Work Text:
If he were held at gunpoint, D’Artagnan could not have recalled what he’d been planning to ask. On reflection, it could not have been important enough for him to go strolling right into Porthos’ room late in the evening.
He got answers to some questions, but certainly not the one he’d had in mind—whatever it was. It vanished clean from his memory, presumably to make space for the vivid image of Porthos fucking Aramis like their lives depended on it.
Aramis had his forearms braced on the bedhead, the muscles in his arm gleaming as he took each thrust from Porthos. Porthos was kneeling behind him, smirking at Aramis’ back as it arched.
Porthos had a tight grip on Aramis’ hips—there were fingerprints—drawing him back in a rough rocking motion. Each time Porthos sunk in him forced a muffled noise from Aramis. He tossed his head and D’Artagnan saw the scarf tied between his teeth. That explained why D’Artagnan hadn’t heard anything from outside.
He slipped back out before either of them noticed his presence. That was some blessing—they were far too occupied with each other to even look toward the door.
His trousers were suddenly much too tight—his throat was suddenly much too tight. He longed for somewhere quiet, somewhere hidden, to process what he’d just seen, but the garrison was always crawling with Musketeers—he’d never resented the fact until now. He drove the heel of his palm against his crotch, his head bumping back against the wall.
He had wondered, yes, with the way Aramis and Porthos were around each other. But it was too much to imagine. And even now having seen it, too much to believe.
Such things were not unheard of in Gascony. There’d been a boy of D’Artagnan’s very close acquaintance who helped on the farm at harvest time, but this was no opportunistic tumble in a field. These were gentlemen; musketeers. Porthos, and Aramis. He’d never seen anything so… athletic. Or spectacular.
He admired their talent; their daring; the ease they had with themselves and between one another. He envied it, and he longed for it. They had welcomed him into their brethren, even though there was still so much he was yet to learn. Their jokes, their histories, their secrets. Well, he had one of those now.
And that would be the problem—the problem after the immediate problem, which he dealt with by stubbornly ignoring it on an uncomfortable walk back to the Bonacieux’s. The problem was keeping from them that he knew their secret. They hadn’t told him yet, after all. That was understandable: they had no way of knowing his opinions on how two gentlemen might conduct themselves in private. Maybe no-one knew.
Maybe Athos didn’t know.
It was not the first night D’Artagnan’s thoughts had found their way to Athos.
Speculation had brought him nothing so far, except vivid fantasies recalling how Athos, reeking of smoke and wine, had clung to him on the hill in Pinon. It would bring him naught but more trouble to speculate now, and he had other things to recollect fondly. He took himself in hand, and it was hardly the first time he’d had the Inseparables in mind when he did.
At least that left him sleeping soundly. For only the briefest moment at dawn did he believe it to be a magnificent dream, and then the reality of it shook him awake.
There was nothing for it but to act as normal as he could: he slunk to breakfast at the garrison, and took Aramis’ gentle morning teasing with good humour. Porthos gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder and tossed him an apple. When he was in their presence, it was easier to fall into their company without overthinking. They were just as affectionate as ever, and no more so. Habit overtook D’Artagnan as they trained together, keeping him too busy to think of anything but winning a sparring match and hitting a target.
He convinced himself in the coming weeks that he would soon forget about it all. Aramis and Porthos’ intimacy wasn’t that great a shock, he realised more all the time he thought about it. Aramis still flirted with anyone shamelessly, but Porthos—sometimes Porthos caught his eye with the same smirk D’Artagnan had seen that night.
On Porthos’ birthday, as melon dripped down Aramis’ face, D’Artagnan wondered how anyone in the tavern didn't know they were lovers. His mouth was open to say as much to Athos before he caught himself. He bit down hard on his lip. After all this, to have almost let it slip… what would they say? Had he pried, overstepped, violated a covenant into which he had not been invited—and may not ever be invited?
By morning, with Porthos in jail and facing a death sentence, those worries seemed foolish. Doubt hounded D’Artagnan: he was aware now how little he knew of his friends, really. When he voiced the possibility of Porthos’ guilt, the ferocity of Aramis’ response would surely have hinted to him that they were lovers, if he hadn't already known.
And after they had the proof of Porthos’ innocence, once again he thought: of course, of course, how could he have ever believed otherwise? The guilt burrowed into D’Artagnan in the way his other secret never had. To suspect Porthos of murder was entirely different from having an affair with Aramis and, quite sensibly, concealing the truth of it. This only made D’Artagnan feel worse: he’d let distrust get the better of him, at the expense of his beloved new friends.
So, when Porthos asked: ‘Be honest… did any of you think I did it?’
‘Never even crossed my mind,’ D’Artagnan lied, and wished it could be the last lie he would tell.
They all retired to the garrison, death forestalled another day. Wine was shared around the courtyard table, and it loosened D’Artagnan’s nerves. Aramis and Athos did not betray D’Artagnan’s misplaced suspicions to Porthos, and the three treated him as an honorary Inseparable—like always. Aramis and Porthos chattered and drank: Athos only drank. When Aramis leaned over to murmur something to Porthos, D’Artagnan found his gaze drifting over both of them, watching how intimately their bodies angled together.
Porthos winked at him.
D’Artagnan almost knocked his cup over. Athos, who surely hadn’t seen anything, was the one to steady his hand. He composed himself quickly, before Aramis gave him a slow, curious glance.
‘Well,’ he stammered. ‘I should go to bed—to—the Bonacieux’s. It being late, and all.’
‘I’ll see you out,’ Porthos volunteered.
D’Artagnan nodded politely, his heart hammering in his chest. Did Porthos know? What did Porthos know?
The night was warm outside, when D’Artagnan would have welcomed a rush of cold air. Porthos strolled with him down the quiet street, and into the alley that served as a shortcut.
‘Take your time,’ Porthos suggested, not unkindly.
‘I’m sorry!’ D’Artagnan blurted out. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t.’
‘Hey,’ Porthos put a steadying hand on his shoulder. ‘It's alright. I was very drunk. But I also know you trust us.’
D’Artagnan looked up at him, feeling as though he was going to cry. Porthos’ smile was small, and kind.
‘But…’ he swallowed. ‘How could you trust me, after this?’
‘I’ve trusted you for a while,’ Porthos raised his eyebrows.
D’Artagnan blinked at him. ‘Why?’
Porthos’ thumb pressed a slow circle around his clavicle. ‘I think you know why.’
‘You saw me,’ D’Artagnan breathed.
‘I saw you,’ Porthos confirmed. ‘Saw the way you’ve been looking at us both since, too.’
D’Artagnan bit back the question—and Athos too?
‘D’you want to take another look sometime?’ Porthos asked, and his smile turned a little wicked.
With that, D’Artagnan was finished with doubting. He grabbed Porthos’ lapels and kissed him.
Porthos kissed back immediately, sincerely, as though he wasn’t in the least surprised. D’Artagnan would hardly believe it was happening, but for richness of Porthos’ mouth where D’Artagnan licked at it, and the rumbling growl of pleasure that followed. The leather between his fingers groaned as D’Artagnan clutched tightly, drawing their bodies together. His heart was pounding harder, and he and surely beard-scratched, by the time Porthos eased their pace.
As they parted, D’Artagnan struggled to catch his breath. It was a mercy they had stopped, or D’Artagnan would very much need to take Porthos up on his offer then and there. He gazed beseechingly at Porthos, at a loss for what to do next.
Porthos hugged him tightly. D’Artagnan slackened, losing himself in the embrace. Drunk from wine and kissing, D’Artagnan couldn’t ignore how wonderful Porthos smelt where a patch of chest hair brushed his cheek. He understood for a moment the depth of what Aramis meant when he said: This is Porthos. He felt lips pressed to his hair, and he squeezed Porthos’ waist. Porthos released him with a gentle pat on the hip.
‘To bed with you,’ he said. ‘It being late, and all.’