to be dependent on them,” he says after a short pause. She thinks he’s picked the strongest argument of the many he can’t really put his finger on.

“If you had diabetes, would you refuse insulin just so you wouldn’t be dependent on it?” she asks.

He mulls it over.

“Let me ask you this way,” she goes on. “What do you think might happen if you do try them?”

He thinks about it. “Either they work or they don’t.”

“So either you stop taking them and go back to how it is now, or they help you?”

He stares at her for a while, then nods, resolved. “Then I’ll try them.”

Porthos puts his phone down on the bedside table and sighs. “He’s gonna be here in about half an hour. Sorry.”

Elodie stretches out, yawning adorably, and curls into him. “That’s fine. It sounded serious.”

“Nah, not really. They’re just still figuring things out.”

“What was that about weed?”

“I’ll make him smoke on the balcony, don’t worry.”

“I’m not telling you what to do in your own flat. You can smoke if you want to.”

“At eight in the morning? Nah. I’d have dry eyes the whole day. And you have my complete consent to tell me what to do in my own apartment if it affects Marie-Cessette.”

She smiles at him and gives him a sweet kiss on the nose.

He’s spitting toothpaste into the sink when Marie wakes up and starts to grumble. Porthos doesn’t have many experiences with babies as an adult, but he remembers enough from his foster care days to know that she’s a good baby - she only ever cries when something’s wrong, and rarely wakes up screaming. She’s obviously hungry now, judging by her grumpy little noises, so he wipes his mouth and goes to her, waving at Elodie to stay in bed.

He picks her up from the baby bed he bought the first time Elodie stayed over with infinite care. In his arms, she almost gets lost, such a tiny little bundle of potential. He can’t wait to see who she grows into.

But he has to stop himself from thoughts like that. Their relationship is still so fresh, it wouldn’t do to get too attached, to think of them as his family just yet, when there is so much to figure out still.

He carries her over to Elodie and takes his pillow to add to her so she can comfortably sit up and lean back while she breastfeeds. He kisses her on the forehead and leaves the room, pausing at the door to look at them. Yes, it’s early, but he really, really hopes they will be his family forever.

Aramis arrives at quarter to nine, looking like shit, but with his customary smile and a fresh baguette. Porthos knows him too well to believe the smile - one look into his eyes tells him all he needs to know. He ushers him in.

“I’m gonna make some breakfast, we just got up,” he tells him.

“Can I have some, too?”

“Didn’t you eat at the palace?”

Aramis winces. “We got into it just as we were about to tuck in.”

Porthos makes a big pan of scrambled eggs - hey, he’s not a chef, he’s doing what he can. Aramis slices up the baguette in the meantime.

Elodie comes out dressed in lounge wear that looks comfortable and fills Porthos with affection - she looks like she belongs into his home, like she’s not going anywhere. Marie is happily mumbling in her arms. When Aramis sees them, his face lights up.

“May I?” he asks, motioning to Marie, and Elodie nods. Aramis brushes the crumbs off his hands and lifts the baby into his arms.

Aramis is good with kids, and he absolutely adores Marie-Cessette, even though this is only the second time he’s met her.

“I’m so sorry, good morning,” he greets Elodie belatedly with a peck on the cheek.

“That’s OK, people usually go for her first,” Elodie smiles. “I smell food?”

Porthos serves her a big plate of eggs and pours her apple juice, then serves the other two plates. Aramis doesn’t sit down to eat, instead walks over to the window with Marie, showing her a bug on the other side of the glass, even though she’s too tiny to get anything out of it.

“Aramis, you asked for food,” Porthos reminds him.

“I’ll wait until you’re done,” Aramis says, fully engrossed in making Marie smile.

Porthos is about to say something about putting Marie in her bed with her toys, but Elodie catches his eye and shakes her head with a gentle expression. Porthos realizes what she means - Aramis needs comfort now, and the baby is the perfect distraction.

He finishes his breakfast first and goes take Marie from Aramis. “Go eat something,” he tells him, gentler than the first time. Aramis goes, but he picks at the food with a thousand yard stare. Porthos’ food preserving instincts kick in, but they’re not the reason he orders him: “Aramis. Eat.”

That finally gets him to put some purpose into his movements. He clears his plate the way a soldier clears a minefield - methodically and single-mindedly. Then, he asks for Marie again.

“So,” Porthos sits at the table next to Elodie when Marie is in Aramis’ lap. “What happened?”

Aramis sighs. “Athos accused me of sleeping with the Queen, which was one of the most surreal moments of my life. We had a fight, I felt offended and stormed out. But...” he sighs again, closing his eyes in regret. “First, I told him that I love him.”

“Fucking finally!” Porthos boomed. Marie looked at him with her big eyes, in the middle of chewing Aramis’ shirt button. “Why do you look so heartbroken about it? Don’t tell me he got a panic attack again.”

“No, no panic. He said he loves me, too.”

“See?” Porthos turns his big grin to Elodie. “Told you they would figure it out.”

“Then he broken up with me.”

The grin freezes on Porthos’ face. “I don’t get it.”

“I need that smoke now. Sorry, Elodie,” Aramis gets up and hands her the baby.

Porthos follows him out on the balcony, wrapping himself up in his coat. Aramis takes out a joint and a lighter, but then puts them back and takes out his phone. “I should call him.”

He dials Athos, but he reaches Sylvie. Porthos watches the way his face keeps falling as the call progresses. When he hangs up, he lights that joint and takes a deep drag.

“He’s not drunk, then,” Porthos says.

“He’s not drunk.”

“Aramis? Why do you sound disappointed?”

“I’m not! I’m very glad he didn’t drink. Very.” He bites his lip, takes another pull. “I swear I’m glad he didn’t drink,” he says again, his voice sincere. “It just feels like I’m not important enough for him to drink, you know? God, how fucked up is that?”

Porthos squeezes Aramis’ shoulder. “I’m sure Athos is heartbroken over you.” He sighs and sits down at the tiny garden chair that always feels like it will break under him. “Look, just because he’s not having panic attacks anymore doesn’t mean he’s not still scared. He’s come a long way, and most of that was in the time he’s known you. But he’s still Athos.”

Aramis nods. He takes another drag and a second later goes down like a lead balloon, dropping to sit on the ground with his back against the balcony railing.

“Did you overdo it?”

“Yeah.” He has to take some time before the last hit stops being so overwhelming. Then, still on the ground, still with his eyes closed: “He said he loves me too much to let others touch me.”

“So he’s letting you go instead? That makes no sense and you know it. He’s just scared. He’s running away from happiness.” He nudges Aramis with his foot. “You can’t let him.”

“I don’t want to push him.”

“Rubbish! Everything good that happened to that man in the last year was down to your pushing. Remember when you showed up to that lunch when I found out? I couldn’t believe my eyes. You knew him for two days and he was comfortable around you! It took me a year to make him that comfortable with me!”

Aramis tips his head up. He’s visibly shivering.

“Come in, you’re gonna catch your death,” Porthos helps him to his feet and pushes him inside. He takes the joint from him - it’s one cold, anyway - and bundles him up in a blanket on the couch. He turns on Netflix and leaves Aramis to it - when he comes out of the bedroom again, Aramis is lying on his side, his eyes on the TV but his mind obviously elsewhere.

Working with Aramis the next day is... highly uncomfortable. To say the least.

Athos thinks that he’s grown at least three ulcers in the eight hours that their shift lasts. They spend as much time as possible apart, doing separate sweeps, even eating separately. Even the King notices how awkward they are around each other, and the looks he sends Anne are as subtle as a bull doing ballet.

Athos has therapy the next day, which is an hour of such emotional constipation that the doctor Besset looks ready to retire by the time their session is up. It’s like he’s back to square one, finding it difficult to talk about anything at all.

Their next night shift is like pulling teeth. So is the next day shift.

They move to Versailles again. The first night shift they have there, they do their nightly sweep and go to their room. It’s right next to the royal apartments - they can’t sweep all of Versailles, so they compensate by being as close to their targets as possible. Athos sits down on his bed, assessing his energy levels, when Aramis speaks up.

“Porthos thinks I should push you into being with me.”

Athos freezes.

“But I won’t do that. Not only because I think it would make you pull away even further, but because I never want to pressure anyone into being with me.”

He takes off his jacket and throws it on his bed, neatly, but without much care.

“But I will push you into being my friend again. Because you obviously need to be pushed.”

And then, he sits next to Athos on his bed, takes Athos’ arm, places it around his own shoulders, and leans into him.

Athos is frozen for several long seconds. Then, bit by bit, he makes himself relax.

Before he knows it, he’s hugging Aramis back. Tension is seeping out of his body like an avalanche, leaving him empty in the most pleasant way. Yes, it hurts, of course it hurts - it might never stop hurting, to be so close to Aramis and not have him, but at least he has his friendship, still.

Aramis sighs and hugs him back. “I’ve missed this.”

Athos nods. “Me too.”

They sit like that until Aramis starts to yawn.

“Go to sleep,” Athos nudges him and Aramis moves to his own bed. After he falls asleep, Athos watches him - his handsome face, that ridiculous, archaic moustache that looks so unfairly good on him, his neck, the V that always peaks out from under his shirt.

He watches him and tries to convince himself that he made the right decision.

Chapter Text

Seeing Fontainebleau again gives Aramis a lot of conflicting feelings. It’s where he truly felt like a part of the team for the first time. It’s where he realized that Athos wants him back, even though at the time he thought that desire was only physical and entirely unwanted. It’s where he realized he loved Athos, just after he got almost mauled to death by an angry boar. When the thought of him dying filled him with almost as much panic as Aramis felt when he lay under the bodies in Afganistan.

Now, he’s sitting behind Athos on his bike again, enjoying the hour he gets to hug him on the ride from Paris. They are the last ones to arrive, this time - Porthos and Treville worked the day before, d’Artagnan and Marsac had the night, and now it’s seven in the morning and Athos and Aramis are about to take over for the day. Then at night, there will be a big ball, a masquerade, and all of them will have to attend. Aramis had to wake up at five this morning and he already knows this will be a long day.

The mornings are still winter cold, but there is no more snow left in Fontainebleau. The grounds are covered in the first new stubble of spring grass, trees are sprouting new leaves, first flowers are blooming. March is the tipping point between winter and spring in these parts of France.

Sadly, their arrival means that Aramis has to stop clinging to Athos like a newborn koala bear. They go inside the little cabin, quiet, as not to wake up potential sleepers, but Porthos and Treville are both already up and awaiting them with breakfast.

“Where are we sleeping?” Aramis asks when the pleasantries are done and they’re sitting down to a bowl of porridge. He’s expecting d’Artagnan to have seized the opportunity to get back at him by bunking with Porthos, which would leave Treville and Marsac in one bedroom each. He can take Marsac. He truly likes the man, even though he has his... peculiarities. And he’d never look a gifted saviour in the mouth.

“I’m with Treville, d’Artagnan is with Marsac.” Porthos says with a smile. “We left you the bedroom at the end of the corridor.”

They both look up at that.

“D’Artagnan is with Marsac?” Aramis repeats. “Voluntarily?”

“And you’re in on this?”Athos asks Treville, who just shrugs.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Aramis and Athos look at each other, then quickly away. It’s been almost a month since what Aramis took to calling the last happy masturbation of his life. The atmosphere between them has improved since two weeks ago, when Aramis hugged Athos into submission, but it’s still far from what it used to be. And what’s worse, Aramis is horny.

He’s tried calling one of his usual partners - not Sylvie, Sylvie carries too many memories, she knows too much about Athos, he could never even attempt to forget him with her, but he has friends, or better said acquaintances with no strings attached. He tried Jaque, a tall Dom with a thing for breath play, but he couldn’t stop comparing his technique to Athos’ (superior) one and wishing for Athos’ hands on him. So then he went the other way and went out looking for someone completely unlike Athos in every way. The girl he found was stunning and experienced, and Aramis couldn’t cum without imagining Athos. Not only did it make for a disappointing experience for him, but he was so preoccupied that she was disappointed, too, and that he couldn’t forgive himself for.

This Fontainebleau visit might turn out to be just as charged and frustrating as the last one. Unless Aramis does something about it.

Athos is not actually that concerned about the sleeping arrangements.

Unlike Aramis, he has been to the Masque before, so he knows that at the end of the night - or possibly the beginning of the morning - all they will want to do is sleep.

He’s been warned about the side effects of his new meds, namely that they will almost certainly kill his libido. That has, unfortunately, not been the case. Or at least it hasn’t lessened Aramis’ effect on him.

All in all, the medication hasn’t made his life noticeably different, but it is working. He knows that, because yesterday was Thomas’ birthday and he didn’t spend it drinking himself under the table.

He’s been warned about drinking on the medication, too. In fact, his therapist and his psychiatrist both gave him a very serious talk. The psychiatrist explained that the medication strongly clashed with alcohol, so it was really important that he did not drink while taking it. Doctor Besset was much more frank about it.

“If you drink while on these meds, you will find that your tolerance has gone to hell. In that moment, you might be tempted to stop taking them on the days you want to drink, but these pills don’t work on a twenty four hour basis. They accumulate in your body overtime, that’s why it takes a few weeks to start noticing full results. Cutting them out will destabilize your system, which will make you overly emotional. Athos, I’m saying that if you mess with your dosage, you might want to kill yourself. Am I making myself perfectly clear? Stack up on weed if you have to, but do not drink.”

That’s why he wasn’t expecting himself to get drunk under the table yesterday. But he didn’t expect not to even want to.

Thomas’ birthday and Thomas’ death day were always heavy triggers for Athos. Yesterday was tough, but the lowest low never hit him the way it always would before. He mourned, he remembered the good times and tried to ignore the bad, and he wanted either Porthos or Aramis by his side, but Porthos was already at Fontainebleau, and seeking comfort from Aramis would have put them too close to relationship territory.

Well. In light of his last therapy session, he should amend that thought.

“What do you think makes a good relationship?” doctor Besset asked.

“Trust. Understanding. Love.”

“What is love? Is it a feeling?”

Athos had to think about that. He always struggled with the concept. Whether it was his parents, Thomas, Anne, Aramis or even Porthos, he could never put his finger on one singular feeling that he felt when he thought of them.

“I suppose it’s affection. Caring. Sometimes I wonder if I love someone until they’re in danger, and then the panic hits me, and I know I care, which must mean I love. Is that...” fucked up? “... normal?”

“Yes, it’s very normal. What about trust? You mentioned that first, does that mean it’s important to you?”

“Of course.”

“Do you trust Aramis?”

“Of course. I trust him with my life.” But the memories of the night he doubted him clouded his words and Besset noticed. “I didn’t trust him about Marie,” he said before she could ask him about it (he couldn’t just tell his therapist he suspected Aramis of having sex with the Queen of France, his job was protecting the monarchs, that included protecting them from rumours and his own unfounded suspicions).

“You had a momentary lapse of judgement caused by past trauma, Athos.”

He nodded. He understood, but it still made him feel guilty. Aramis saved his life. How could he doubt him for even a second?

“Alright, I have another question. What is the difference between a romantic relationship and a friendship?”

First of all, all doctor Besset had were questions. Before going to therapy, Athos always thought that he would be the one asking the questions and that his therapist would have the answers. Turns out it takes a bit more effort to get to the answers the therapist already knows. It’s mildly infuriating, but it works, so Athos goes with it. “Sex.”

“But there romantic relationships without sex. And you claim your relationship with Aramis was not romantic even though you had sex.”

“Then it’s... I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“What didn’t you do that made it not a romantic relationship?”

Athos thinks of all the things he stopped himself from doing in that month that he had Aramis in his bed. “I just... I didn’t let myself give into all the urges I had.”

“What urges?”

“To kiss him. To hold him. To tell him I loved him. The little things.”

“So you withheld your true affection in order not to slip into this relationship territory you talked about?”

Athos pinched the root of his nose. “I am fully on board with this leading me to the stream thing, but can you please, for once, tell me what you’re getting at, doctor?”

“What I’m trying to make you see, Athos, is that you seem to be following some set of imaginary rules of conduct. You keep letting it limit you to what you think fits the label you have put on yourself.”

“But there is a difference between a friendship and a romantic relationship.”

“Of course there is. But it’s not universal. In some cultures, friendship between men includes kisses on the lips and holding hands, whereas in others that would be unacceptable. Even times change these attitudes within a single culture - friendship between men in France is different today than it was three hundred years ago. There is not one universal truth, so there can be many individual truths, and no one can tell you what your truth should be.”

Fine, then. The reason Athos didn’t call Aramis over yesterday was that he didn’t trust himself not to kiss him. On the lips, neck, shoulder, chest, ribs, navel...

Anyway. There are still things he has to think about before plunging into that pool again.

Athos has realized one crucial thing: there are, in truth, two reasons why he broke up with Aramis. One: Aramis deserves his happiness, and Athos is afraid his brand of love is too strong for someone so free. Two: Athos panicked.

As much as he didn’t think so at the time, he can now recognize the impulses that drove him. It wasn’t the panic of an anxiety attack, but it was panic nonetheless - slow, creeping, debilitating, altering his actions at every move. For months, even years, he has let anxiety change who he is. And now, the absence of it is freeing him.

It’s slow, but he can see it. He doesn’t calculate his every action as much anymore. Every look, every move - not even just in regards to Aramis, but to everyone else. Porthos has noticed. Athos came over to his place last Wednesday when Elodie and Marie-Cessette were there, and halfway through the evening, Porthos took him to the balcony to ask: “You’re not high.”

“No.”

“You almost laughed at Elodie’s joke.”

“I’m in a good mood.”

“When you’re in a good mood, you give maybe half a smile. This was a full on chuckle.”

Athos shook his head with a fond smile. Leave it to Porthos to analyze people’s facial expressions. “I’m on antidepressants.”

Porthos stared at him for three seconds, then wrapped him up in a crushing bear hug. Athos thought he could see tears in his eyes when they parted.

Maybe that’s why Porthos (because it was obviously Porthos’ idea) schemed to get them to share a room. If he thinks Athos will have the energy to do anything but fall into a coma after today’s revelries, he is very much mistaken.

The King and Queen start preparing for the ball at four, because it takes a ridiculous amount of time and a ridiculous amount of people to get them into the historically accurate, elaborate dress of Louis XIV and Anne of Austria (Louis, of course, can’t fathom being anyone less faboulus than King Sun, while Anne likes how similar she is to her famous ancestor, and she loves her dresses. No one is allowed to mention that they’re cosplaying a mother and a son.)

Aramis and Athos have their own preparations to make. As always, there will be royal guards milling about the palace, leaving the six of them to share responsibility for the royal couple and the guests closely affiliated with them - but really, Louis just wants them there to look good. And look good they will. Their costumes are complete works of art, designs lifted from the golden age of musketeers.

Still, there are a lot of people coming in and out of the palace, most of whom are complete strangers, so they have to be vigilant. The rooms the guests will have access to have to be checked, those they won’t sealed. They don’t even have time to look at each other for longer than to check that all is good.

At five, when their shift officially ends, they can take a break. Athos takes a nap and Aramis, recognizing his experience, follows suit. The fact they have a room together means no one comes in and out and disturbs either of them, so good work, Porthos.

They can only sleep an hour. They have to be prepared for when the gates open to guests at seven, already in their costumes. Athos has donned this uniform five times before, so he knows that it takes at least twenty minutes. The first year, he kept his own underwear on and regretted it - the leathers chafed his exposed skin; the second year, he put on both his underwear and the braies, and he sweated buckets. From then on, he just sticks to the costume as it is - braies, high waisted trousers (he understands that the designs were amended for practicality, so no single trouser legs or sleeves that need to be tied to the vest, thank God), a billowy grey shirt, a leather jacket with too many clasps, and a pauldron made of tough leather with a fleur-de-lis, same as adorns the flowing cape, which will go on before they leave the house. He does keep his socks on, because otherwise he’d lose skin in the heavy boots. At least those are only mock historic but with all the comfort of a 21th century sole.

“I don’t know about these sleeves,” Aramis says, walking into the room. “The whole shirt is giant, did I take Porthos’ stuff?”

Athos looks up from donning his boot laces and his mouth goes dry at the sight of Aramis in his costume. Well, half his costume - he hasn’t put his jacket, pauldron or cape on yet. The shirt truly is oversized, but it only serves to make him look better. Somehow, the billowing fabric only accentuates his ruggedness, and the way it hangs off his exposed chest and shows off his clavicles and slivers of shoulders is downright indecent. He’s also wearing different trousers than Athos, ones that look more historically accurate, hugging his waist, flaring out at the hips and thighs, and then tight again at the calves, leading into high brown boots.

He spreads his arms to show how much fabric there is on his sleeves. “What do you think?”

Athos remembers that Aramis had a question when he walked in, and he thinks hard to remember what that question was. Oh, right. Porthos’ shirt.

“No, Porthos wears something else,” he says. He approaches Aramis and starts to tie the laces hanging from his collar. “I think this is supposed to be closed.”

“I rather liked that part,” Aramis says with a little smile, watching him.

“Of course you did,” Athos can’t help but smiling, too, but he keeps his eyes trained on what he’s doing. That V goes almost down to his rib cage, good lord.

Once the laces are done, Athos pulls the braces hanging from Aramis’ hips up over his shoulders. “I think these have a practical use as well.”

“Anything else you’d like to check? Maybe I didn’t put on my my underwear right.”

Athos is about to tell him off when he remembers: “Yes, actually. Are you wearing your own underwear?”

Aramis lifts his eyebrows. “No, but if you keep going, I might regret it.”

“Good. It took me a while to figure out not to wear mine.”

“Oh god, don’t make me imagine that!” Aramis bites his knuckles, completing the look of a tragic hero.

“Will you help me with the pauldron?”

Athos goes to his bed, picking up the pauldron. It needs to be buckled to the shoulder and then around the bicep, which is a two man job.

“I’m loving this leather look on you,” Aramis says as he’s fastening it on. “I should introduce you to the leather scene.”

“I should introduce you to a bucket of cold water.”

“Spoilsport.”

The atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed, even though there’s sparks flying, fueled by both sides. Athos refuses to give in, but he can’t ignore how good it feels to do this without clenching every muscle in his body in order to stop it. He thinks he must have gone his whole life clenched.

Aramis goes to fetch his jacket, pauldron and cloak, and Athos helps put them on. Before they put on their capes, they strap the heavy weapons belt on, complete with a musket replica and a sword.

“Does this shoot?” Aramis asks the second he gets his hands on the musket.

“No, but I’m sure Louis could get you one that does.”

Or Anne. Actually, that could be a great birthday present. Would the Queen help him...

“Why don’t I ever get what I want?” Aramis sighs dramatically, putting his musket back in its holster.

They meet Marsac and d’Artagnan in the living room, both ready to go. D’Artagnan is beaming in his uniform, all donned up and shiny, like he polished every bit of it before putting it on. In stark contrast, Marsac somehow manages to look like a bum.

They set off across the grounds, and the way the capes flare behind them and their swords bump into their legs, the way they feel heavy and important, it truly makes it all feel special.

“I wish we lived back then,” d’Artagnan says dreamily as they’re walking through the main hall towards the ballroom.

“I don’t,” Aramis says. “Bad food, bad medicine, horrendous attitudes towards sex. And women. And knowledge. Constant plagues and religious wars. All of us would get killed for our believes, even me, and I was almost a Catholic priest.”

Athos starts to laugh. They all stop to stare at him.

“I keep forgetting about that,” he says, still laughing, walking into the main hall.

He can hear Aramis say to the others: “I think he’s thinking about my insatiable sexual prowess.”

The main ballroom is beautiful when empty and it will be even more beautiful when all the masked guests arrive. For now, there are only the staff - all of them in the same costume of a 17^th century servant - and the band setting up in the corner, dressed as minstrels. The four of them walk to the foyer, which is set up as a seating room for guests to rest in, now occupied by the royal couple, Treville and Porthos.

When they walk in, Aramis’ and d’Artagnan’s jaws drop at the sight of the King and Queen - but especially the Queen. Even the other four, who are by now somewhat familiar with the sight, still get a little breathless. Anne’s dress looks spectacular, like something out of a fairy tale. It elevates her from a beautiful woman to a true Queen of legend. It almost makes one understand how people could believe that monarchs were God’s chosen representatives on Earth. The King is just as impressive, if not as ethereal. He wears the clothes very well, with all the aplomb they deserve.

“Wow,” Aramis says, bowing like it’s second nature. “Your majesties, you look incredible.”

Louis smiles with all his many teeth. Anne gives a more subdued but very obviously pleased smile.

“Thank you, Aramis,” she says. “You look very good yourself. Doesn’t he, Athos?”

Athos startles, but his poker face stays on. “He knows he does, your majesty.”

“But it bears saying,” she insists. Athos stubbornly does not say it. “Athos, I command you to tell Aramis he is handsome tonight.”

Athos acquiesces, turning to look Aramis in the eyes, noting that he’s actually, possibly for the first time since he’s known him, flustered. “You are looking very handsome tonight, Aramis.”

“Thank you, Athos. You do, too.”

“I look handsome, too, if anyone wanted to compliment me,” Porthos says, effectively breaking the moment.

“You really do, Porthos,” Aramis tells him with an appreciative tilt of the head. Porthos is, as always, in his studded jacket with a raised collar, which makes him look even more imposing than usual.

Constance walks in with her usual chipper attitude and Aramis whistles. “Now, Constance...”

“Eh-eh-eh!” d’Artagnan admonishes him, already walking to Constance, slightly resembling a peacock threatening another male bird. "You’ve had enough, this one is mine.” Then he gives his full attention to his soulmate with hearts in his eyes.

Constance deserves all the attention. In a much subdued dress, she almost manages to outshine the Queen. D’Artagnan bows to her, then kisses her hand, making her giggle. She pulls him in for a kiss that borders on indecent.

“Oh, can you imagine what a scandal that would have been back then?” Louis claps in excitement. “A lady in waiting and a musketeer. Or would she be a lady of the chamber?”

“I think both would be suitable, your majesty,” Athos says. There is a commotion in the main hall.

“That will be the guests,” Constance says, once again in charge of the show. “I’ll go see if they’re all in. When the music starts, you can come out.”

The Masquerade kicks off with a grand entrance of the royal couple flanked by the musketeers. The hall is full of people, then, all dressed in similarly splendid costumes. Big skirts and corsets on the women, high stockings and powdered faces on the men; the live band is playing baroque music, and even the food is themed, although only very slightly, because as Aramis said, the real deal would leave many disappointed.

Athos starts to feel the late hour around ten. Fortunately, he’s not the only one. The heavy dresses exhaust the women, the heeled shoes the men, and the constant onslought of baroque tunes starts to weigh even on the most enthusiastic of history lovers. The ballroom starts to slowly empty out by eleven and is almost completely empty by twelve, when only the drinkers, are left standing.

Athos finds Aramis in the foyer, surrounded by three tipsy ladies. He thinks he used to know one by the name, but he stopped caring about remembering the names of rich people a long time ago. She is currently playing with one of the laces on Aramis’ shirt collar, which is gaping open, as is his jacket.

“Are you single?” the one with the ginger wig asks. Athos is pretty sure she is not single.

“Ah, well...” he spots Athos. There is a spark of hope in his eyes that dies a second later. “Unfortunately, tragically, yes.”

“Awww, such a handsome young man like you, single?” the one that could be his mother tuts.

“Maybe he’s waiting for his soulmate!” the third one whose name Athos doesn’t bother knowing says dreamily.

“No reason for him to wait in celibacy,” the redhead giggles, pulling at the lace. Aramis tries to extricate himself from their grasp, but they’re too handsy to manage it politely.

Athos decides to take pity on him. He walks over to the cackle, slips a hand around their prey’s waist, and says: “Excuse me, ladies, but he’s my soulmate.”

As he’s pulling Aramis with him, he can hear them: “Oh, what a waste!” “Waste? I’d love to be a filling in that sandwich.”

“That’s what you get for running around like that.”

Aramis looks down at his state of half undress. “That wasn’t my doing, actually. I was perfectly decent before they descended upon me.” Then, his smile widening into a grin: “You know you could’ve just told them you needed me for work, right?”

Athos doesn’t respond for a few seconds, then: “I’m tired, I didn’t think of that.”

“You’re tired and your first instinct was to claim me as yours?” Aramis is smiling even broader. Any more and his face will need stitches.

“Shut up and be grateful.”

“I am very grateful,” Aramis purs. When Athos realizes he should let him go, Aramis leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers.

The royal couple retires very soon after that, which signals the end of the night. The last stubborn guests are politely ushered outside and to their cars, and the musketeers, sans Treville and Porthos, who need to complete their night shift, walk out into the grounds.

“Hey!” a familiar voice cuts through the haze Athos is walking through, thinking of the shortest route to bed. They turn to see young Clairmont running their way, all dressed up in his guard uniform. At least the guards were allowed to stay in their usual clothes, but that’s mostly because their usual clothes are already dated. “Athos! Marsac! How are you?”

“Tired,” Marsac says and turns to continue on his way. D’Artagnan just gives Clairmont a wave and follows him.

“Sorry, I know it’s late,” Clairmont says with an apologetic smile. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you and who knows when will be the next time?”

“How are you, André?” Athos asks.

“Good, very good. The change suited me, although I do miss you guys. Is this the new Aramis?” he asks, turning to Aramis with a smile. “I’m the old Aramis.”

“Oh, are you?” Aramis smiles his best friendly smile, looking a bit strained with fatigue to Athos, and shakes Clairmont’s hand. The boy’s eyes linger on Aramis’ still exposed chest (because why would he lace his shirt up when he can flaunt his chest hair?), and Athos faintly remembers something about Clairmont being gay.

Aramis notices him looking, of course, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Athos’ hackles rise. He’s too tired for this shit.

“That uniform suits you much better than it did me,” Clairmont is saying, looking Aramis up and down. “You fill it up nicely.”

“Why, thank you,” Aramis smiles much more naturally now.

“I’m sorry, André, but we’re really tired,” Athos’ voice comes out gruffer than he means it to, but he’s too irritated to care if he offends him. “Good night.”

He starts pulling Aramis towards the lodge. Over his shoulder Aramis says: “Good night, André!” and lets himself be pulled. He’s grinning in satisfaction.

“Can’t you go five minutes without flirting?” Athos asks, still irritated.

“Are you jealous?”

Maybe it’s because he’s tired, maybe the meds haven’t had proper time to work yet, or maybe they just don’t work on anger - whatever the reason, he feels it bubbling inside him. He reaches out and stops Aramis with a hand on the front of his jacket, yanking him close. “Do you want me to be jealous?” They’re face to face, so close they can feel each other’s warm breaths in the cold air. “Do you want me to foam at the mouth every time you smile at someone?”

“Yes.”

The answer is so unexpected he has to process it like a Window 98.

Aramis doesn’t seem to mind the rough handling, in fact, he pushes into it until the hand fisting his jacket is the only ting separating their chests. “It’s the only way you show me you haven’t moved on yet.”

Anger leaves Athos as quickly as it came. Aramis wasn’t flirting to get away from Athos but to make him come closer. That makes heat bloom in his chest. He lets go of Aramis’ jacket.

“I haven’t moved on,” is all he says before heading on to the lodge.

He wishes he could just quickly strip, brush his teeth, pee, and go to bed, but nothing about this costume is quick. He takes the cloak off first, contemplating just leaving the pauldron on the jacket and taking it off all together, but then Aramis walks into the room and steps up to  help him without a word. Once the pauldron is off, Athos returns the favour.

The jackets join their two piles on the desk under the window, then the weapons belts, then Aramis’ braces. Athos starts on the many buttons of his trousers.

“You know...” Aramis says so Athos looks up just in time to see him pull the shirt over his head. He does so slowly and sensually, letting Athos see the play of muscles and bones, the way his ribs strain and his torso rolls like a wave.

“I know what?” Athos asks, trying to keep hold of the thread of his thoughts.

“Nothing,” Aramis opens his trousers and lets them drop - the bottoms stop them where they’re tight around his calves, revealing the white braies. “I just wanted your attention.”

“I thought you didn’t want to push me,” Athos reminds him.

“I’m not pushing you, Athos,” Aramis smiles. “I’m seducing you.”

He bends down to free his legs from the trousers, which makes the braies cling to his glutes.

“So far you’ve only made me want to wring your neck.”

Aramis straightens up with a winning grin. “But Athos, with you, that’s foreplay.”

Athos curses his own choice of words, then the way his eyes stray to Aramis’ throat. He needs to back off before it gets too far.

“Seduction is just a calculated push.”

Aramis approaches him, taking over from Athos, who completely forgot he was undressing himself, too. “No, Athos. It’s an invitation.”

He unbuttons the last two buttons on Athos’ fly, making his cock stir. He sighs and catches Aramis’ wrist before he can reach in. “Aramis, I’m tired,” he says gently. “And not convinced we should do this.”

Aramis lets himself be stopped, but he’s obviously not happy about it. Then he sighs, deeply, and drops his head on Athos’ shoulder.

“Can I at least sleep next to you?” he asks, making Athos’ heart clench.

“Do you promise to be good?”

Aramis nods, his forehead firmly planted in Athos’ shoulder, his hair brushing his arm and neck.

“OK. Go brush your teeth.”

While Aramis is in the bathroom, Athos finishes stripping , then puts on a t-shirt and his sweats. It was a weakness, allowing Aramis into his bed, but he won’t go back on his word now. And he truly is tired. As tempting as Aramis will be, and as tempted as he knows Aramis will be by him, there is no chance Athos will be able to do anything tonight. Tomorrow, though... that’s another battle for another day.

He’s half surprised when Aramis comes back just three minutes later, but he doesn’t comment, just goes to the bathroom. He can hear Marsac and d’Artagnan’s muffled voices from their room, but he’s sure they’re about to go to bed, too.

When he comes back, he finds Aramis in his sweats, too, which truly is almost monk behaviour by his standards. The bed is too small for two grown men, they won’t get a good night’s sleep, but they manage to find a position that’s almost comfortable - on their sides, facing each other. Aramis is still hard, Athos can tell even without seeing it - his breathing is too measured, he is too careful with his movements.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go take care of that?” Athos asks, jerking his head towards the bathroom.

Aramis shakes his head. He’s silent for a while, then says: “Unless it bothers you?”

“No,” Athos touches Aramis’ hair with his fingers, then plants a gentle kiss on his temple. Whatever makes you happy, he thinks before falling asleep.

Chapter Text

Athos wakes up first, as usual. He and Aramis have somehow become even more entangled during the night, hugging like twins in the womb, so it takes him considerable effort to extract himself. He takes his meds and goes downstairs to make breakfast.

It’s too early for the others to be up or for Porthos and Treville to be back yet, so the whole house is silent. The sun is coming up over the horizon, slowly filling the rooms with light, but the kitchen window is too small, so he has to turn the light on. He makes coffee and drinks it in the living room, looking out of the big windows. The forest is private, meaning no one but the palace staff disturbs it, so it’s possible to see wild animals from the lodge sometimes, tiny weasels or some of the animals that escaped the hunters that came after them last year. He’s pretty sure they were on the menu yesterday. He watches as the trees are bathed in more and more light, the shadows lifting.

He takes advantage of the quiet by reading on the couch. When Marsac and d’Artagnan wake up only ten minutes before their early start, they don’t even bother with more than a grumpy wave his way before they’re out, probably having decided that half an hour of sleep is more important than breakfast, which they can get at the palace anyway. Fifteen minutes later, Treville and Porthos walk in, visibly exhausted.

“Did you sleep at all?” Athos asks.

Porthos gives him a shrug and a wince. “Kipped here and there. Not him, of course,” he jerks his thumb towards Treville. “Always vigilant, our captain.”

“You will work yourself into an early grave, captain,” Athos tells him seriously. Treville collapses onto the couch next to him, rubbing his face with his hands.

“I tried to sleep, my brain won’t let me. I’m too used to not sleeping at work.”

“Maybe it’s time you took it easier? I’m sure Louis would understand if you wanted to...”

Treville lifts his hands and gives him a glare that would make Athos’ trademark looks pale in comparison. “Finish that sentence. See what happens.”

Athos (wisely) shuts up.

“Coffee or bed?” Porthos asks from the kitchen.

Treville rubs his face again, then gets up. “Bed.”

Once he’s gone, Porthos comes out with a cup of coffee. “Aramis up yet?”

“Probably not. Don’t you want to sleep?”

“Nah, I need to get back to Paris, Elodie is coming over. Did you...?” he makes a gesture with the coffee.

“Did we spill boiling coffee in our laps? No.”

“Come on, you know what I mean,” Porthos elbows him and really does spill coffee, fortunately it lands on the couch between them.

“Are you sure you should be driving?”

“I’ll be fine. Stop changing the subject.”

Athos doesn’t point out that the subject is very much relevant. “No. We might have if I wasn’t so tired.”

“Yeah?” Porthos’ face lights up. “So you’re...?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t want to rush it and fuck up.”

“Rush...?!” Porthos almost chokes himself on a gulp of coffee. “Athos, for fuck’s sake, a tortoise rushes more than you!”

Athos ignores that. He doesn’t know many tortoises that need antidepressants or have ex wives with secret identities.

“I’m going to see if he’s up,” he says to get out of the conversation.

“You’re just trying to get out of the conversation.”

“Not at all.”

He makes a new cup of coffee, the kind with too much sugar and milk that he used to like before he got his sense of smell, and which Aramis still likes - he figures that if Aramis isn’t up yet, it won’t take too long, especially now that Porthos is in the house and not going to sleep. But when he comes into the room, he finds Aramis sitting up in bed and on his phone.

“Morning,” he says, placing the coffee in his reach.

“Hey, thanks,” Aramis says distractedly, not looking up from his phone. Athos suddenly doesn’t know what to do. He can’t just leave the room again, but there’s nothing he can do. Fortunately, Aramis is too absorbed to notice his awkwardness, so Athos just leans against the desk, drinks his coffee, and looks out the window.

After a while, Aramis looks up. “What are you doing today?”

They are off for a week, as they usually are after such a hard night. Their shift pattern doesn’t allow for proper time off, so they compensate by having a week every couple of months.

“Nothing, why?”

“Come to a club with me.”

Athos looks down at him. Aramis is looking up with quiet determination and not a little dose of hope. “In what capacity?” Athos asks carefully.

“That’s up to...” Aramis starts, then frowns. “You know what, no, it’s not up to you. I want you to come with me as my partner. I want you to see that you’re wrong about us.”

Suddenly full of energy, he kicks off the duvet and gets up to stand in front of Athos. He takes the cup from his hands and puts it down so that nothing is between them. “I want us to try again. Properly this time. I promise I will speak my mind, I will tell you what I really want, not what I think I’m allowed to want. You can do with that what you want. What do you think?”

Athos looks back into those brown eyes, so tempted it’s almost a physical pull. “What about...”

“I will show you that you’re wrong. Porthos told me what you said to him once, about me, about the time we went to the club together. You didn’t say anything about jealousy. Were you jealous then?”

Athos hesitates, then shakes his head. “What if it’s different when we’re together?”

“Then we’ll see tonight.” then, Aramis lifts his hands to cup Athos’ face. “I don’t believe you will make me unhappy, Athos. I see that you want me to be happy. I want you to be happy. We will figure it out. Together.”

Hope blooms in Athos’ chest. Of course he wants Aramis to be happy, he wants that more than anything in the world.

He nods. Aramis’ smile fills with joy and hope and tenderness, and he plants a surprisingly chaste kiss on his lips. The kiss grows, but remains slow and light, just lips on lips and Aramis’ thumbs stroking his cheeks.

When they part, Athos feels lightheaded. He wants to keep kissing him, even though Aramis hasn’t brushed his teeth yet and he’s starting to break out in goosebumps because the house is cold and he’s barefoot.

“What do you say we leave here at five?” Aramis asks, his voice husky, his thumbs still in motion over Athos’ skin and beard. “Until then, we can enjoy the day off. Oh, by the way, this is not the same kind of event as last time. You will need a proper outfit.”

Athos scrunches his nose. “I don’t have anything of the sort.”

“Yes, you do,” Aramis’ smile turns mischievous. “I already asked Anne, she will close her eyes about it.”

“Wait, what?”

“Those trousers I helped peel you out of yesterday, and those boots, and trust me, subs will be asking you to walk over them in troves.”

He drops his hands, slaps his hip, and moves to start his day.

Athos shakes his head with a smile once he’s gone. He can’t wipe that smile off his face as he goes downstairs, and Porthos, who is already dressed in civvies and preparing to leave, notices.

“Keep that up, you two!” he tells him excitedly. “Just... also keep it down, let Treville sleep.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll behave.”

They spend the day on the living room couch, Aramis on his phone, Athos with a nose in a book, but both constantly distracted by the other. Athos is afraid to let himself think that this is it, that they’re together now, that Aramis is his for good. He is locked in a constant loop of not wanting to relax, telling himself that it’s just anxiety that doesn’t let him relax, and then reminding himself that they’re not out of the woods yet, he can’t forget himself before he’s sure they can function long term. But then Aramis kisses him in that unhurried way, like they have all the time in the world, and he loses himself. He wants to know if Aramis will be like this in bed, too, if he’ll let him explore him in a new way, not in the frantic passion of their previous encounters. There will be passion, too, he’s certain of that, but he also wants to make slow love to Aramis. Maybe he could tie him up...

“Eh-ehm!” Treville’s voice comes from behind them and they draw away from the kiss that was slowly heating up. Athos feels irrationally like a schoolboy caught smoking behind the school.

“Good morning, captain,” Aramis says with a sheepish grin. “Sleep well?”

“You realize I have to do paperwork about this, right?” Treville asks as he sits opposite them on the other couch.

“You should have thought about that before you let us sleep in the same room,” Aramis tells him with a what can you do look.

“If sleeping in the same room was all it took, I’d be married to all of you by now. Why are you still here, anyway? Go do this somewhere else!”

“Is he kicking us out?” Aramis looks to Athos with mock offense.

“It would seem so,” Athos gets up and pulls Aramis with him. “Let’s go early and have lunch.”

Aramis follows him up into the room. “Are you taking me on a date?”

Athos didn’t think about it that way, but now that he does, he likes the idea. Yes, they should go on a date. They’ve never technically been on one.

“Yes. I’m taking you on a date.”

They pack their things, change from their sweats, and set off towards Paris. They’re not dressed for anything too fancy or romantic, but there is a nice little pizzeria on his street that will feel intimate without caring whether they’re wearing suits.

After the cold ride, the warmth of the restaurant feels perfect. They share a pizza and a salad, not wanting to fill up too much but knowing they will need their strength.

“I never actually asked,” Aramis says halfway through the meal. “You’re a switch, right?”

Athos doesn’t know if he himself ever thought about it in any specific terms, but it does make sense, so he nods. “You?”

Aramis nods as well. “Although I admit that submission comes to me more naturally, as you might have noticed.”

Athos nods, remembering how Aramis tends to slip into a submissive role, especially when he’s tired.

“I think it’s the opposite with me,” he offers. “But I have to be comfortable. Submitting helps me with anxiety.”

Aramis pricks his ears. “Interesting. But I suppose I knew that. You did go to Sylvie when we... anyway,” he quickly swerves to avoid the topic. “What would you like tonight?”

“I don’t know, we’ll see,” Athos is distracted by the mention of Sylvie. He’s afraid to ruin the day, but he needs to follow Aramis’ lead and say what’s on his mind, not keep it in like a dirty secret. “Do you mind that I went to Sylvie? After I... it was hypocritical of me.”

“No,” Aramis reaches out his free hand (the one that isn’t holding a piece of pizza) and squeezes his on top of the table. “I pushed you towards Sylvie. I didn’t want you to only have me to turn to. I know it looked like I was pushing you away from me, but I just wanted you to be with someone, anyone, if even just for an hour, so you wouldn’t be so alone.”

Athos turns his hand up to squeeze back. “I told her from the start that I wouldn’t sleep with her if you weren’t there.”

Aramis squeezes harder for just a second. “You did?”

Athos just shrugs, looking down at the emerging pattern of the plate. It’s all very nonna’s house, flowers and roosters and bundles of wheat.

“And since...?”

“We met as friends a few times. She’s... enthusiastic about rope. It was nice, letting her do what she wanted.”

Aramis grins. “Yeah, she’s good. She has a knack for finding what makes you tick, doesn’t she?”

Athos nods, smiling, feeling his cheeks flush. Sylvie definitely uncovered some things in him he had no idea were hiding there.

They’re quiet for a while, then Athos asks: “Can we not have sex there?”

Aramis looks up, susprised. “Of course, Athos. We don’t have to do anything at all, just like last time. You know that, right?”

Athos nods. “I do. I just... I know I will probably get swept up in the moment so I wanted to say that now.”

He is only a man, and he has many reasons to get horny tonight, but he knows himself - he won’t be comfortable around so many strangers. He wants Aramis alone. He wants to take him home like the last time, but this time, he won’t hold back when Aramis asks him to stay.

It’s four when they leave the restaurant, meaning they have another three hours before the event starts. Athos expects Aramis to invite him to his, but Aramis surprises him by suggesting they meet at the venue.

“I just realized I have to prepare more than I thought. I’ll see you there, OK?”

When Athos looks into the mirror two and a half hours later, he doesn’t know if his outfit is exactly what a venue like that requires. He went with a black shirt, because white just made him look like a pirate. He looks dark and hostile, if anything, but he trusts Aramis to know what he’s doing.

He waits outside the address Aramis gave him. This time, the venue is not as inconspicuous as the last time, and the people coming in have a different vibe as well, all leather, latex, piercings and exposed skin.

Athos: Where are you?

Aramis: On my way. Go in, I’ll be there soon.

Athos doesn’t want to, but it is getting cold, and standing here watching the front door like a hawk is definitely not a good look, so he leaves his bike and walks inside.

The place is thumping with music, the atmosphere instantly heavier and more sensual than the last one. He pays at the door and is directed towards lockers to deposit his helmet and jacket. A chipper young girl with a mohawk tells him the lay of the land, then warns him that if he breaks the rules, he will be kicked out and banned from the venue, and that the venue is in contact with all the other venues in Paris, meaning he will be effectively banned from them all. He appreciates that.

The first room he walks into from the hall is a bar with open space that is already filling up with people. There are benches running along the room, some bar tables, some low tables, and a little stage. The mohawk girl explained that this room is mostly for socializing and light play, meaning nothing too heavy or too sexual, just rope play, dancing, etc. He orders a coke, noting that the bar doesn’t offer alcoholic drinks at all, and he waits for Aramis.

“Hello there!” someone says, loudly enough to carry over the music, and he turns to find Armand smiling at him like a hawk that spotted a mouse. “Have you been trained yet?”

Athos thinks that he was too overwhelmed last time to realize how much he dislikes this man, but now, he can fully appreciate it. “I have, but not for you.”

“Oh!” Armand just laughs, amused. “He bites! No need, my dear, I never push where I am not wanted.” Then his gaze lands behind Athos’ shoulder. “René! Where have you been, my boy?”

Athos turns just as Aramis stops by his side. He is wearing a pair of black leather trousers that hang low on his hips, revealing a sliver of skin between them and his tight black tank top that looks painted on. He braided his hair away from his face, but left it loose in the back, creating a messily elegant look that looks amazing under the lights. His eyes are underlined in black, and he has them trained on Athos, watching as Athos takes his fill.

When their eyes meet, Athos leans in. “Hello, handsome,” he purrs in Athos’ ear before kissing him. It’s quick and dirty and immediately gets Athos into the mood.

“Armand,” Aramis says after he pulls away, smiling coolly at the man.

“Long time no see,” Armand says. “I was beginning to worry.”

“No need to worry, I was just chasing a unicorn,” Aramis says, smiling at Athos.

“Ah, don’t we all have one?” Armand says with a wistful sigh. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I see no one appreciates my talents here.”

After he’s gone, Aramis asks: “How do you like it?”

Athos shrugs. “Not the sort of place I’d go on my own.”

“Do you want to leave? We can go,” Aramis frowns, concerned.

“No,” Athos reaches out, hooking a finger in his waistband and pulling him closer. “Show me what’s downstairs.”

The dungeon is bigger and better equipped here, too, and consists of several rooms. The first and biggest one is full of spanking benches of all kinds and shapes, a St. Andrew’s cross, and two contraptions Athos can’t even name or guess their use. He is relieved to find that there are no speakers here, so the only music is the one carrying from upstairs, muffled by walls and distance. It gives room to the sounds of pleasure and pain, but it also allows them to speak at a normal volume.

There are rooms leading away from the main space where things are quieter. Some are equipped with giant beds, some with more benches, one with a sex swing; and then there are tiny rooms that are mostly just beds, with latticed windows that allow peeping through. There’s even one that looks innocent enough, but the giant mirror on the wall is a one way glass with a viewing room behind it.

“I’m going to guess these are your favourites,” Athos quips.

Aramis gives him a somewhat apologetic smile. “You know me,” he shrugs.

Athos imagines indulging him someday. He’s not one for public play, but the idea of fucking Aramis where anyone can see does hold some appeal that he didn’t expect. He supposes it’s the possessive streak in him that wants to show everyone that Aramis is his.

People are already trickling into these rooms, although slowly, the evening is only beginning. A lesbian couple is setting up on a big bed, laying candles and oils out for wax play. That’s one thing he’s not even considering trying - giving either of them unintentional waxing is not his idea of a good time. He shudders to think how this kind of wax would come off people as hairy as them.

They walk out into the main dungeon again and Athos freezes at the sight that greets them. Armand is whipping a blonde woman, who is moaning as if he was fucking her, when in fact her arse is already covered in red welts, blood pooling under the surface, even breaking out in some spots, and they couldn’t have started that long ago. That in itself wouldn’t be enough to make Athos freeze. The sub, however, is doctor Bessette.

So that’s how Aramis knew her. Now that he thinks about it, Athos can’t remember him ever saying that she was his therapist.

Fortunately, she’s turned away from them, so even if she looked up and gathered enough awareness, she wouldn’t see him watch her get shredded to pieces, but there is no way they can completely avoid each other.

“I think I need a new therapist,” he tells Aramis under his breath.

“Adele is a professional,” Aramis assures him, but there’s a glint in his eyes, like he might burst out laughing any second.

Athos looks away, trying to find anything to focus his attention on that isn’t his therapist’s raw arse. He’s not sure what the etiquette is in a situation like this, but definitely not to keep watching. He thinks. Freudian slips seem absolutely inevitable from now on.

“Sorry, I didn’t think about her when I chose the place,” Aramis says, still poorly trying to hide his amusement. “Honestly, this was not the place I’d normally choose to take you, but I couldn’t wait.”

Athos sighs, but it’s fond. Aramis’ patience is famously not his strong suit.

They’re interrupted by a very tall, lanky young man who very nervously asks if Athos would spank him. Athos looks to Aramis, who quickly realizes what it means. He smiles, pleased, but then turns to the twink and says: “I’m sorry, I’m afraid we have other plans tonight. Let me see though, you want someone manly who knows what he’s doing with a paddle, don’t you?” The boy nods with a nervous smile and Aramis beckons him closer, then points out a man in the crowd. “What do you think? Would he do? I promise he is a wizard with any instrument.”

The boy nods, not expecting Aramis’ next move - he simply grabs him by the hand and whisks him towards the stranger. They exchange a few words, he presents the sub to his friend, and when they’re acquainted, he comes back to Athos.

“See? I told you you’d have to bat them away.” Then he wraps his arm around Athos’ waist and pulls him closer.. “You want me to be in control again?” he asks with a small smile, obviously approving, but checking.

“You are very good at it,” Athos tells him, his voice somber. “I should’ve let you tell me what to do the whole time. I just fucked everything up.”

Aramis’ expression drops in an instant, and then it goes hard, his eyes narrow, and he orders: “You will not say that again. You won’t even think it again. Understood?”

A shiver runs through Athos at the steel in his voice, at the care. He nods. “Understood.”

“Good. Now come on, let’s get a drink.”

They go upstairs, where it’s busier than before. The empty space has turned into a dance floor, so they sit down at the benches with their Cokes. Aramis drinks half his glass in one go and Athos stares at his bobbing Adam’s apple, at the way his chest heaves when he finally takes a breath. Aramis catches him looking.

“Please look away before I burp,” he asks and Athos laughs out loud, making Aramis smile happily.

“I thought you had a plan,” Athos asks after a minute of watching people around them. There are a few in the crowd that are very pleasant to look at, especially the ones who didn’t bother with underwear. Or any wear.

“I do,” Aramis says. “And here they are.”

Athos turns to him in confusion, but understands when he sees Sylvie walking towards them. She’s wearing loose black harem trousers and a simple black sweater, and she plops herself by Athos’ side. “Hello, boys!” she says cheerfully. “So, which part of the roller coaster are you on right now?”

Aramis returns her good humour. “Hopefully far from the end of the ride.”

“Hey, how come you don’t have to be in fetish gear?” Athos asks, eyeing the comfortable clothes she’s wearing.

“I threatened to sue them for discrimination once. They can’t deny me entry based on their personal opinion on what is and what isn’t fetish wear.”

“And that worked?”

She looks him dead in the eye and lifts an eyebrow. “Have you ever seen me lose an argument?”

This is why he adores Sylvie. She could make a rock move out of her way.

“Can we go downstairs? It’s so loud in here,” she reaches for Athos’ glass, finishes his drink, and takes each by the hand, pulling them towards the dungeon. On their way, Athos glimpses Adele curled up in Armand’s arms. She’s crying, her exposed arse is bleeding, and he is as gentle with her as a father with a newborn, whispering in her ear and wiping away her tears.

They find an empty room that’s as private as it gets, although anyone can look inside. It still feels more intimate, more comfortable. The bed is covered in black PVC and in not very comfortable, but they manage to find a position that suits them - the bed is surrounded by walls on three sides, so they can all sit back and lean against it.

Sylvie has brought her trusty bag of ropes and she’s unwrapping them and laying them out in front of her. Athos has no idea what is going to happen, but Aramis and Sylvie seem to be in sync, so he lets them worry about it. He’s just here to do what he’s told.

“Did you know,” Aramis starts conversationally. “That Athos hasn’t seen me Dom before?”

“Really? How come?” she seems genuinely surprised for all of two seconds before her face changes, as if it dawned on her and the realization is stupid. “Let me guess: you never moved past the stage of rutting against each other?”

Aramis grins, caught out. “You know us too well.”

“Alright,” she says as she lays out her last rope. “I will be your second in command tonight, but only because I like you.”

“And we like you back,” Aramis smiles. “Athos, stand up and take off your clothes. Slowly. I want a show.”

Athos does as he’s told. They both watch him with appreciative eyes, and even though he’s not usually one to show off, he finds that it feels good to have their attention. He unbuttons his shirt, then his trousers, takes them off one by one. He’s happy to get rid of the trousers, his skin was already getting irritated by the leather. Aramis stops him when he goes for the underwear.

“I won’t be able to stop myself if you take them off,” Aramis tells him honestly. Hungrily. “Come here,” he opens his legs and Athos crowls inside the space, kneeling between his thighs. “Now,” Aramis leans back and makes himself comfortable again. “Why don’t you two show me what you got up to when I wasn’t there?”

“What would you like to see?” Sylvie asks, moving to kneel behind Athos. He can feel goosebumps spring up all along his back and shoulders.

“I want to see Athos let go. I want to see if he has any buttons I don’t know about.”

Athos’ breathing is picking up. He has never been watched when submitting to Sylvie - and Sylvie is the only person he has ever submitted to this way.

He can feel Sylvie press up against him, her whole torso against his back. Her sweater is soft against his skin. She tips his head back, guides it to rest on her shoulder, exposing his throat, and runs a length of rope against it. There is a sense of danger to the feeling of the roughness   of jute rubbing his skin, especially while he’s already feeling vulnerable, almost naked and on display.

Sylvie starts her tie at his chest. She works quickly, knowing that he prefers the dynamic and efficient way instead of the long and complicated knots. He doesn’t care what it looks like, he just likes the sensation of the rope sliding against his skin, the way it hugs him and holds him close, the way she moves him exactly as she wants him. Just like when Aramis tells him what to do, Sylvie’s treatment of him gives him the space to just exist with no expectations. He can’t do anything wrong as long as he’s doing exactly what she demands of him.

A hand in his hair yanks him up and he startles, the instinct that has been drilled into him at a young age waking up - if your hair is long, enemy can grab it. But this isn’t an enemy, it’s Aramis, staring into his eyes from above, and the adrenaline in his veins that was trying to kick him into a fight mode turns into something hotter.

“There’s fight in him, still,” Aramis comments.

“Always,” Sylvie says from the other side od him. “I put him in stress positions until he exhausts himself.”

“Hmm,” Aramis hums, looking him up and down, analyzing. Athos faintly wonders if he ever saw Aramis this focused on something, and then realizes - this is his shooting face. He looks like this just before he hits a bullseye.

“Watch,” he says. Then he shuffles back on his knees and reaches out for Sylvie, who comes willingly.

Athos has perfect view of them as they start to kiss. It fills him with a cacophony of emotions, all fighting for dominance, leaving him disoriented. They are so beautiful together, so graceful, so familiar with each other, so erotic. He wants to be both of them, he wants to be with them, he wants to disappear so they can be alone, he is envious and jealous and angry and horny.

When they part, Aramis says: “Athos, fight your restrains.”

Athos doesn’t hesitate for a second, he immediately channels all his frustration into the rope that binds him. Aramis goes back to kissing Sylvie, taking off her sweater and the t-shirt she’s wearing underneath, and then he’s running his hands down her naked torso, over her back and down her ribs, gently squeezing her breasts. Athos doesn’t even feel how the rope is biting into his skin, he can’t feel the rope burns he’s creating, he’s completely absorbed in the picture they’re making. Aramis brushes away Sylvie’s hair to get at her neck, and he kisses down her throat and between her breasts.

Athos must be making sounds now, because they stop to look at him. Aramis still has that calculating look on his face, like Athos is a puzzle he needs to solve.

“I said fight, Athos,” he says.

And Athos is too far gone to think about it rationally, he just throws his all into fighting his restrains, writhing and pulling and twisting, and suddenly he’s on his side, panting into the PVC, having lost sight of them and of his senses.

It doesn’t take long before his body just can’t continue. He lies there limply, out of breath, trembling with exhaustion and pain. His wrists are rubbed raw, so is his chest and back and arms all the way to his biceps, where the ropes stop.

Aramis is there immediately, leaning over him, stroking his neck and shoulders, petting his hair.”Well done, that’s good, you’ve done so well,” he’s saying, over and over. “Now listen to me, Athos,” he leans even closer, looking him straight in the eyes. “Are you listening?”

Athos nods weakly.

“Sylvie is beautiful,” Aramis says. Athos doesn’t have much left in him, but the words still make him confused, because why is Aramis telling him this? Of course Sylvie is beautiful, but it hurts to hear from him. “She is stunning, and hot, and I want her. But I want you more.”

The words register a second too late, but when they do, Athos’ breath hitches.

“Do you understand?” Aramis presses on. “I can’t tell you I will never want anyone else, because that’s not who I am. But I will always want you more.”

Aramis lies down to be on the same level as Athos. His face is so close Athos can feel his hot breath. “I know it in my bones, Athos. I know I will never want anyone as much as I want you. And if you never want me to be with anyone else, that’s fine, because a life with only you is still better than a life with everyone but you.”

Athos very, very briefly considers doubting his words, but then remembers that this is Aramis, and he trusts Aramis, and that knowledge just breaks him even more. He trusts Aramis. He can finally trust again.

He almost cries.

When Sylvie unties him, he just lies there and lets them rub his sore muscles and abused skin. Aramis kisses down his entire torso and arms, chasing away the pain. Athos doesn’t even try to move. He feels completely empty, all fight has gone out, and with it went the jealousy and the anger.

“There you go,” Aramis is whispering. “You were so good. You did everything exactly as I hoped you would. Good job.”

It should feel degrading, being talked to like a spooked animal, but it just fills him with warmth. He did good. Aramis is happy with him. It settles something primal deep inside him.

Sylvie lies on the other side of him. He can feel her naked skin press against his naked skin, her clothed leg wrap around his nude one, and her hair tickles him under the chin, but his eyes are closed. He’s not as deep as he thinks Aramis gets, but it’s still nice, like being covered in a blanket. Everything feels warm, especially the parts of him that hurt before, and his muscles are soup.

Aramis is lying next to him, but he’s watching him like a hawk, because when Athos opens his eyes, Aramis immediately props himself up on an elbow and asks: “Are you with us again?”

“I’m always with you,” Athos says, not meaning to sound as romantic as it comes out. He just means that he’s always aware of them, he doesn’t get lost in his own head, but Aramis smiles so sweetly that he thinks it’s OK if it’s also romantic.

Sylvie sits up, too, and Athos admires her body, so freely on display. She catches him looking. “I know you said no sex,” she tells Aramis, not taking her eyes off of Athos. “But can I at least make out with him?”

“Be my guest,” is Aramis’ pleased answer.

Sylvie straddles Athos, her groin resting on his stomach, her thighs hugging his sides. She takes his arms, just under the armpits, and pushes up, sliding her palms all the way to his forearms. He lets her move him how she wants him and ends up with his hands pinned far above his head. She leans down and kisses him, deeper than she’s ever kissed him before.

He can feel her nipples brush against his chest as she moves into the kiss. He doesn’t do much himself, just lets her set her own rhythm.

Aramis’ lips brush against his ear. “You can do better than that,” he breathes. “Kiss her like you kiss me.”

Athos’ blood pumps quicker in his veins and he surges up, licking into Sylvie’s mouth with passion. She gasps and meets him with the same enthusiasm, leaning more of her weight onto his arms, pressing him into the bed.

“That’s it,” Aramis murmurs. “Perfect.”

Athos’ hips move without conscious thought, seeking contact, and he only realizes he’s hard when his dick brushes against Sylvie’s arse.

“No, Athos!” Aramis chides him like a disobedient dog. “Legs flat on the bed, now.”

Athos does as he’s told, thankful - this is exactly what he was afraid would happen, he’d get too swept up and break his own boundary - but Aramis is taking care of him, everything is alright.

Sylvie breaks the kiss by lifting her head, and she doesn’t let her him follow. “Someone’s getting too excited,” she says, sounding out of breath. “Stay!” she tells him before letting go of his arms. He keeps them right where she put them and watches as she leans towards Aramis, pulling him into a kiss almost as passionate. Athos longs to be able to touch her, to raise his arms to her smooth navel, to the skin stretched over her ribs, to her shapely breasts, just big enough to sway into the rhythm of her movements.

When they break apart, Sylvie sighs wistfully. “If you two excuse me, I need to go find someone to finish what you’ve started.” She climbs off of Athos and up, not bothering to put her sweater back on. “Can you pack my stuff?”

Athos only thinks about it for a second before saying: “You should just... you can go with Aramis...”

“No,” Aramis says lightning quick. “I’m sorry, Sylvie, but tonight, it has to be just us.”

She gives them a quick smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course, I understand.”

It’s wrong. It’s wrong to do this to her, Athos thinks. He breaks her command so he can sit up, reaching after her. “Wait, Sylvie!”

She does. Aramis is just as eager, and Athos is grateful, because he doesn’t know what he could say. Aramis takes her by the hands, willing her to understand. “We want you. We just need time. Please, please don’t take this as a rejection.”

She takes a deep breath, then smiles, although a little sadly, and frees one of her hands so she can touch his cheek. “I know.”

Athos gets to his knees so he can be in touching distance, and his hand joins Aramis’ on the one he’s still holding. “We don’t just want you,” he says sincerely. “We care for you.”

She gives him a grateful smile. “I care for you, too. And I’m very happy for you, truly.”

Finally, they let her go, satisfied that she’s not taking it too harshly. When she’s gone, they both sit down and pack up her rope, Aramis showing him how to tie those neat little bundles - Athos never actually learned how to because Sylvie always liked to do it herself. He’s hoping the reason she left them to it was her arousal, not that she wanted to get away.

When all is packed, Athos puts his clothes back on. He’s feeling more himself already, but he likes the way his clothes slide across his rope burns, the faint echo bringing back memories of how they got there.

“Should we wait for Sylvie?” he asks.

“No need, we can leave the bag with the organizers. I’ll text her. One last drink?”

Athos definitely needs one, he’s parched.  He notices that Aramis has dropped the command and that works for him. This game is over. They walk out into the dungeon and Aramis stumbles over his feet at the sight of someone in the crowd.

Athos stops to give him a questioning look. He knows that expression - Aramis has seen something he wants. But then he looks back at Athos and waves his hand. “Nothing.”

Athos stops him when he tries to take another step towards the stairs. “Aramis. What is it?”

Aramis sighs and ruffles his hair, clear sign of nerves. “There’s this guy I was seeing, he’s really good with a cane and we promised we’d do a scene together, but it’s fine, really, I’m tired anyway...”

“Aramis. It’s OK. If you want to, you should ask him. I’ll bring you water.”

Aramis stares at him a little disbelievingly. “Really?”

Athos just nods and pushes him towards the man he was eyeing. He’s handsome, seems to smile a lot, and Athos could be jealous, could let himself be jealous, but he feels like a lesson has been drummed into his head. Aramis wants to have fun, Athos wants him to have fun, and that’s it, that’s the end of the dilemma. They’re still leaving here together. And what’s more...

He pulls him closer again and whispers in his ear: “Think about how I’ll take you home afterwards and fuck you into the mattress.”

Aramis whips his head around to stare at him, his pupils blown. Athos has to smirk as he takes Sylvie’s bag from him and goes upstairs.

He can’t see Sylvie anywhere, so he gives her bag to the cloakroom personnel and texts Sylvie to let her know where to find it. Then he goes to the bar and almost collides with Adele.

Her eyes get comically wide when she sees him. “Athos!” she says, her voice pitched higher than usual.

He almost calls her doctor Bessette, but stops himself just in time. “Adele.”

They stand there for a few seconds, neither knowing what to say.

“I’ll see you on Monday?” he asks finally.

“Yes, Monday!” she says, relieved. Then they each go their way.

By the time he gets back downstairs with a bottle of water for Aramis, the two have already claimed a bench in the far end of the room. When Aramis sees him, he smiles excitedly and beckons him over. Athos hands him the bottle and is surprised when the Dom, who has been arranging his canes on a table, smiles a similarly excited smile at him and offers him his hand for a handshake.

“The soulmate!” he says brightly, as if he’s been waiting to meet Athos his whole life. “I’m Antoine.”

“Athos. Is it OK if I watch?”

“Of course! Just don’t get in swinging range,” he smiles even more widely yet somehow still sincerely. Aramis gives him the bottle back, still half full, and gets in position on the bench. It’s the kind that supports his torso, leaving his ass exposed. He pulls his trousers down with his underwear and gets settled. Athos only realizes the bench has attached handcuffs when Antoine uses them to strap him in.

Athos leans against the nearest wall and crosses his arms, settling in for a show. Aramis is already getting hard, his cock is slowly raising from his pubes, whether because of being tied up, on display, about to receive a beating, or all three of them.

Antoine selects a thin cane that surely stings something awful when used to its full potential, but he starts slowly, warming Aramis up. Aramis closes his eyes, props his chin on the padded bench, and seems to enjoy the sensation. Even when the rhythm gets harder, his face doesn’t change. He looks almost serene.

Antoine switches to a thicker cane and starts light again, but quickly builds up strength. Aramis’ arse is pinking up. His face only shows discomfort once the whacks start. Every once in a while, the rhythm breaks with a sharp twack and a new red line appears, starker against the pink backdrop.

After a while, the red lines start to look more like a red mass. Athos understands what makes this man special by the symmetry of the hits and by Aramis’ reactions to them. Antoine has perfect control over every movement, like an artist with a paintbrush.

He only stops to swap instruments, or to talk to Aramis - or, better said, goad. He grabs Aramis by the hair and wrenches his head up to tell him how hot he is, how everyone is looking at him, how he will make sure Aramis can’t sit down for days. Athos can see the effect the words have on him - his half hard dick always twitches at the attention. Antoine’s smile is nowhere to be seen. Athos marvels at his ability to appear completely cold during the scene.

When Aramis’ arse looks like a sea of angry red lines, Antoine chooses the thinnest cane again and pats the insides of Aramis’ thighs. Aramis winces, but he dutifully spreads his legs as wide as his trousers allow. Antoine lets his cane wonder upwards, gently brushing against Aramis’ balls, making him rattle the handcuffs for the first time as Aramis tries to move away. Antoine taps them with the utmost care, as if he was thinking about it. Then, he abruptly and violently grabs Aramis by the hair and pushes his cheek into the bench, making him face Athos, whose breath stutters in his throat when his eyes meet Aramis’.

“Beg me not to bruise your balls so your soulmate can fuck you when I’m done with you!”

Aramis closes his eyes and opens his mouth, but Antoine jerks the hand in his head. “Look at him!”

Aramis opens his eyes again and, looking straight into Athos’ eyes, begs. Athos can feel himself grow harder. He looks down for a second to see that Aramis is, too.

Once Antoine is satisfied, he lets go of him, but only to use that thin cane on his arse again. This time, Aramis is anything but serene. The cane lays new lines over the old in a criss cross pattern, aggravating already swollen welts, and Aramis has to grit his teeth and tug at the restraints with all his might so he doesn’t make a sound, but Antoine doesn’t relent until Aramis screams: “Fuck!” and goes limp.

Only then does he gentle his hits, landing only a few last taps that make Aramis groan weakly. Antoine puts the cane away and kneads the abused flesh of Aramis’ arse, smiling when Aramis whimpers. He’s weak as a kitten, soft in every way.

Athos approaches them when it’s obvious the scene is over. Atnoine has taken to massaging his scalp, petting him just like that kitten he resembles.

“We’re done,” he tells Athos. “He’s done great, just as always.”

Aramis doesn’t react at all to the praise, but Athos is sure he liked it.

“He looked amazing,” Athos says for his benefit. “You both did.”

“Thank you,” Antoine smiles his broad smile again. “We can team up next time, what do you say? I’m sure we could get creative with him.”

This gets a reaction out of Aramis, and Antoine laughs at him, delighted and a little mean. “You like that, hm?” he asks and moves Aramis’ head in a forceful nod. “You want us to paint more than just your arse?” Again, he makes him nod.

Athos wants that, too. He wants to see what will happen if he hits those sensitive spots behind Aramis’ knees.

When Antoine releases him, Aramis seeks Athos out like a human warmth honed missile. Antoine laughs again and directs them so that Athos is sitting on the bench and Aramis is straddling him.

“What about you?” Athos asks, knowing that an intense scene like that requires aftercare on both sides.

“Oh, I’m not done yet tonight,” Antoine smiles. “Thank you, though, I appreciate the concern,” he squeezes Athos’ shoulder, then leans down to kiss Aramis on the cheek. “Thank you,” he says and then goes to meet an older woman who is already waiting for the same treatment.

Aramis has reverted to the state he was in that first time he took him out to a club. He is high on pain and endorphins, clinging to Athos like a sloth to a tree branch, his nose basically snorting Athos’ scent in the crook of his neck. Athos brushes gentle fingers against his arse, feeling where the swollen welts. Aramis bucks into him and moans.

“What do you say I take you home?” Athos asks. Aramis nods eagerly and wraps himself around Athos like a monkey. Athos huffs a laugh. “You will have to walk.”

Aramis whines unhappily, but he slowly gets up, which gives Athos perfect view of his cock, half hard again. Athos just pulls his underwear and trousers up, making him gasp as they drag over his arse.

At the bar, Athos spots Sylvie and steers Aramis towards her.

“Did you have a good time?” he asks.

She nods with a smile. “I met an old friend. I see you did, too.”

“Aramis definitely did. We’re going now, unless you need us?”

“No, go, enjoy the rest of your night,” she kisses them both goodbye and waves as they leave.

Once they’re dressed for the cold night and outside, Athos steers Aramis towards his bike.

“Ready?”

Aramis takes one look at it and lets his head fall against Athos’ back with a heartfelt groan.

Chapter Text

When the bike comes to a rest and Aramis looks up, he’s expecting to see Athos’ building, so he’s disoriented when he’s met with the bright lights of Paris’ city centre at night. Athos takes his helmet off, making it clear that they’ve reached their destination. Aramis hugs him closer, preventing him from getting up.

“We need to eat, Aramis,” Athos says quiet sensibly. Aramis isn’t feeling very sensible at the moment, so it takes him a while to realize that yet, under the need to sleep and the need to fuck and the need to crawl inside Athos’ rib cage like a horrific parasite, there is also the need to eat.

Athos pulls him into a little kebab shop that serves them delicious food in three minutes. Aramis is forced to surface out of his haze for long enough to pretend to have cognitive abilities surpassing that of a slug, and even manages to order food (although “just feed me” might not be on the menu). Athos exchanges an amused look with the server and asks for two doner kebabs.

They settle at a tiny table in the corner. Athos doesn’t try to hide his smirk when Aramis winces as he sits down - not just meeting the surface of the chair hurts, every movement pulls at the skin.

“You’re lucky we’re off for a week,” Athos comments. “Or you’d need my poker face.”

“Oh, I’ve hidden worse under that uniform,” Aramis tells him sweetly. Athos’ face does that thing it does anytime Aramis does something shockinly arousing. Aramis lives for that face.

Their food arrives and they tuck in with gusto. Aramis is either really hungry, or this is the best kebab he’s ever had in his life. Both are possible. He makes sure to moan as he eats.

He took his preparations for this evening seriously. First, he spent almost an hour texting Sylvie to convince her to join them and devising a scene. Then, of course, he picked his clothes, but before he put them on, he made sure that if he played his cards right, Athos could fuck him tonight.

In that one month they pretended not to have feelings for each other while fucking like rabbits, they never actually fucked. They talked about it, especially Aramis did as he used his hands or mouth or any other part of himself to get Athos off - he whispered scenarios in Athos’ ear, painted him pictures of the act from every angle, explored every scenario. Aramis thought he had time, that there would be a good opportunity, but then the whole thing imploded and he thought he would never feel Athos inside him.

It’s not even about pleasure. There are many ways to find pleasure that don’t involve anal sex, and frankly, Aramis likes some of them more. But the thought of them joined in that way makes him lightheaded. He wants Athos to fuck him and he wants to fuck Athos, he wants them to be inside each other so much he feels the absence of him.

“Aramis, you’re scandalizing the cook,” Athos drawls.

“I can’t help it,” he says honestly. “I’m thinking about your dick inside me.”

Athos’ face does the thing again. It does it mid-bite. It’s adorable.

“How did you feel during our scene?” Aramis asks two moan-less bites later.

“Good. You were right, I wanted you to have fun, and knowing that you were coming home with me made me... it made me feel special.”

“You are special.”

Athos blinks, then nods. Then takes a bite. Aramis can see that he still has trouble accepting compliments, but he’s trying.

“Thank you for taking me to that first event,” Athos says then, surprising him. “I needed that.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I had tunnel vision when it came to... love. I was stuck. I needed to broaden my horizons.”

Aramis knew all that, of course. He was still really happy that Athos realized it, too. He risked a lot by taking him to that club that night. Many people would turn their back on him, think him a freak, a deviant, a pervert, or any of the many other labels they had for people like him. But Athos kept an open mind and let him show him what Aramis believed could help him move forward.

The old white clock on the wall shows ten past eleven when they finish their food. Aramis is simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated. Getting up hurts, walking hurts, sitting on the bike hurts most of all, especially when the engine roars to life. He lets the pain wash over him and pull him under again.

He remembers the last time Athos drove him home in this state. He was more tired, he remembers that. Tired of lying to himself and to Athos, of denying himself, of skirting the edges of what was appropriate for him to do as Athos’ friend. And now, he is free to do all those things he dreamed about. The realization keeps smacking him in the head, leaving him lightheaded.

When the bike stops in front of Athos’ building, Aramis is keyed up again. The moment Athos’ helmet is off, he’s kissing his neck, his nose buried in Athos’ hair, breathing him in. Athos lets him for a moment before he pulls away and makes Aramis get off the bike, following him before Aramis can latch himself onto him again.

Once they’re inside the flat and the door closes behind them, Aramis pounces. The kiss is messy and desperate, Aramis is clawing at Athos’ jacket, trying to get it off to get to his skin. But once it’s off and falls to the floor, Athos uses his considerable strength to pin him to the wall and pull away. When Aramis tries to follow, Athos reaches out and yanks his head back by the hair. Aramis whimpers. He fucking loves it when his Doms are mean.

“Go to the toilet and brush your teeth,” Athos commands. “Your toothbrush is still in the bathroom.” When Aramis tries to comply, he yanks him back. “Once you’re done, you will let me do the same, understood?”

He tries to nod his head, hurting himself even more. Athos lets him go and he stumbles into the bathroom.

His toothbrush is still where he left it, right next to Athos’. It makes his heart clench, even knowing that Athos has one next to his in his flat. Neither of them had been able to let go.

When Athos replaces him in the bathroom, Aramis goes to the bedroom and finds lube and condoms already on the nightstand. He wonders when Athos got them, if he did it while they were still “benefiting” or if it was today. If he thought about them using them, if he imagined the acts in detail.

When Athos comes out of the bathroom without his trousers on, Aramis just stands there, looking. He can’t take it if Athos stops him again.

Athos lifts an eyebrow. “What are you waiting for?”

Aramis rolls his head skywards. “Fucking finally!”

They collide in a mess of limbs and tongues like they’ve done many times before, but this time, it feels different. They know that this is real, this time, that they’re not hiding or holding back, that they’re allowed to want and take everything. Athos kisses like a hurricane, like he wants to eat him alive, pulling him into a tight embrace and walking him backwards until his thighs hit the bed. Aramis winces when he lands on the mattress, and groans when Athos peels him out of his trousers. He’s already hard again, of course, but who can blame him when he’s been teased and denied for so long? And Aramis knows that Athos enjoys it, likes knowing that Aramis is hard for him, that he wants him.

Athos follows him onto the bed and kisses him again while Aramis unbuttons his shirt. They break apart only for Aramis to pull his tank top over his head, and then he’s naked, and he likes the contrast of naked and clothed, but he likes the idea of them both naked more, so he pulls Athos’ shirt off his shoulders and paws at his underwear.

When Athos sits up to take the lube from the nightstand, Aramis admires the rope burns on his torso and arms. He was so fucking beautiful when he struggled against that rope, Aramis couldn’t wait for that strength to be used on him.

Athos hesitates for only a second before he presses his lubed up fingers to Aramis’ entrance. He applies only faint pressure, massaging it, testing, familiarizing himself with this part of Aramis, and Aramis has to close his eyes at the wave of arousal that provokes. He doubts that Athos has never done anal before, but he knows he hasn’t done it with a man, and as much as Aramis never cared for innocence or virginity, the thought still does something to him.

Athos goes back to kissing him, even more passionately than before, sloppy and wild, relishing Aramis’ gasp when he finally breaches him. He starts with two fingers and the intrusion steals Aramis’ breath away, so deliciously bold. He moans and braces his feet on the mattress to rock back into the motion. It’s so much better then he thought it would be, the slide of his fingers against the sensitive rim, the feeling of fullness, Athos inside him as well as outside, his lips and teeth on his neck, his skin on his skin, his scent wrapped around them like a blanket. Aramis starts to laugh.

Athos lifts his head from where he was mouthing down his ribs to look at him. Aramis explains: “I can’t believe you’d think I’d ever want anyone but you.”

Athos’ eyes go even darker than they were before and he immediately adds a third finger, breaking Aramis’ laughter into a loud moan. It’s abrupt and mean and exactly what Aramis wants.

When Athos’ long fingers unintentionally brush against his prostate, Aramis’ reactions puts an adorably confused expression on his face that makes Aramis laugh in between gasps of pleasure. “The prostate,” he explains. Keep your fingers curled - fuck, yeah, like that - fuck fuck fuck!” Aramis likes to think he is an experienced lover with good endurance, but after the night he’s had, he’s like a pot close to boil. He desperately wants to cum but also really doesn’t want this to end. “Don’t make me cum yet, please!” he begs, yet makes no move to stop him, completely giving himself over to Athos.

Athos slows down his hand until it’s just resting inside him, letting Aramis calm down. When his breathing starts to slow, Athos starts to very gently twitch his fingers, watching Aramis’ face. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over him, gentler, but if he keeps going, Aramis is going to be begging again - oh god, if Athos realizes that he can tease him like this without actually making him cum, he will be in big trouble.

Athos resumes his kisses and bites down his body, completely avoiding his dick. He lifts one of Aramis’ legs, kisses his inner thigh, then trails his lips and tongue across the welts on his arse, making him twitch in response. The bite is not completely unexpected, but it still makes Aramis jump and gasp in pain.

“Please, fuck me,” Aramis begs. “Please, I need you inside me, Athos...”

Athos complies. He reaches to the nightstand and grabs a condom, giving Aramis a few seconds of respite which he uses to try to get his breathing under control.

When he’s ready, Athos positions himself over him again, and they’re in missionary now, like lovers from teen romances, looking into each other’s eyes. When Athos guides his cock inside him, the stretch is too much, it burns, but it’s the kind of pain that Aramis seeks, the one that blurs with pleasure, intensifies it. Athos pushes in in one long and slow movement, making Aramis arch his back and tip his head back, mouth open on a silent scream, but Athos grabs his chin and pulls his head back. “Look at me,” he growls. It’s too much, looking into his eyes is so intense Aramis could cry from all the emotions  swirling inside him like a storm. His breaths are coming out in uneven gasps that turn into moans when Athos starts to thrust.

It’s slow and measured, long, deep thrusts that brush against his prostate with maddening rhythm that isn’t enough. His cock is lying between them, leaking precum, and it would take only a few touches to make him cum, but he’s not going to ask for it. He wants to be on the edge for Athos forever, wants to go mad with it.

Athos’ hand moves from his jaw to his throat and Aramis knows what’s coming, has been waiting for it. Athos’ fingers span from one ear to the other, pressing under his chin on either side, just under the bone, where his arteries are most vulnerable, with the middle of his palm hugging his trachea just on the side of uncomfortable, not constricting - Athos is keeping him perfectly safe while ensuring that every breath Aramis takes feels laboured.

His head and ears fill up with cotton and his eyes with stars. Every thrust feels more intense and his world starts feeling smaller until there’s only his pleasure and the points where Athos is touching him and nothing else exists.

The hand relaxes and his brain floods with oxygen, making him lightheaded. He immediately misses it, craves the next time the hand closes... there. Just a few seconds and Athos is closing his hand again, and Aramis can feel his breaths on his lips, can see, through the stars, how much this is affecting him, how much he likes seeing Aramis struggle.

Aramis fully gives himself to the confusion that comes with the third squeeze. He doesn’t need to know where he is or which way is up, he just needs to feel. He is living on the edge of life and death as well as of orgasmic pleasure. He faintly registers that Athos has sped up, that the need to cum is stronger now, so insistent, but in a distant way. He could lie there and let anything happen.

When the hand leaves his throat completely and he can breathe unimpeded, the rush into his brain almost tips him over the edge, but not quiet. Athos is pounding into him now and Aramis opens his eyes to watch him, needs to see him lose control, lose himself in Aramis. He is so beautiful and he is inside him and everything will be alright now because they’re together, soulmates, lovers, friends, brothers. They hold each other’s lives in their hands, Aramis in his rifle and Athos in his palm.

That palm closes around Aramis’ cock. Aramis is shaking with need and it takes only a few seconds for him to tip over. His orgasm is blinding and deafening, completely overwhelming his every sense, from the inside and the outside, and it keeps going because Athos never stops thrusting, keeps fucking him through his aftershocks and into oversensitivity. Later, Athos will tell him that he remembered how Aramis always wanted him to keep touching him after an orgasm, but in the moment, Aramis’ dazed mind can only think that Athos is perfect, that he can read his mind.

Aramis could keep riding that wave into a dry orgasm, he knows from past experiences - or rather, some part of him currently not online knows that, but the primal part of him that’s at the wheel only has a sense of need for more. But then Athos cums, throbbing inside him, and the thrusts slow down to a stop. Aramis whimpers pathetically when Athos slips out of him.

Athos leaves for less than a minute, coming back with a wet but warm cloth that he uses to wipe Aramis’ chest and stomach, then, with the utmost gentleness, the lube from his arse. Then the bed dips and Aramis finds himself wrapped up in Athos’ arms and legs and his whole body as it curls around him. Then he pulls his luxurious feather duvet over them, sealing them in a warm caccoon.

He’s deep under - subspace combined with exhaustion and the weight of emotions are keeping him a thousand leagues under the sea. He feels perfect. There is no need to move or to speak, just to exist, to soak up this feeling of rightness. Athos’ face is resting in the crook of his neck, his breathing is steady and deep, and Aramis turns his head just enough to bury his nose in Athos’ hair. Athos smells like his childhood dreams come true, like every desire he ever had, like the home he always hoped for and never dared to believe he would actually have.

Athos wakes up first, but he doesn’t move a muscle.

They’re exactly how they fell asleep, just looser, more sprawled. Aramis is snoring lightly into Athos’ hair.

Athos closes his eyes and lets himself drift some more.

When he wakes up again, it’s because the sun has moved on the sky and is now shining directly through the window and into his eyes, with only the feeble protection of his eyelids in the way. It must have been that way for quite some time, because Athos’ eyesight has sharpened and he can see every single imperfection on his white duvet, every single hair and mole and vein on his arm as he lifts it to shield his eyes. He should get up and pull the curtain closed. Instead, he rolls towards Aramis and pulls the duvet over both of their faces. Aramis stirs a little, but quickly settles again once the movement stops.

He dozes, not completely falling asleep again, just floating in between awareness and dreams. The air gets heavier, their scents have nowhere to go, trapped under the duvet with them, blending into one. Athos wakes up sweaty and hard, searching for Aramis like a blind puppy for a nipple. He doesn’t have far to go, just an inch this way or that and then they’re kissing, Aramis awake and just as desperate to be with him.

They lie there afterwards, panting, sated, the light streaming through the window and over them. Athos is looking at Aramis, drinking in his features, and Aramis is looking back with eyes the colour of mahogany.

“Hey,” he says, his voice raspy with sleep.

“Hey,” Athos says, his voice even deeper.

They don’t say anything else for a very long time.