Archive of Our Own

Love’s time’s beggar, but even a single hour,
bright as a dropped coin, makes love rich.
We find an hour together, spend it not on flowers
or wine, but the whole of the summer sky and a grass ditch.

For thousands of seconds we kiss; your hair
like treasure on the ground; the Midas light
turning your limbs to gold. Time slows, for here
we are millonaires, backhanding the night

so nothing dark will end our shining hour,
no jewel hold a candle to the cuckoo spit
hung from the blade of grass at your ear,
no chandelier or spotlight see you better lit

than here. Now. Time hates love, wants love poor,
but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.

************

Twenty-six, Aramis thinks as he crosses another day off his mental countdown. He’s staring out the window at the rest of the vehicles in the convoy and being glad he has something else to think about besides how his team is grumbling that it’s been almost a year since any member of this unit of paratroopers has done a jump.

Aramis understands their gripe. He misses the wind. He misses the sun on his face and the wind through his fingers and that sudden calm when the canopy opens. He misses none of it as much as he misses Porthos, though, so that’s where his mind is right now. He’s not cursing the sand or the tedium; he’s not even dreaming of the wind on his face, he’s back on the sofa in that flat in Paris.

The higher-level officers are having a strategy and planning session; the rest of them have been left to bake in the heat, so Aramis pulls out his phone. He’s expecting that he’ll get Porthos’ voicemail and end up leaving a slightly lewd but very heartfelt message about the things he’d be doing if he were there. He is not expecting to hear Porthos’ intoxicatingly sleep-heavy voice saying his name in a way that makes it clear there’s a lazy smile on his face. 

“Aramis."

His knees go out a little. “Hey gorgeous, I’m sorry I woke you." 

“‘Sokay, you didn’t know. We’re on for the next few days, so we’ve got a bit of time to ourselves first. Got to spend it however we choose. I chose poorly." 

Aramis puts his hand over his eyes, as much to help him visualize Porthos warm and naked in bed as to block out the sun. “What did you do, my love?"

“Tried to keep up with Athos, didn’t I?”  His voice is slightly muffled, and Aramis suspects he’s dropped his face back into the pillow. 

“Someday I’m going to meet this Athos of yours and I’m going to give him a stern talking to about the state of your liver." 

“Heh. I’d like to hear how that goes; you might actually— oh!” Porthos’ voice suddenly sounds much more alert, and Aramis feels a little pang of loss at not hearing that deep, sleep-drunk tone anymore. “Meant to talk to you about that." 

“About meeting Athos?”  Aramis asks. 

“In a manner of speaking. I know we haven’t talked much about what you’d do after you get out, we’re both way too focused on you getting out, but I was thinking…" his voice trails off. 

Aramis gives him a second and then nudges him. “Yes?" 

“I’m not saying it’s something you would do for the rest of your life, but would you like for me to put in a word for you at TS? It’d be something to keep you busy, keep you from dipping into your savings while you figure out what you would like to do." 

Aramis hopes the smile comes through in his voice. “And I’d get to see you during the day." 

There’s that gorgeous rumbling chuckle that sends prickles down Aramis’ spine. “No guarantee of that, but at the very least I’d get to sit next to you at the all-hands meeting and get a little squeeze in while you’re at the coffee machine." 

“Tsk tsk, inappropriate workplace touching, du Vallon. What will Human Resources say?" 

“I imagine that if I tell them how much you like me touching you, then they’ll just ask for pictures." 

Aramis laughs loud and long enough that the supply officer looks up from checking in boxes to see what’s so funny. With a wave, Aramis sends the guy back to his clipboard and crates and says to Porthos, “I think I’d like that. You putting in a word for me, I mean, not the groping at the coffee maker. Though I doubt I’d turn that down if it were on offer." 

Porthos’ voice is heavy with sweetness, “Yeah?" 

“Yeah. Do it." 

“You’ll need to submit an application online, just your skills and recent experience and a few personal details. You can use my place as an address. I’ll send you a link to the site." 

Aramis can see the capitaine coming back over from the command tent and knows that his hour of leisure is up. “You do that; I have to get back on the road, I think. I’ll speak with you soon?" 

“Try and stop me. I love you." 

“Go back to sleep. I love you." 

Aramis has still not gotten over how much more those words mean to him now. They’ve always meant home and family and an unbreakable bond. Now they mean holding hands while walking through the market and sleepy mornings in bed together, in their bed together. Now those words mean forever. The idea of forever with Porthos has not stopped making his heart skip a beat.

The next time Aramis is back on base and near a computer, he pulls up the link Porthos has sent him and fills out the application. Tréville Sécurité has been around forever; they’re the benchmark by which other private security firms are judged; discrete, skilled and a with a terrifying attention to detail. So, Aramis knows better than to think that Porthos’ job is as cushy as it looks from the outside. He’s heard all the details from Porthos himself, but he still can’t help but hope that they’ll be able to work on the occasional job together. 

Recent work history is easy enough; he just gives his Legion unit and their last few postings. He’s able to fill all of the available lines for “weapons skills” without even trying very hard, and the “other skills” portion reminds him just how much effort and time the Legion has put into making him lethal. The last section is for references. Aramis lists Porthos of course, and then puts down Houdet, as well as Roget and his current capitaine. 

He sends it off with a wish and a prayer and goes to the mess tent to eat. That night, curled on his cot, Aramis dreams of being in Porthos’ flat, getting ready for work together and tying Porthos’ tie. He dreams that when work is over Porthos uses that tie to lash Aramis’ hands together and then fucks him against the kitchen windows. He wakes up at dawn in a sweat and stops to cross another day off his mental tally. Twenty-five. 

Three days later Aramis receives a politely worded reply from the recruiting director at Tréville Sécurité. His qualifications are superb, they say, his references are impeccable. They understand that he is nearing his discharge date and would welcome the chance to speak with him upon his return to Paris. There’s the name of the department head Aramis should contact once he’s discharged. 

Aramis forwards it to Porthos before going to dinner. He’s taken his book with him, but he’s not reading. He’s keeping it open in front of him so that the other men will leave him be, he needs some time to think. This is the most Aramis has ever planned his life. He’d known where he would work and live when he got to San Sébastian, but not how long he’d say or what that life would bring. There had been the plan to come to Aubagne and sign up for the Legion, but no sense that he’d actually make it or what he’d be doing if he got his five-year contract. With this, if it works, he knows where he will live, the pattern of his weeks, what will fill his days, who will fill his nights.

He’d expected that this kind of certainty and sense of commitment would make him feel jumpy or unsure, but it’s entirely the opposite. The idea of sinking into a life with Porthos, a life with some guarantees and givens, fills him with joy. Perhaps it’s that it is Porthos at the other end of this journey, the only thing in Aramis’ life that he’s ever truly wanted for as long as he could have it. Then too, perhaps he’s just spent so many years unsure and unsettled, so many years not knowing if the next day will bring deserts or mountains or bullets aimed at his head, that he’s reached a point where he cherishes a future that can be known.

At some point in the last eight years Aramis has come to understand the difference between excitement and fear, a difference he hadn’t even acknowledged existed when he was first learning to jump out into thin air with a silk bag on his back. He thinks that perhaps he’s finished being professionally terrified to quite this degree. 

When he’s finished with his meal, Aramis closes his book, still on the same page he opened it to, and goes back to his tent. He takes a minute to look around at the teams around him as he walks through camp. Some of these guys are good kids, they’ll grow into fine soldiers and chances are good they won’t die kneeling in a pool of their own blood while their team leader looks on, but Aramis is finished gambling with his own team, his own sanity, like that. 

As he pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, shivering against the desert night, he ticks another day off his tally. Twenty-two.

His discharge day, when it comes, is utterly unremarkable. Two days before, he packs his rucksack with his books and his spare uniform shirts and trousers; he shoves the books on top and pats his top pocket to reassure himself his mobile is in there. He shakes hands with his team; there are back-slapping hugs from a few, and sticks his head into the officer’s mess for a moment to say goodbye to his capitaine. Then, as though it were any other Friday, he strolls through camp over to the motor pool.

Unlike the other Fridays, he doesn’t check out a truck and head out on patrol. Instead, he lets the Ukrainian kid (why is it always a Ukrainian kid in the motor pool?) drive him out to the airstrip. There’s an American C-130 that’s heading to Rome with a jump seat available, and before he can spare a second to wonder if he’ll miss Afghanistan, the base is growing small out his window and the clouds are coming closer.

In Rome, Aramis barely has time to stretch his legs before boarding his flight to Corsica. A combination of airport shuttle busses and taxis gets him to the garrison in Calvi just before sunset on Sunday, and Aramis falls face first into his assigned bunk and doesn’t move until appeler is called at six the next morning.

He does spare a minute to wonder if he’ll miss this, the congregation of every man on base and the way it reminds them all of their collective purpose, of their camaraderie and fellowship. During this time, the Legion truly is their country and the songs they sing together do not seem at all ridiculous. Even still, Aramis decides, he’d rather be in Paris missing this than in Calvi missing Porthos. 

There is a day of pre-discharge interviews, of checklists and formalities and returning his FAMAS to the armory. They make him count out the ammunition, as though he might have shot someone between Afghanistan and Calvi, and they will need to account for it in the ledgers. He has to sit through an extensive lecture on his benefits; he’s turned down the offer of French citizenship that comes with all honorable discharges so he gets to skip that presentation, but there’s still a long discussion of the available resources he can avail himself of and he tries to focus through all of it. 

The last thing that happens is the exit physical. Aramis is standing on the scale and realizing that he will never again have a day to cross off his tally. He decides to give this last day a tally of its own. Zero. They take his blood pressure, draw blood, test his heart rate, he loses track after that but he smiles to think that if all goes well he’ll end up doing an intake physical soon. 

At the end of Aramis’ physical, the base commander, Minières, comes into the doctor’s office, just in time for Aramis to be doing up the top few buttons of his shirt. He knew he’d be getting a goodbye visit from a superior officer, but this is unexpected. There’s a brief discussion of his exemplary service record, how proud they are to have had him in their numbers, how much he will be missed. Aramis doubts that last bit until the commander lowers his voice, takes his beret off and says, “I read the reports from N’djamena. I lost three of my close-quarters team in Zaire. They tell you it’ll fade, that you’ll stop seeing it at night…" 

“I still see it,” Aramis says. 

Minières bunches his beret in his fist. “You always will, less often as the years pass, but you always will. I just wanted you to know; you are not the only one who still sees it; you will never be the only one. Will you have someone who understands?" 

Aramis nods. He will have Porthos, who will always understand. He will have Fatima, who was there to see the aftermath. He will not be alone. 

Minières nods in return. “Then you are as ready as you can be. Good luck, d’Herblay.”  He extends his hand, and Aramis shakes it, firm and honest. 

“Thank you, Sir.” Minières leaves, and that’s it. He’s finished. Aramis takes his two bags, all he owns in the world, and takes a cab to the airport. He’s splurging with a plane trip to Paris instead of the ferry and the train, figuring years upon years of not spending his money on anything more than taking Fatima to dinner and the hotel room in San Sébastian has earned him this indulgence. 

As the taxi is pulling away from the base gates, Aramis takes a moment to look back. He looks at the well-groomed garden beds, the pristine paint job, the sea in the distance, and know that it will be weeks, months perhaps, before his body stops waking him at dawn for appeler and before he stops humming Legion songs under his breath as he works. These things are to be expected, but his life here is over now. It hits him again, as it has more than a few times in the last five hundred days, that the new life ahead of him is everything he might ever have dreamed, and that he still isn’t aware of all the goodness it holds. 

Aramis wonders if there will be a day when he wakes up next to Porthos in their flat and isn’t grateful for everything he has been given, all the grace in his life. He sincerely hopes not.

Porthos is waiting just outside the security checkpoint, and Aramis thinks he’s never seen the rest of his life standing in front of him like this and god, he could really get used to it. The smile on his face is probably exactly as soft and sentimental as he thinks it is when he says, “Hi." 

Smiling back, Porthos says, “Hi yourself." 

They stand for a few seconds, looking at each other before Aramis comes the last few steps and drops his forehead to Porthos’ chest. He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops at the sides of Porthos’ waist and says, “I’m finished. I’m finished there.”

Porthos drops his head to press a kiss to Aramis’ hair. “Yeah, you are.”  He drapes his arms around Aramis’ back, holding him lightly but with a promise that he’ll never let go. “Now you’re all mine.” 

Aramis laughs and looks up to find Porthos’ face so close it seems impossible not to kiss it. He doesn’t resist. Between kisses, Aramis says, “All yours,” then twines his arms around Porthos’ neck. He can feel Porthos’ growl as much as he hears it.

“You’re going to get us arrested for public indecency.”  Porthos pulls back and waits for Aramis to meet his eyes before asking, “You ready to go home?"

 “Yes,” Aramis says, grinning so hard his face hurts. “Let’s go home."

Porthos frowns for just a second. “I never asked, I just assumed. If you want, I’ll help you find a place-“ Aramis puts one palm firmly over Porthos’ mouth. 

“Porthos? Let’s go home.”  He can feel Porthos smile under his hand as he nods.

When they arrive at the flat, Aramis waits while Porthos digs in his pockets for something. He holds his hand out to Aramis. “Here, you do the honors."

In Porthos’ hand is a key. Aramis’ key. To their flat. Realizing he’s standing there with his mouth open, Aramis snaps it shut and takes the key, unlocking the door and walking across the threshold. Before Porthos can walk through the doorway on his own, Aramis fists his hands in Porthos’ t-shirt and pulls him in for a fierce kiss. “Thank you. I love you." 

After the last visit, there are very few places in this flat that they haven’t kissed, but it still feels special when Aramis drags Porthos inside and presses him up against the back of the door, pouring all the love in his heart into the place where their lips meet. It’s still special when he straddles Porthos’ lap on the sofa and covers his neck in kisses while he rides Porthos’ cock. It feels like every time before, but it also feels like the first time for the rest of their lives.

Aramis barely sleeps the first night. He’d expected that being next to Porthos would have the usual effect and he’d be out cold. Instead, he wakes up several times and wanders through the flat, looking out the windows. He crawls back into bed each time, presses himself up against Porthos just to feel Porthos’ arms slip around him, and thinks I live here, now.

The morning after he arrives in Paris, Aramis calls the number he’d been given in his last email from TS and schedules an in-person interview for noon the next day. 

Porthos has a shift starting at 2, and he’ll need to check out his sidearm before that, but he’s got the morning free. He spends it helping Aramis get ready. Porthos vetoes the first two ties Aramis suggests and ends up handing over one of his own, saying, “Trust me, the blue is good.”  Aramis would never have expected Porthos to be the one with the fashion sense, but he can’t argue that the blue tie works. 

Aramis showers before he dresses, Porthos helps with that part as well. It takes far longer than a shower should, thanks in no small part to Porthos’ special good-luck-at-your-interview bathing technique. Porthos helps him shave again, both of them agreeing that this is going to be the last time for the foreseeable future. Aramis says, “I’m going to look rakish and dashing with a beard; I’m sure of it." 

“Yes, of course,” says Porthos, patting at Aramis’ skin with lotion and wiping away the last of the shaving foam. “You’ll be able to pull wherever you go and won’t that be a nice change for you.”  He’s so deadpan it takes Aramis a second to pick up the joke, but when he does he puts his arms around Porthos’ waist and laughs into his neck. 

“I love you." 

“And I love you, but if you keep breathing on my neck like that you’re gonna be late to your interview, and I’m gonna to be late to my shift. Then Athos will kill me, and you’ll be unemployed and single. Don’t want that, do you?”  He squeezes Aramis’ waist and gives him a little shake. “C’mon, I’ll make you breakfast 

Breakfast turns out to be toast and coffee, but they eat it in their kitchen, so it’s perfect. 

They stand with their shoulders pressed together in the elevator on the way up to the offices and just before the doors open Porthos kisses Aramis and whispers, “Good luck." 

Aramis gives his name to the receptionist and is shown into a small conference room. A few minutes later, he’s joined by a man who resembles nothing so much as a cartoon devil. He’s short and stocky; his beard is waxed to a vicious point just below his chin, but his smile is broad and friendly, and his handshake is warm. He introduces himself as Georges Souza; he’s the director of Close Security for the entire firm. Aramis has heard Porthos talk about Souza in tones ranging from deep respect to complete awe. 

It’s at that moment Aramis realizes he is not here for your average HR interview. He’s not being vaguely considered for a position somewhere in the firm; his prospective boss is sizing him up for a position in a specific department. For some reason, this relaxes Aramis. He doesn’t have to prove that he can be an asset to the organization; he needs to convince this man that he can keep people safe. 

They talk for almost an hour. Souza asks for details about recent missions; Aramis tells him everything he can. He asks Aramis how comfortable he feels about modifying standard operating procedures to reflect current events or recent experience. Aramis tells him about rewriting the IED detection training; he talks about the new situational reconnaissance techniques they’d introduced after N’djamena. Unexpectedly, Aramis tell him the whole story of both Afghanistan and Chad, of all the lives lost and all the lives he tried to keep safe after. 

Souza’s expression doesn’t show sympathy, but there’s a softening of the lines around his eyes and Aramis knows that this man understands never wanting to lose anyone again if it can be helped. 

“I spoke to your commanding officers; they had nothing but glowing reports about your service. Of course, you also come highly recommended by one of my most valued team members. Given how recent your discharge was I expect the physical evaluation and firearms skills test to be mostly formalities, but we do need to have them. If you’re interested in moving forward with this, you can let Mireille at the front desk know when would be best for you to come back in." 

Aramis smiles, he can’t help it. “I would like that very much, Sir. I’m afraid I’m not cut out for keeping the sofa warm and watching television." 

Souza stands, collecting his papers as he smiles back at Aramis. “No, I imagine not. Though it is incredible what heights of sloth one can reach with the right cable package.” Aramis lets out a startled bark of laughter and Souza’s eyes twinkle back at him. “We'll look forward to seeing you again, then. It will take a day to run the necessary background checks before we can allow you on the range, but perhaps if you’re free on Friday?" 

Aramis stands as well, extending his hand to shake. “Friday it is." 

“Friday,” Souza says shaking Aramis’ hand and taking his leave.

 From the front desk, after letting Mireille know his availability, Aramis texts Porthos to say that he’s finished, that the talk with Souza went well. The phone rings almost immediately after he hits ‘send’.

“You met with Souza straight away?” Porthos asks. 

“I did.” Aramis pushes the button for the elevator. “He’s funnier than you expect he’s going to be.”  

“He’s great. Don’t let that smile fool you, though. That little bastard can kill you three dozen different ways using nothing but the things in his office.”  There’s a muffled voice in the background and Porthos laughs. “Athos says not to forget the three ways he could kill you with the office itself." 

The lift doors open and Aramis steps in. “Tell Athos I say hello. I’m in the lift; if I lose you, I’ll call you back." 

Porthos passes Aramis’ greeting on to Athos and gets another muffled response. “He says to save it until you see him in person; he’s part of the team evaluating your PT test and weapons skills." 

This is not, strictly speaking, true. Athos isn’t actually part of that team because officially the entire evaluation is being done by Souza. He is, however, the person with the right of first refusal regarding Aramis’ team status if he’s hired. It would be an exaggeration to say that Athos stamped Aramis’ application with “TEAM THREE” as soon as it arrived, but not much of an exaggeration. (In reality he’d sent a politely worded email to Souza, but it amounted to the same thing.)  Athos is attending Aramis’ skills demonstrations to ensure that no one else gets even the slightest idea that they should throw their teams’ hat into the ring. 

“Tell him I look forward to it,” Aramis says. “Now get back to work. I’m going to do some shopping so we can have something besides toast for breakfast tomorrow. I love you." 

Porthos’ voice drops an octave, a sound meant only for Aramis’ ears. “I love you, too." 

The shopping is a wild success. Breakfast the next morning is poached eggs and fresh berries… and toast.

When Friday comes Aramis slides into his tracksuit bottoms, a white t-shirt he’s fairly certain is free of holes and stains, and his trainers, and finds his own way to the offices. The gym is on the fourth floor; Souza walks him there and explains what they’ll need for the evaluation. He wishes Aramis luck and goes to lean against the wall next to a man roughly Aramis’ own age with a full beard and piercing blue eyes. 

Aramis sees several other employees in the gym doing suspiciously slow reps on various machines and realizes more than just more than just the bosses are sizing him up. He takes a minute to be thankful that Porthos isn’t here and watching; Aramis would have a hard time not showing off and that’s not the face he’s trying to present to this firm. 

(Porthos is absolutely here, and he’s absolutely watching. He’s tucked himself behind a supporting pillar near the back of the room; from there he can see everything in the mirrored wall behind the free weights.) 

Aramis runs three miles, does a dozen pull-ups and a series of timed sprints. He thinks if they really wanted to test his on-the-job fitness he’d be doing all this in his interview suit, but he’s so very glad that’s not the case. He doesn’t notice the woman on the elliptical machine stumble when he starts his pull-ups, but everyone else does and no one blames her. By this point, Aramis is sweating enough that his shirt has begun to stick to his skin, and it’s becoming slightly transparent. Porthos nearly drops a dumbbell on his foot. 

When the physical exam is over, Souza introduces him to the bearded, blue-eyed man. Athos looks both exactly like Aramis had imagined, but not a thing like he been expecting. From Porthos’ descriptions, Aramis had formed a general idea of what Athos might look like, but the intensity of his stare, the firmness of his handshake, the warmth of his voice, these are all a surprise. Together the three of them take the lift to the weapons range in the basement. 

Porthos ducks into the building’s security office; the rest of the Close Security department not currently on shift joins him. Together they convince the building security guards to pipe the feed from the weapons range cameras to a laptop, and everyone gathers around to watch.

Aramis is unaware of his audience, but it would make no difference. He picks up the .9mm Walther PPQ and empties the clip into the paper target. When he’s finished there’s a hole the size of a 2 Euro coin in the center of the target. The rest of the target is spotless. With the .45mm Sig Sauer 220 Aramis puts all of his shots into a 5cm wide spot in the center of the target’s forehead.

By this time, he could actually just stop. He’s made his point, and no one doubts his skill. In point of fact, there are shocked faces in the building security room, and Porthos’ trousers are feeling uncomfortably tight. Still, he’s here for a reason. Aramis runs the target all the way out to the end of the range for his next weapon. It only goes out to 400 meters and Aramis knows he can make a shot at twice that, but he’s sure this will be enough. The SAKO .308 isn’t his favorite rifle, but it’s one he’s more than familiar with. 

He puts two shots directly through the center of the target’s throat, runs the target back in and steps back, setting the rifle back down on the shelf in front of him and taking off his ear protection. Athos’ voice is mildly amused. “I almost expected you to give us a nice floral pattern with the rifle." 

Aramis grins, one side of his mouth lifting. “I can, if you’d like." 

“No,” Athos says. “I think we’ve seen what we needed to see.”  He smiles at Aramis, nods at Souza, and walks out. 

Souza holds the door open for Aramis, “Come with me, I have some paperwork for you to fill out, assuming you’re still interested.” 

Once they’re back above ground and Aramis has signal on his mobile, he texts Porthos. I have a job!! 

Porthos, shooing everyone out of the building security office and back to their desks, sees the text come in, but it’s a few minutes before he has the privacy to reply. 

Watched your weapons qualification on the CCTV. Gonna fuck you so hard tonight.

Aramis manages to get his erection down before he has to give a urine sample for the obligatory drug test; he then spends two solid hours filling out forms and thanking god that he remembered to bring his discharge paperwork with him. He makes it home long before dark, but he’s so exhausted by the day that he falls face-first into the pillows on the bed. He doesn’t move until he feels Porthos’ mouth press a kiss into the side of his neck. 

He’s come home with congratulatory take-out. Neither of them should have to cook, he says. They sit on the area rug in the bedroom and eat straight out of the containers, stabbing into the cardboard corners with chopsticks, each talking about his day.

“I just. I wish I knew which team they’re going to put you on,” Porthos says. 

Aramis cocks his head, “Is there a particular one I should hope for?”  He’s smiling, but Porthos seems to be missing his point. 

“Depends, I guess." 

“On what?" 

“On where you want to end up.”  Porthos shrugs. 

Aramis puts his food down and takes Porthos’ hands. “You said next time I should ask, not just assume I know what you mean. What’s on your mind?" 

Porthos shifts his weight from one hip to the other and chews on his lower lip, trying to find the words. “I know where I would like you to be placed, but I don’t want to assume that it’s what you want. It’s been ten years since we lived in each other’s pockets day in and day out. A lot has happened in those years and maybe what you want now is-" 

“Porthos, stop. Of course I want to work with you. Aside from everything else, you are my best friend. I don’t want to have to come home and tell you all about my day in order for you to laugh or cry about it with me, I want you right next to me while it’s happening. If we need space, we’ll deal with it but… I just want you. I always want you. If this is another way I can be with you, then I want nothing more.”  He squeezes Porthos’ hands before letting them go and picking up his food again. 

Huffing a laugh, Porthos scrubs a hand through his hair and smiles. “It’s a process; it won’t happen right away. You’ll have to put in some time on other teams, a few months at least to work your way up. After that, if the system works the way it should, you’ll end up on my team, and I’ll get to see you all day. I’ll just have to find a way to keep myself from spending all day watching you and imagining what I’m going to do to you once I get you home." 

“Speaking of which,” Aramis picks his way through the container with his chopsticks and looks up at Porthos. “Saw the firearm qualification, did you?" 

Porthos actually growls. When it’s all over, Aramis will bitch for days about the rug burn on both of his shoulders, and the pad Thai stain will never actually completely come out of the rug. But while they’re fucking their cocks against each other, groaning at the friction and biting their orgasms into their kisses, the consequences seem so far away.

Aramis’ first day at TS is a week and a half later; Porthos buys him a new tie just for the occasion. They get up early so they can have a quiet breakfast together, and Aramis tries not to show how nervous he is. He’s worried about the team assignments, wanting to do well, wanting to not make Porthos sorry to have recommended him. Porthos slips a hand over his, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb over Aramis’ knuckles. 

“Love you,” Porthos says.

“And I love you,” Aramis says, smiling and then he isn’t worried anymore. Sometimes it really is that simple. Porthos will always love him; everything else is just a bonus.

They walk into the office together, but not holding hands; they’ve decided to keep the relationship quiet until Aramis is situated, and everyone is sure he’s there on his own merits. (They somehow manage to keep it from Athos for almost a week, even with the way Porthos puts his hand on the small of Aramis’ back as he leans in to say something and Aramis leans into Porthos’ space as he laughs.) 

Aramis stops at the front desk and picks up his ID badge and his welcome packet. He’s been through two days of orientation already, so he’s familiar with most of what it says. Porthos clips Aramis’ badge to his lapel and says, “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk." 

He shows Aramis to an open room with three desks and assorted office equipment. There’s an office with a door for the team leader but no sign of the other team members. Porthos pats the top of desk farthest from the door. “This is you." 

Aramis puts his satchel down and grins. “I feel terribly official now.”  When Porthos laughs, Aramis asks, “Which office is your desk in?"

Porthos’ breaks out a smile that’s almost shy and rubs his thumb along his lower lip. “So… yeah.”  He jerks his thumb at the desk just to the left. “That’s me." 

It takes Aramis a second to catch on, but when he does his mouth drops open and his smile is blinding. “I thought— you said I wouldn’t be assigned with you right away. You said…” 

Porthos shrugs and returns the smile. “I forgot to factor in Athos." 

As if he’s been waiting for his name, the door to the private office opens, and Athos pokes his head out, giving Aramis a brief but warm smile. “Ah, good, you’re both here. Come in so we can talk about this week’s schedule.”  

The first week is a blur. There are seemingly endless reams of information about threats and procedures and risks that he has to learn to handle in an entirely new way. In his eight years of armed service Aramis never had to worry about being unobtrusive. He’s either had to be intimidatingly present or completely invisible, this middle ground presents him with unexpected challenges. On top of all that, there are the dirty looks in the office from those who think they should have gotten his spot, those who liked the guy who had it before Aramis got there. 

That entire week is filled with enough change and settling in that Aramis almost doesn’t catch the moment Athos discovers Porthos no longer lives alone in his little one-bedroom flat, that Aramis and Porthos are not only sleeping together, they are desperately in love. 

It’s the end of Aramis’ first week, and the three of them have gone out for drinks after their shift. Three rounds in it’s Aramis’ turn, he stands up and asks for orders. His hand is on the back of Porthos’ chair, but that’s innocent enough. 

It’s not even particularly suspicious when Porthos looks up and smiles, saying, "Get me that shot I like,” but then as Aramis grins and nods he slips his hand up to grip the back of Porthos’ neck, squeezing gently. Athos’ eyes go just the slightest bit wider, but by the time Aramis’ gaze shifts to him he’s managed to compose himself. 

(Well, he’s composed himself on the outside, at least. Inside, Athos is still thinking, They look at each other the way my parents looked at each other. He takes the second he should be deciding on his drink order to assimilate this new information instead. He ends up agreeing to whatever drink Aramis wants to get him after Porthos says, “Trust him; he was a bartender for years.”  The shot involves blue curacao and fire.) 

Athos comes away from the evening extremely hung-over, slightly singed, and with the imprint of the piping on Porthos’ sofa pillows deeply etched on his cheek. He’s just cracked one eye open when he sees Porthos and Aramis passing each other in the kitchen. Porthos is still shuffling along in his pajama bottoms, making his way to the coffee maker; Aramis is fresh from the shower, towel slung around hips, and heading back to the bedroom to get dressed. They share a quick, sleepy kiss, and just as Aramis turns to walk out of the kitchen he catches Athos’ eye in a silent dare. Athos doesn’t say a word. 

Gradually the days and weeks become easier, and after the first month or so Aramis finds that he’s actually settled and comfortable. Athos is the best leader he’s ever served under (and it does feel like service, for all that it’s civilian life). Nothing is overlooked; nothing is inconsequential until it’s been discussed, and he trusts his team to play to their strengths and think for themselves. Aramis somehow survives his first trip out of the country with the rest of the team, and on the way back he finds himself watching the countryside whizzing past the window and being well and truly satisfied with his life.

He would be lying if he said that feeling was due only to job satisfaction and the lack of explosions, because through it all there is Porthos. In the mornings, Aramis usually wakes first, and when he does, Porthos is the first thing he sees. It’s either the sweep of Porthos’ lashes against his cheeks if they’re facing each other or the skin of Porthos’ shoulder if Aramis is spooned up behind him. Some days they wake early enough for lazy morning sex; other days there are quick, sloppy handjobs in the shower. Still other days they just smile and kiss each other and know that they don’t have to jam all the sex they can into a small window; they can savor a day of light touches and sly looks and let the tension build until they are home again and rutting against each other with the door barely closed behind them. 

If you’d asked him, Aramis might have expected to be a little bored with civilian work and a settled life, but five months in he’s still perfectly content. He’s happy. He has Porthos’ feet under his legs while they sit on the sofa to watch movies; he has days with just enough excitement to keep him on his toes. He has a life, the life he always dreamed of, but never thought could be his. There are still moments, even now, when he just stops, and a smile takes over his entire face. More than once Porthos has seen it and given him that same smile in return before saying, “Yeah, I know."

At the beginning of December, they meet to talk about the high-level schedule for the month. Aramis blinks at the calendar, checks again, and yes the schedule says they have ten days off at the end of the month. They’re not due back until the 29th. He flicks his eyes up to Athos who tells him that it’s standard for the team. They’ll be working the lavish New Year’s party, and it will be a security nightmare, the leave is almost an apology in advance. 

“What will we do with ten days off?” Aramis asks later that night, giving Porthos a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. 

Porthos laughs. “Actually, I thought we might go visit your mum and dad if you’re okay with that?" 

This. This is why he loves this man so much. Aramis takes Porthos’ face in his hands. "I will book the tickets in the morning, right now I’m going to take you to bed and fuck you. I love you." 

Aramis’ parents are ecstatic at the idea of a visit. They want to show Aramis and Porthos around San Isidro, to show them the city that is now their home. Their house is the perfect size for Mathieu and Carolina, but not for guests of more than a night or two, so Aramis books them a hotel. When his mother apologizes for the ninth time Aramis says, “Mama, if you don’t stop saying you’re sorry I’m going to tell you all of the reasons Porthos and I would enjoy having our own hotel room." 

She huffs quietly and says something about there not being anything new under the sun and who does he think he’s trying to scandalize. Aramis blushes furiously and regrets ever saying anything. 

The lead-up to the holiday is hectic and stressful, and by the time they get on a plane all Aramis wants to do is sleep for a year. Porthos clearly shares the sentiment because before the landing gear is raised, they are asleep against each other. 

It’s not the worst flight they’ll ever take, it doesn’t hold a candle to some of the trips to Australia, but it’s the first trip they’ve taken together and just the length of it is stressful. Porthos has never been so happy to be in love with his best friend because they arrive in Buenos Aires without once trying to kill each other. 

The hugs they get from Carolina make the entire trip worth it, every mile, every minute in a security checkpoint line, even the airline meals. On the ride home from the airport, she chatters happily about the neighborhoods they’re passing through and points out random landmarks; Aramis and Porthos just hold hands in the back seat and soak in the feeling of family. 

It’s barely noon, but they’re both exhausted, so she sends them straight to the bedroom to sleep. She all but tucks them in despite their token protests, and almost before she can shut the door both of them are sound asleep. What eventually wakes them four hours later is the smell of cooking beef and the insistent demands of their stomachs. 

Carolina has made dinner, and it’s everything she always wished she could make for the boys in Paris. There are piles of meat and gorgeous vegetables, and she made chimichurri sauce two days ahead of time, so the flavors are perfect. The neighbors and their friends from church come by and introduce themselves, and this time Porthos and Aramis are prepared for “This is my son and his boyfriend, my other son,” and do not have to excuse themselves until they stop sniffling. They don’t even get choked up. Much. 

After dinner, after bold wine and hot steaks and the joyful sounds of family, Mathieu drives them to their hotel. It’s in Puerto Madero, a splurge for them and Aramis is looking forward to their stay. Mathieu will be back for them the next afternoon, he says. Aramis is going to evening services with his mother and Porthos has promised to keep Mathieu company while they’re gone. Aramis and Porthos sleep until almost noon and wake up feeling human for the first time in almost a week. 

When they’ve finished with lunch, they go out to visit the area around the hotel and wander down to the water. Aramis drapes his arms over the railing along the bridge and looks out over the buildings, the sun, the people walking by. He turns to look at Porthos next to him, and there’s… something in his face. Porthos doesn’t know what it is, but he wants it captured forever. 

“Hold still.”  Porthos fishes his camera out of his pocket. Aramis turns and looks at him; he’s leaning on one elbow, almost bending forward and the effect is that he looks as though he’s staring straight through the camera into Porthos’ eyes. His hair has grown longer in the last five months, it’s long enough to be messy on top, and while he’s not at a full beard stage yet, he’s deliciously scruffy. Perfect. He’s perfect, Porthos thinks. He snaps a picture and goes back over to stand at the railing next to Aramis. 

“Look at your face,” Porthos says. “I thought I knew all your looks, but I’ve never seen that one. What’s that look?" 

Aramis smiles. “I was looking at you behind the camera and thinking ‘How did I get so fucking lucky?’” 

Porthos grins. “Why’ve I never seen that face before?” he teases. 

“Because for years I only made it while you weren’t watching.” Aramis rests one hand on Porthos’ waist, unable to resist touching him, just because he can. "Since I moved back to Paris I make it every morning when I wake up, so you should get used to seeing it." 

“We’re both lucky, then,” Porthos says as he bends to kiss him. Aramis holds Porthos’ face in his hands and makes sure everything in his kiss says so fucking lucky. 

They fall into a rhythm for the rest of the trip; mornings alone, afternoons and evenings with family, and after dinner Porthos and Aramis take the car back to the hotel and have their nights together. Near the end of the first week, Porthos reminds Aramis that they did, in fact, bring clothes suitable for going out in and what’s the point of being close to posh nightclubs if they don’t make the most of them. So, that night, suitably dressed and groomed, and with the recommendation of the concierge, they head out to a club that has music pouring out of it that makes both of them want to dance. 

At several points over the next hour Porthos stops just to look at Aramis. His hair is slicked away from his face, and his shirt is plastered to his back and chest with sweat and there is the promise of sin in the way his hips move. There is nothing about him Porthos doesn’t want to devour. He’s not alone in that. 

Across the club, there is a strikingly beautiful man who hasn’t stopped watching them since they first took to the dance floor. He has messy brown hair and sleepy eyes and the trace of stubble he’s sporting only serves to highlight the angles of his jaw. He’s in a simple cotton tank top and a pair of low-slung jeans, and he would be wildly in violation of the “club attire” dress code if it weren’t for the fact that it’s actually painful how beautiful he looks in them. 

Porthos catches the man’s eye and smiles at him. The stranger smiles back and that’s when Porthos is done for, because this man's smile isn’t sly or seductive, it’s warm and friendly and open. Leaning down to put his mouth to Aramis’ ear Porthos says, “Hey gorgeous, you have an admirer.”  When Aramis looks a question at him, Porthos flicks his gaze to the man across the club. 

He can’t see what’s in Aramis’ eyes, will never know what the look was, but it’s strong enough to pull this stranger away from the wall and have him putting his drink on a table before joining them on the floor. Aramis flicks a look back at Porthos, there’s something in his eyes that isn’t 100% sure about this, but Porthos smiles, reassuring and warm, and leans into Aramis’ body, pressing him against this new dance partner. 

After half an hour, Porthos gives the “be right back” sign and heads to the bar for water. With the trance of the music temporarily broken, the man leans forward and says, loud enough for Aramis to hear over the music, “Oscar.”  Aramis introduces himself and says Porthos’ name while pointing towards the bar. Oscar smiles that open, friendly smile again and asks if Aramis speaks Spanish. He does, he says, but Porthos doesn’t. Oscar doesn’t speak French, but they all speak English well enough that can be their lingua franca for the night. 

They dance for long enough that Aramis gets used to the feeling of Oscar’s hands on his hips, of Porthos’ hands covering them. He comes to revel in the heat from both men making him sweat. When Oscar excuses himself for a bathroom break Porthos grips Aramis by the hips and spins him until they are eye-to-eye. “You’re having fun,” he says into Aramis’ ear. Aramis’ eyes are fever bright with the music and the company and the drugging energy of the night.

He nods and says, “I am."

Porthos jerks his head in the direction Oscar went. “He’s a pretty one." 

Aramis nods again and makes a lewd gesture indicating exactly how he feels about Oscar’s jeans and the ass inside them. 

Porthos licks his bottom lip, chews at it for a second while he looks straight into Aramis’ eyes and cocks one eyebrow. “I’m thinkin’ I have an idea."

Aramis looks slightly wary. “I’m always nervous when you get ideas, my love." 

“I’m thinking those jeans would look particularly nice on the floor next to our bed." 

Aramis puts his hands on Porthos’ shoulders and leans in to kiss him. “Why would I need him when I have you in the bed with me already?" 

“You don’t need anything,” Porthos says. “I’m talking about want.”

Porthos tugs Aramis to the edge of the dance floor where it’s a little quieter, and they can talk without shouting. “I notice things, Aramis, even if you don’t. You’ve been in Paris for six months and even though you’re happy, and I know you’re happy, you’ve turned down every invitation for a date you’ve gotten since you moved back. You’re not seeing anyone else. Hell, you’re not even flirting back with that girl at the café when she hands you your coffee.”  He grips Aramis’ waist and squeezes a little. “Thing is, you’re not missing it yet, but you will be soon."

“I—" 

“I know, Aramis. You’re going to say that I’m there, and I’m going to tell you again that it’s not one or the other, that’s not the relationship we’re having. I was serious; my heart is happiest when yours is, and your heart is happiest when you’re spreading love around.”   

Porthos bends to press a kiss to Aramis’ forehead. “You heard me when I said I know how your heart works, and I love you for it, not in spite of it, but I’m not sure you believed me. I get the feeling you feel like you’re being disloyal if you date or fuck or fall in love now that we live together, now that we’re thinking the same way about our future.”  He looks Aramis in the eye. “Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong." 

He’s not wrong, and if Porthos didn’t know already, it would be obvious from the look on Aramis’ face. Porthos leans into his ear again. “I love you. I want to invite that fucking gorgeous man back to our hotel and spend the rest of the night making an incredibly sweaty mess of the bed.” 

Porthos presses a kiss to the spot below Aramis’ ear that always makes him shiver. "I don’t want that because I’m trying to prove to you that I’m not going to be jealous or angry. Yeah, you’ll be able to see all those things, but that's just a bonus.” The next words are pitched so low that Aramis can feel them rumble in Porthos’ chest. "I want to do it because I love watching you when you’re getting fucked, and if he does it, I get to really enjoy the view." 

He can feel Aramis’ knees give just a little so Porthos grips him by the shoulders and bites at his neck. Oscar comes up behind Aramis while Porthos is licking at the bite mark and grins at them both. Porthos says, only for Aramis’ ears, “I’m going to the bathroom and I’ll be back in five minutes, if you don’t want this because you don’t want him or don’t want it tonight, that’s one thing, but if you want this like I do, your job while I’m gone is to deliver the invitation.”  Another bite, another lick, and Porthos is gone. 

In the bathroom, Porthos is zipping up his jeans and going to wash his hands when his mobile buzzes.

We’ll meet you out front.

Porthos finds Oscar and Aramis standing just outside the entrance to the club. He puts a hand on each man’s shoulder and says, “Are we going?"

“We are,” Aramis says, and there’s no trace of concern left, they’ve hit the magic moment, Aramis is all in. 

The conversation on the brief trip back to the hotel is amiable and easy, but it sputters out as soon as they get into the lift. Porthos catches Aramis’ eye and glances first to Oscar, then back to Aramis. He gives Aramis a wicked grin. Aramis grins back and leans into Oscar’s space, giving him just enough time to back away if he wants to before kissing him. 

Porthos is watching them, watching the heat build between them, and he can feel the sweat break out on the back of his neck. Aramis has his hand tucked into Oscar’s hair; fingers splayed, just feeling the texture of it against his skin. Oscar grabs at Aramis’ shirt, trying to fist his hands into it only to find that it’s too tight, too fused to Aramis’ chest with sweat. Instead, he grabs at Aramis’ flesh, gripping his shoulders, circling his biceps and stroking his thumbs over the skin. 

Aramis moans into the kiss and Porthos thinks this is the best idea he’s had in years. Too soon, they reach their floor, and Porthos has to drag Aramis out of the lift and propel him down the hallway with a hand on the small of his back. It’s Aramis who reaches the door first, digging in his pocket for the keycard and cursing as he fiddles with the handle. Porthos takes that second to smile at Oscar, to brush his own kiss over Oscar’s amazing mouth.

Oscar lets out a breathy little sigh as he slips his arms around Porthos’ waist, curling them up his back to press at his shoulder blades, pulling Porthos to his body, pressing their chests together. Porthos has a desperate grip on Oscar’s jeans on either side of his waist, hauling him up and in at once. He licks at Oscar’s mouth, tasting the drinks he’s had tonight on his lips. 

There’s a beep as the door lock disengages and a click as Aramis pulls at the handle. He turns back to Porthos and Oscar. “Okay, were we— fuck.”  Aramis goes uncharacteristically silent as he watches them kiss. It’s been ten years since Aramis watched Porthos kiss someone without a jolt of guilt in his belly; he’s completely forgotten how beautiful it is. 

When Aramis kisses, his face goes slack, when Porthos kisses his face is almost as expressive as when he’s talking. His eyebrows furrowed, his jaw angled forward, and the expression is a perfect illustration of the intent with which Porthos approaches not just a first kiss, but all the kisses after as well. He’s mapping his partner’s mouth, memorizing all the ways to make them sigh and moan, showing them exactly how precious he thinks this gift is. Kissing Porthos is like being in a museum case. You are being inspected, admired, learned. You are being seen as perfect and revered for what you are. Aramis sees Oscar’s expression of helpless surprise and knows exactly how he feels.

This time it’s Aramis’ turn to force Porthos through a door, shoving at his back. “In, now. I’ve no desire to end this night explaining our behavior to hotel security.”  He flicks on the hall light as they enter, and the small desk lamp as he passes it. There’s enough light to see, to admire and explore, but not the kind of surgical brightness he knows would ruin the mood.

Oscar hooks a hand around Aramis’ neck again, pulling him in and kissing him breathless. Porthos moves behind Aramis, wrapping his arms around so he can slide his hands up under Aramis’ shirt. He drags his fingernails over Aramis’ skin and says, “Let me tell you how this is going to go." 

Those words. Those words. Porthos takes such good care of him, always makes sure of his pleasure, that he’s loved and safe. The moment when Porthos makes it clear that he’s running the show is always a moment when Aramis knows how fucking good it’s going to be. Aramis only needs to do exactly what Porthos says, and the feeling of stepping back into that role makes Aramis’ blood run hotter. 

Porthos kisses the nape of Aramis’ neck as Aramis is moaning into Oscar’s mouth. “I know we have a little bit of a language barrier, and I want to make damn sure nothing gets lost in translation, that everyone gets just what they want. Now you and I always know, don’t we?  But Oscar here, he doesn’t know, and I can’t really tell him because I don’t speak Spanish. Oh sure, we could work in English but it’s not the best for everyone when we really need to get the specifics across." 

Oscar starts tracing his fingers up Aramis skin where it’s been exposed, where Porthos has rucked Aramis’ shirt up and left his hot skin to cool in the air of the room. Porthos says, “I think, just to make sure he knows what you like, exactly what you like, I’m going to have you first. You’re going to tell him everything I say to, and after that it’s his turn." 

Aramis gasps a sob into Oscar’s mouth and digs his fingers into Oscar’s shoulders. He tears his mouth away and says, “Please. Porthos, please." 

Porthos grins, “Tell him."

The words are in Spanish, but the meaning would be clear to Porthos even if it weren’t his own sentiment. Oscar’s eyes go wide, and he nods, palming his own cock through his jeans and licking out to wet his bottom lip. 

Between the three of them, they kiss and grope and sigh their way to nakedness. Porthos pushes Aramis backward onto the bed, laughing. He stretches out along Aramis’ side, stroking a palm down the length of Aramis’ torso and kissing him fondly. Porthos expects Oscar to settle on the other side of Aramis but instead he drags over the armchair from the desk. Pushing it to the side of the bed Oscar settles himself in it, one leg draped over the chair’s arm and one hand stroking lazily over his own balls, palming and rolling them as he smiles at Porthos. 

Oh yes, Porthos thinks, this was a fantastic idea. 

Porthos digs the lube from where it had been shoved under a pillow that afternoon but leaves it capped for the moment. He kisses Aramis’ face, his eyebrows and cheeks, the curve of his chin and the hairs that are closer to beard than stubble these days. “You’re beautiful like this, the center of attention. I love you.”  Before Aramis can return the sentiment Porthos dips his head and nips at the skin just above Aramis’ nipple and Aramis yelps. “Now, for this bit my mouth is going to be busy, so I want you to tell Oscar when you’re enjoying something. Tell him why you like it." 

He moves to kneel between Aramis’ legs, bending to kiss the skin of his inner thigh and stroking his hands down Aramis’ chest. Aramis arches his back and moans softly but doesn’t say a word. Porthos pinches lightly at Aramis’ skin as he licks over the crease where Aramis’ thigh meets his groin. He’s supposed to be talking, the pinch reminds him. 

Stammering, even in a language he’s spoken since birth, Aramis says, “Porthos knows how much I like to let things build, no matter how I ask, beg even, he knows how much I like to feel his mouth and hands on me. Right now, all I want is for him to put those big fingers of his inside me so he can fuck me sooner, but he’s making me wait.”  He grits his teeth and arches his back further as Porthos buries his nose in the skin of Aramis’ groin. “He’s fucking killing me."

Porthos doesn’t know exactly what Aramis has just said, but he knows that tone. He laughs and noses harder at the warm skin. He can’t help it; he loves the way Aramis smells here. Even after a few hours of dancing it’s still irresistible. Aramis’ hair is trimmed close here, letting Porthos lick at the skin as his fingernails drag over Aramis’ hips. His fingers stop for a second, curling and digging in just to hear Aramis hiss. 

“Fuck!  He knows that I…” Aramis turns his face into the pillow until the flush recedes a bit. “He knows that I like a little pain, so he digs his fingernails in. It feels so good, especially if he does it at the same time he’s licking me or—” He cuts off abruptly as Porthos lifts his head and licks at the tip of Aramis’ cock. Aramis’ words dissolve into a high-pitched little noise of pleasure.

Moving lower, Porthos gets a hand behind each of Aramis’ thighs and spreads him wide, pushing his knees up into his chest. Aramis knows he should be ashamed of being exposed like this in front of a virtual stranger, of feeling so open and undignified, but he knows what’s coming so he just moans and says, “Oh, fuck yes. He knows how much I love this." 

Oh yes, he does. Porthos knows that Aramis adores being rimmed and doesn’t get it nearly as often as he wants. From the look on his face, Oscar loves it, too. His eyes are wide, and his cock is red and throbbing. Oscar is tracing his hands up his own chest, flicking at his nipples and then running his palms over his thighs. He seems to like his pleasure as drawn out as Aramis does, and Porthos knows they’re going to be stunning together. 

Lowering his head, Porthos licks lightly at Aramis’ hole. Aramis gasps and cries out. “He always licks me so softly the first time. He knows that even if I’m expecting it, that first touch of his tongue is a little surprise. But oh, fuck, yes. After that, he knows I hate for him to hold back." 

Porthos is lavishing filthy open-mouthed kisses over Aramis’ entrance now. Licking and sucking at it, dragging his thumbs against the skin to pull him further open. He swipes his tongue up to lick at Aramis’ balls and then back down again. 

“Fuck!  I never get used to this, Oscar. I never get used to how good he makes me feel. I’ve been fucking this man for half my life, and I never get used to how well he knows my body. He plays me so well and makes me feel so good. How does he always know what I want?  God, fuck, yes.” 

Porthos has circled his fingers around the base of Aramis’ cock, and he’s squeezing it while he licks and sucks and flicks his tongue into the tight ring of muscle at the center of Aramis’ ass. Aramis is squirming under the touch, writhing and grabbing at the sheets. Porthos pulls back, wiping his mouth with the sheets and letting Aramis calm down for a moment. He takes the opportunity to flick open the lid on the lube and pours a bit over his fingers. When he thinks Aramis is ready again, Porthos slides those wet, slick fingers over Aramis’ hole as he kisses the skin behind Aramis’ balls.

Aramis sobs out a whine. “I love his fingers so much; they’re so big, and his skin is always so warm. He knows I’m still loose from having him fuck me so well this morning, but he always takes such good care of me.”  Porthos pushes his fingers in gently, and Aramis rolls his head back and forth on the pillow, almost thrashing. “He’s.. god, you’d think he was stretching me so I’m not sore tomorrow, but he knows how much I love being a little sore, love feeling it and remembering how good he felt inside me. So right now he’s not doing it just to stretch me, he’s,” another gasp, “he’s fucking teasing me."

Oscar smiles from the chair, one hand dragging up and down the underside of his cock, curling it into his belly. “Yes, he is a monster, clearly. You must hate it. I’m sure you beg him to stop." 

Aramis laughs and translates for Porthos. Porthos presses his smile into the skin of Aramis’ thigh and chuckles. “Lord, what have I done that you only bring me brats to fuck?”  With that, he strokes his fingers out and then back in again, enjoying the heaving, crying breaths from Aramis. 

For a few minutes there’s nothing out of Aramis, just the keening reaction he has every time Porthos twists his fingers. It’s Oscar who prompts him out of it. He reaches his toes out and nudges at Aramis’ elbow. “Tell me what has you so speechless, I want to know so I can do the same." 

Aramis whimpers. “He knows how much I love the feeling of his knuckles as he twists his fingers, how much I love the way they tug at my fucking hole when he pulls out. And fffffuck, he’s twisting his fingers on the way in and spreading them on the way out now and I swear to Christ, Porthos, I’m going to come of you don’t stop that."

Oscar turns and sees that Porthos has his mouth around the head of Aramis’ cock, and it looks as though his fingers are still but curled, pressing inside of Aramis. 

“When he does that,” Aramis’ eyes are slammed shut and the heels of his palms are pressed to his forehead. “When he does that with his fingers I can see sparks behind my eyes.”  With one hand Aramis is swatting at Porthos’ hair, gripping it and tugging, but Porthos still has his fingers circled tightly around the base of Aramis’ cock. Aramis is worried about coming too soon, but Porthos is making sure that doesn’t happen. 

Finally, when Aramis’ words fail him and he’s reduced to just thrashing and arching against the bed, digging in his heels and fucking his hips up as much as Porthos’ hand will let him, Porthos pulls off of his cock with an obscene pop. He pulls his fingers from Aramis’ asshole and puts one last sloppy kiss against it. Kissing Aramis just below his navel, wiping his mouth against Aramis’ skin, Porthos asks, “Are you ready for me?" 

“Always,” Aramis sobs. “Always.”  He’s lost, still speaking in Spanish, but Porthos understands. With his hand around his own cock, Porthos pushes against Aramis’ hole. The head of his cock is blunt and wide, and Aramis feels the fucking glorious burn of it. Aramis clutches at Porthos’ hips, stopping him.

“Too much?” Oscar asks.

“No,” Aramis says. “God no, never, just the opposite. Feels so fucking good right there, just that first push; I always make him stop so I can enjoy it as long as it lasts. He knows how much I love being fucked. I love fucking, too. Love the feeling of tight, warm, slick ass around me, or a beautiful wet cunt, maybe having a fat cock in my mouth. But there is nothing I love as much as I love being fucked.”  His fingernails dig into Porthos’ hips as Aramis moans. 

Oscar grunts, wrapping a hand around his cock and bucking up into his fist. Aramis rolls his head against the pillow and meets Oscar’s eyes. He blinks, slow and lazy. Oscar smiles at him, stroking his hand over his length and imagining what Aramis will feel like around him, what he will do to make Aramis look like that. 

When Aramis rolls his hips up, that’s all the sign Porthos needs to see. For the next few minutes, as Porthos eases into it slowly, enjoying the endless drag of his cock in and out, Aramis describes how it feels. He tells Oscar about how hot Porthos’ cock always feels, how thick it is. How much he loves the feeling of Porthos’ huge hands on his hips. “He could break me with those hands,” Aramis says, “but he never would. My love is so strong and so gentle." 

Porthos quickens his pace and Aramis spews a litany of curses and praise. He tells Oscar how much he loves feeling Porthos’ hips slap into his, the echo of skin hitting skin. He says he loves the moment when Porthos reaches down and cups his ass, pulling him up and in, wrapping Aramis legs around his own waist. It’s a sure sign that Porthos wants him closer, wants to be able to bury himself inside Aramis as far as he can be. Sometimes, he tells Oscar, Porthos will arch himself over Aramis, bending him almost in half because he’s unable to go a second longer without a kiss.

Oscar is stroking his own cock still, the hand circled around it shuttling up and down. “Do you think he will do that now?"

“No,” Aramis says. “No, this time he wants you to see how hard I am, how much I love when he takes me like this. If he were bent over me, you wouldn’t be able to see my cock. You wouldn’t be able to see how good it is for me to have him ride me like this."

Porthos mumbles something and Aramis’ hands come up, pinching and twisting at his own nipples, gasping into the sensation. “Mmm, he says he loves how my face looks when it hurts a little. He doesn’t know that my face can only show a small part of how good it feels inside.”  Aramis smiles up at Porthos, heavy-lidded and quiet, his fingers still on his own chest, he twists his nipples again, almost viciously. He groans and gasps and arches all at once; the pain mixing with the gorgeous drag of Porthos’ cock into him and pulling his back off the bed for a moment.

The play of those things all at once on Aramis’ face is enough to drive Porthos over the edge. He grips Aramis’ hips tight and slams into him four times in rapid succession; his back bows on the fourth and his head falls back as he cries out. There’s one last tight, tense thrust while Porthos is coming, spilling himself inside his love.

When he’s spent, Porthos pulls his cock out and bends, arching over Aramis’ body to draw his mouth into a soft kiss. Aramis squirms, trying to get more friction between his cock and Porthos’ belly. Porthos only laughs, gripping Aramis’ hips still and holding them to the bed. “Save it for Oscar,” he says, and hearing his own name, Oscar smiles.

“Should I?” Oscar says, in English. 

Porthos smiles. “Of course.”  He kisses Aramis again, reaching into the bedside table for a condom and passing it to Oscar as they switch places. Oscar grips Porthos’ forearm, tugging until Porthos leans in and they are close enough to kiss. Porthos loves kissing; it shows in the way he melts into Oscar’s space and licks his way into Oscar’s mouth. Aramis smiles and sighs happily. He rolls onto his side and watches them. 

Smiling, Porthos turns to Aramis and grins. Aramis’ cock is a livid red, hard and weeping and Porthos can see his fingers twitch with the ache to touch it. “Are we ignoring you?” Porthos asks. 

“No. You are entertaining me,” Aramis says. Porthos has switched to English, apparently Aramis’ role as pornographic interpreter is over for the evening. While he’s aware that the need to translate everything they’re thinking into English before they say it will take away some of the fluid nature of the earlier parts of the night, he loves that they’ll all be in it together now. 

Breaking the kiss, Oscar knee walks his way across the bed to Aramis’ side. “Yes, like that, but more on your front,” he says and pushes at Aramis’ shoulder until Aramis is face-down on the bed. Together they tuck a pillow under Aramis’ hips so that his ass is raised. Oscar palms the cheeks, gripping and squeezing. Porthos can’t blame him; Aramis’ ass is a sin.

“So nice of your Porthos to make you ready for me,” Oscar says. 

Aramis’ English is better than anyone else’s in the room; he spent years with Rogers and demanded to be taught more than just curses and the right words to pick up prostitutes. Ironically, it’s the curses and sex words that are coming in most handy now, though even those are escaping him as he finds himself reaching for the simplest of words. “He does like to be… thorough." 

Oscar’s hands pull at him, thumbs tugging at his hole to see how open he still is. Aramis whines under his touch, that friction he’d been dying for just minutes earlier is there now, and Aramis’ cock is almost in pain at the stimulation. He needs something to distract him from the drag of the fabric across his skin. “Please,” he begs. “Please, please, please” again and again. 

“Porthos,” Oscar says. “Your Aramis begs so well.”  He strokes his own cock, watching as his thumb slips in and out of Aramis, spreading Porthos’ come around Aramis’ hole. “Has he begged enough?"

“Sometimes,” Porthos says, “I will keep him to beg for hours. He will be close, and I’ll make him stay there. You agree he’s beautiful like this.”  Oscar nods and smiles. “Tonight, though, it’s enough.” 

Oscar isn’t even pushing into him yet, but Aramis groans to hear Porthos give permission. The idea of the other two orchestrating the movements, letting him feel like almost like a decadent toy, has him gritting his teeth and struggling to keep his hips still.

Finally, fucking finally, he can hear Oscar tear the condom open and roll it onto himself. Aramis spreads his knees wider, leaving himself open and on display. The trace of shame he still has about being this wanton makes his face hot and his cock throb. 

When Oscar’s erection finally pushes into Aramis, he lets out a heavy grunt. Oscar isn’t nearly as thick as Porthos, but Aramis is starting to get tender and sensitive and Oscar feels enormous. Aramis hisses in pleasure and Oscar asks Porthos if that’s a good noise. 

From his spot on the desk chair, Porthos talks to Oscar about the noises Aramis makes, how he hisses like that for pleasure but if he clenches his thighs at the same time that’s pain. He says that Aramis moans when something feels good, but if he moans with a whine at the end, it means it feels so good he can’t stop himself from making noises he thinks are unsexy. The result is that those sounds are the sexiest to Porthos. 

Gripping Aramis’ hips for leverage, Oscar pushes into Aramis again, a little more force this time, and before Aramis can stop himself, almost without knowing it, he lets out that telltale moan and whine. Oscar chuckles low, “Oh yes, very sexy.”  Oscar’s heavy Argentine accent has him rolling his r’s so hard Aramis can feel it like a purr. 

The sheets fisted in his hands, his eyes squeezed tight, Aramis’ breath is coming hot and fast. To know that Porthos is watching this, is watching him, and to know that there is so much love in his eyes and his face, it’s almost more than Aramis can take. Porthos was right, of course, somewhere in his mind Aramis had worried that this was something Porthos could only approve of in the abstract. Every time he considered flirting back or making a move there would be a flash of Porthos’ hurt face in his head.

Now, though, there is nothing but joy and love on Porthos’ face, nothing but want and lust. He isn’t stretched out next to Aramis, holding his hand and making himself a part of the experience. He is content watching Aramis be happy. Just like he said he would be, just as he promised. Aramis lets out a tiny sob and to the other men in the room it sounds like it’s driven by the slap of Oscar’s balls against his own, but Aramis knows that it’s rooted in the knowledge that his Porthos is a miracle. He is, as Aramis has always known, made of magic. 

“I think he is liking you watching,” Oscar says, one hand tracing up the center of Aramis back and tugging at his hair. 

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Porthos says. “To his parents he is such a good boy, but when he is being fucked, he becomes such a slut with it. He wants to be seen, heard. He wants to be… displayed." 

He’s so right; Aramis knows it. They’re both watching him, and Aramis is preening under their gaze. Oscar’s hips are moving faster now, his English slipping and the occasional Spanish curse slipping out. Aramis is swearing in French, rocking his hips against the pillow, fucking himself against the fabric. Porthos isn’t hard, but he’s rolling his balls in his hand, just enjoying the sensation as it combines with the sight of Aramis falling apart. 

“I know this sound, too,” Porthos says. He describes the hiccupping, breathy whines of Aramis on the edge. “You could hold him in there for hours, right on the edge, but tonight he’s waited so long." 

“We should make him come?” Oscar asks.

Porthos chuckles, “We don’t have to make him, we only have to let him.” 

Aramis moans into the bedding; it’s so true. He could have come just after Oscar started, but the delicious ache of waiting for someone to give him permission is always too tempting. He always wants to wait. Aramis loves the feeling of this extended pleasure, this dancing close to the cliff for so long, but he doesn’t have the patience to exercise that restraint by himself. There’s too much of the hedonist in him, and if left to his own devices, he will always tip over that edge the first or second time he comes close. If he puts it in their hands, if he just decides that it’s Porthos and Oscar’s decision, he gets the pleasure of the denial and the pleasure of letting them guide him. 

Over Aramis’ head, Oscar looks at Porthos, raising his eyebrows in question. Porthos smiles but shakes his head, gesturing back to Oscar. This isn’t Porthos’ show, not since he stepped back. He’s not here to make decisions or participate in any way other than the conversation of feigned disinterest that he knows Aramis loves. Oscar smiles and nods. It’s his show. 

Curling over Aramis’ back, Oscar fists his hand in Aramis' hair, just at the nape of his neck. In Spanish, low and filthy, he says, “Your ass feels so good around me, so tight and hot. If I had a week, I’d never get tired of fucking it. I’d plug you and keep you open so you would be ready for me to fuck whenever I wanted. Right now, I want to feel how tight you can get when you’re coming. Do you want to come, Aramis?" 

Aramis can only whimper and nod his head, his upper teeth buried in his lower lip. 

“Do it then,” Oscar says. “Come around my cock."

Screaming into the pillow, Aramis feels his cock pulsing, feels himself coming against the sheets and the push of Oscar into him with his own release. When Aramis is finished, when he’s feeling himself coming down from the high of his orgasm, Oscar kisses the back of his neck and pinches the condom against himself as he pulls out. 

When Oscar heads to the bathroom, promising to return with a wet face cloth, Porthos leans in and kisses Aramis softly on the mouth. “I love you. Did you have fun?"

Aramis nods, sleepy and fucked-out. “I love you. You were right."

Porthos laughs. “I usually am, but thank you for telling me.”  He tugs Aramis over onto his back and lets the newly returned Oscar wipe the come from Aramis' belly while Porthos strips the case off the pillow. Aramis asks Oscar if he’ll stay, but Oscar pleads an early breakfast with his mother. He says he’ll be late if he sleeps here and then goes home to change, and he refuses to have breakfast with his mother in a sleeveless shirt and jeans. He’s a good boy, after all. 

Aramis’ smile is wicked. “Of course you are." 

Laughing, Porthos says, “What you said to Aramis will probably say you are not. Tell me what it was?"

Oscar shakes his head and points to Aramis, “No. Make him tell you."

Having assumed he was immune to shame at this point, Aramis is surprised to find his face flushed and red. Porthos laughs again and says he’ll be sure to get it out of Aramis somehow. 

Aramis tries to get up to say goodbye when Oscar is finally dressed but Oscar waves him back down. He kisses Aramis and Porthos warmly and thanks them for an amazing evening. He leaves scribbles his mobile number on one of the hotel notepads and leaves it on the table, saying he would love to buy them lunch to say thank you before they leave. He blows a last kiss to them as he’s tugging the door closed behind him. 

Porthos stretches his body along the full length of Aramis’, bracing his elbows on either side of Aramis’ head, framing his face. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he says, punctuating each sentiment with a kiss. Aramis traces his fingers along the lines of Porthos’ sides, cupping his hands over the curve of Porthos’ ribs and kissing every part of his face he can reach. 

“I love you. I get it now. You were right." 

“You’re fucking glowing, Aramis; I love you like this. I would never want you to go the rest of your life without this look on your face again.”  Porthos noses at the curve of Aramis’ jaw, kissing along the lines of his throat. 

Aramis runs his fingers through Porthos’ curls, feeling them twine around his fingers and sighing into Porthos’ kisses. “I know, and I know that even when it isn’t just a night of good sex, when it’s love and dating, you’ll still want me to be happy." 

“Exactly.”  

Tugging at Porthos’ hair, Aramis brings his head up until they are eye to eye again. “Hey, sometimes it will be just about sex, though.”  Porthos nods, he knows. Aramis continues, “When that happens, can I drag you along from time to time?" 

Porthos buries his head against Aramis’ neck, his rumbling laugh sinking into Aramis’ skin. “If you want, you have only to ask. I might not be up for it, but if I am you can absolutely drag me along.”  He plants a smacking kiss on Aramis’ mouth before rolling off to the side and tucking Aramis into the curve of his body. 

Aramis presses his nose to Porthos’ skin and smiles. As he drifts off to sleep, Porthos’ arms tight around him, he prays to never find the wonder of his life to be ordinary, to never stop being struck by how lucky he is.

Christmas is simple and quiet. They go to church together, the four of them, in the morning. In the afternoon Carolina shows Porthos how to make her empanadas, and after lunch they exchange gifts. Nothing can be large, it all has to fit in their luggage for the return trip, but everything is heartfelt and perfect and Porthos thinks again how fucking lucky he is.

Carolina and Mathieu see them off at the airport with hugs and kisses and not a few tears on everyone’s part. She says she doesn’t plan on letting them miss her for long, that she’ll come visit when she can. She pulls Porthos’ face to hers and kisses his cheek. “Take care of my boy,” she says. Porthos smiles and says, “I will,” around a knot in his throat. 

Turning to Aramis, Carolina cups his cheeks in her palms, kissing him just to the right of his mouth. “Take care of my other boy,” she says, and Aramis only nods frantically, tears in his eyes. 

Porthos and Aramis spend the entire flight back to Paris touching. Hands woven together, sleeping on each other, trading quiet kisses. Aramis misses his parents already, but he knows that wherever Porthos goes, Aramis’ family is there.

After the cabin crew comes around and collects the remains of their dinner, Aramis shoves the armrest up out of the way and drags Porthos’ arm up and around his shoulders. He tucks himself into Porthos’ side and sighs, happily. “Do you think she’ll really come to visit?”

Porthos presses a kiss into Aramis’ hair. “I have no doubt.”  He can feel Aramis go a little tense under his arm. “You going to sit there and stew for the next seven hours or are you going to talk to me about it?" 

Aramis laughs and turns to kiss Porthos’ hand where it’s curled over his shoulder. “I was just thinking, I know that we’re fine now but would you, someday, like to think about—" he trails off into an awkward silence. 

“Come on, out with it, love." 

“A flat. Would you like to think about getting a flat together? Maybe with enough space for a guest bed if she really does visit, or if Athos decides he wants to cheat on the sofa and pass out somewhere new and different." 

Porthos is laughing, rubbing his nose into Aramis’ hair. “Would I like to commit myself to you by finding a place to live that we both picked and then living there with you?  I think that’s something I can do. I might even like it." 

“I love you,” Aramis says. 

“I love you too,” Porthos says, ducking his head to kiss Aramis’ mouth. “Go to sleep." 

They don’t wake up until the pilot announces their initial descent into Paris. 

Somehow they both survive going back to work, the Bourbon’s New Year’s party and the slow crawl of winter. Aramis is no longer unsure in this new life; he finds he is growing into it, making his mark on it. He brings home gorgeous, old teak jewelry box he finds at a street market. They clean and polish it and set it on Porthos’ desk, where it holds all of Aramis’ fountain pens.  Fatima sends postcards from New York addressed to both of them and they take up a place of pride on the refrigerator door.

At the end of an unexpectedly warm day in early February, they’re walking home from the Métro and lingering at shop windows. Porthos is offering running commentary on the objects on display, but when they come to the small gallery on the corner Porthos stops talking.  Aramis catches up with him and sees what’s caught his eye. It’s a painting, nothing too elaborate or fancy, but the play of light over the landscape is captivating. “I love that,” Porthos says. 

“As do I,” Aramis says. “We should have it.” Porthos protests for a second, but Aramis stops him by pushing the door to the gallery open and walking in. “Excuse me,” he calls to the gallery worker, and Porthos realizes there’s no use arguing anymore. Forty-five minutes later they walk home with the first thing in the flat that belongs to both of them.

In March, they move the bed so that Aramis’ side gets as much light in the morning as Porthos’ side, and Aramis throws away Porthos’ old cookware and buys a new set. Porthos watches him cook with it for the first time, puttering around the kitchen barefoot, his jeans pooling around his ankles. Aramis is singing one of Carolina’s favorite songs and flipping the spatula in his hand, and Porthos’ heart stops. 

This is his life now. His life is dinners with Aramis and a flat that is slowly, but surely becoming their home. His life is working with Athos at a job he enjoys and spending his evenings and weekends volunteering, working to help kids who remind him too much of himself. He remembers looking at that picture of Aramis’ parents and saying he wanted a life like theirs. Porthos had seen that picture and what stared back at him was family. Security and love and home.

Porthos, more than anyone, knows how many different shapes and sizes family can come in, how sometimes you must make a family for yourself, but even he could never have imagined one could make him this happy. He wanted, just like he’d said, to wake up and still be glad about the person he’d picked for forever. Now, whenever he rolls over and sees Aramis asleep next to him he thinks, Forever, and he is so much more than glad. 

He walks up behind Aramis and buries his nose in Aramis’ neck. “I love you,” he says into Aramis’ skin. Aramis turns in his arms and kisses Porthos on the mouth.

“I love you. If you make me burn dinner you have to deal with the face Athos makes when he finds out we’re serving him take-out."

Porthos kisses him again, slanting his mouth over Aramis’ and pulling him closer. Aramis sighs into the kiss and melts against Porthos. After a minute Aramis starts to tug Porthos’ shirt from his jeans, but Porthos pushes him away. Aramis tries to kiss him again as Porthos holds him back, and when Aramis’ expression grows frustrated Porthos brushes a thumb over his cheek. 

“Athos will be here in twenty minutes. Also, I’m going to enjoy watching you sit through dinner now that you’re all worked up."

Aramis huffs an irritated sigh and turns back to the stove. “Then get out of the kitchen and stop making it worse just by being irresistible.”

By April, they’ve grown so comfortable they’ve almost forgotten about their plan to look for a new flat. That changes on the first warm day of the spring. Porthos comes into the kitchen to find Aramis standing at the window, nursing his coffee. “What’s caught your eye out there?"

“The sun,” Aramis says. “It’s been raining so much lately, and I’m just soaking it up." 

Porthos pours himself a cup and comes to stand behind Aramis, kissing the side of his neck. “Let’s get out in it, then. Take a walk.”

Aramis turns his head to look at Porthos. “Visit the park?” 

Smiling, Porthos bends and kisses his mouth. “Yeah. Absolutely." 

Between sleepy shower sex and breakfast, it takes them another two hours to get out of the flat and into the sun. By then it’s warm as well as sunny, and Aramis turns his face to the sky and hums happily.

They walk past the puppet theater and hold hands by the temple. Aramis kisses Porthos by the waterfall and Porthos presses Aramis against the tree under which they first kissed and whispers, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” in his ear. It’s so textbook romantic that on their Sunday evening call when Carolina asks how their day was Aramis will actually flush slightly and just say, “It was nice, we went for a walk."

On the way home, they’re walking past a building on a road the borders the park, when a small yellow sign catches Porthos’ eye. He stops, feeling Aramis stop beside him. “What is it?” Aramis asks. 

“For Sale sign for a flat in the building." 

Aramis smiles, “Yeah? Should we call?" 

Porthos pulls his mobile out and dials the number on the sign. The woman on the other end of the line gives them the bare details of the flat, seventh floor, two bedrooms, a price that makes Porthos’ heart skip, and she offers to meet them the next afternoon to show it to them if they’d like. They would like, Porthos says. 

Just before sunset the next day they walk into the flat and Aramis stops dead. The agent knows her business, and she’s chosen to withhold the most important information, letting it speak for itself. The flat has windows across most of the wall opposite the front door and where there aren’t windows there is a sliding glass door leading to the wrought iron balcony. The afternoon sun is spilling in through the glass, bathing the entire room in a golden light and making the hardwood floors glow. Once Aramis gets past the light, the incredible way it makes the room look, he sees what’s beyond the windows, and his breath truly stops. 

The flat overlooks the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont and through the balcony doors Aramis can see the waterfall. 

He’s waving his hand frantically behind him, reaching out for Porthos, beckoning him closer. Porthos slips his hand into Aramis’ and squeezes so hard it feels like Aramis’ fingers will crack; Aramis squeezes back just as hard. 

“Shall we look at the rest?” the agent says, and they both agree that yes, they should see the rest of the flat, but in reality the decision is made by then. The bedrooms are good sized, the kitchen is open to rest of the flat, and while the bathtub is small, the bathroom itself is large enough that Porthos is already planning the tub he’ll put in after he rips this one out.

The agent smiles at them, knowing they’re hooked. “So…” she says, and Porthos just nods.

“Yes,” says Aramis. “Yes." 

Between the paperwork and the nature of the property-buying process, it takes them a full month to close the sale of the flat. They celebrate with drinks after work, at which point Athos informs them that he has no intentions of helping them move. That helping your friends move is the kind of thing people only do when they’re fresh out of university and Athos, being Athos, didn’t even do it then.

Instead, as a housewarming gift, he says, he pays for a professional service to come in and take their furniture and packed boxes to the new flat. When Porthos tries to protest, Athos fixes him with a look that shuts him up immediately. Aramis just says, “Thank you.”  Athos nods and says that they are more than welcome, that the sooner they get moved in and settled the sooner he can join them for dinner again. 

“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” Aramis says, and proposes a toast to Athos, their benefactor. Athos glares furiously at him, which only makes Aramis laugh harder.

The first time they walk into the flat after the paperwork and transfers are completed, Porthos stands in the middle of that gorgeous afternoon light and twirls the keys around his index finger, grinning at Aramis. Aramis grabs him in a hug, and they stand, clinging to each other for a long moment. 

“I love you,” Porthos mutters into Aramis’ collar. 

“I love you more,” Aramis says, pressing a kiss to Porthos’ neck. 

“Mmm,” Porthos hums. “Not a chance.” 

“Prove it,” Aramis says. 

It’s the first time Porthos fucks Aramis bent over the kitchen worktop, but it’s far from the last.

The moving-in date is set for a free day on their work calendar, so they can both be there. They start early in the morning and by mid-afternoon the moving is all finished. Aramis had boasted over breakfast of his grand plans to christen the bed once they got it into the flat, but in the end they unpack the very basic necessities, put a blanket on the bed and nap for almost three hours. 

When Aramis wakes up Porthos is already loading books onto shelves in the front room. They work together, talking sometimes but mostly quiet, until well into evening when Porthos insists they stop and eat. After dinner, he says, when he’s fortified with food, they’re going to see about christening that bed. 

Aramis can hardly argue with that. 

The sex is slow and unhurried, born of long years of familiarity with each other’s bodies and the knowledge that they live here now, in each other. Aramis laughs when Porthos scrapes his fingernails down Aramis’ ribs, and Porthos growls low and hungry when Aramis nips at the spot where Porthos’ hip meets his belly. They bring each other off with the friction of their bodies against each other, each of them spilling into the place where their skin meets. They trade lazy kisses until their heartbeats are back to normal. 

Porthos volunteers to get something to clean them with and Aramis is dozing off before Porthos is even back from the bathroom. He wipes at Aramis’ skin, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his chest before tossing the cloth into the hamper on the other side of the room and climbing back into bed. Curling himself around Aramis, his head on Aramis’ chest, Porthos drapes one arm over his hips and wonders again how he got so fucking lucky. 

Looking up at Aramis’ chin Porthos takes note of the silver hairs starting to mix in with the brown. He counts them, one, two. There are six of them. He takes note of how they catch the light, how they’re hiding tucked in among the darker blanket of the rest of Aramis’ beard. Like stars, he thinks, in the night sky, and he remembers evenings on watch in Iraq with d'Anjou, the hobbyist astronomer from somewhere in the Loire who used to point out the constellations to Porthos.

Seeing Aramis’ beard, Porthos remembers the names of the stars. The silver hair to the furthest left he names Sirus, trailing after the others like a dog. The one in the middle is Rigel, brightest star in Orion. The two in identical places on either side of his mouth are Castor and Pollux. He reaches up and gives a little tug to the one just below the curve of Aramis’ lower lip. “I’ll name you in the morning,” Porthos says, and closes his eyes to sleep.