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He was seeing her everywhere he went.
He’d thought he was done with this. After banishing her at sword’s point, he was supposed to be free. He’d tossed aside the locket, the chain that had held him fast for five years, had dropped it into the dirt and walked away. Freed at last from that weight, from the weight of her, he’d immediately felt lighter, had stood straighter, had taken what had felt like his first full, real breath in five years.
He’d thought he was rid of her. Had thought he had managed, finally, to step out of the shadow she had cast over him and walk, finally, in the light. Even his soul had felt cleaner.
She was supposed to be gone.
Until the king had been taken by slavers and, goddamn it, she had helped save him. She had been there, with d’Artagnan and the king, she had gotten them out of that camp, and – Christ! – she had ridden back to Paris at the king’s side.
She was back in Paris.
And now he saw her everywhere, in every shadow and every alley, on every street and around every corner. He saw her mocking smile and her defiant eyes, heard her laughter and her taunts.
Jasmine floated on every breeze.
And his new and hard-won peace shattered. He couldn’t do this again. Christ, he could not do this again! He’d barely survived it the first time. And now he no longer had the walls he’d so desperately erected to protect himself. His brothers, in their quest to return him to the land of the living, had torn them down, had assured him he no longer needed them.
Because she was gone.
Except that she wasn’t.
And he, goddamn it, had forgotten–
No.
He hadn’t. He’d tried to change, but he hadn’t forgotten. Not really. How could he forget, when his own body reminded him daily? The craving, the thirst, had never truly gone away. He’d simply gotten better at resisting it. But resisting required strength, and just now–
Christ on the cross, she was back in Paris!
His whole soul shuddered, and the familiar darkness, the familiar hurt, engulfed him. And all at once he was plunged back into a torment he’d not felt in years, since the night he’d huddled on the floor by his brother’s coffin and sobbed out his rage and his pain, cursing her with every breath.
The thirst rose in him again, dug its claws into him again, and all his strength, his resistance, fled. He had no defense against her left but this. Surrendering to the siren’s call he’d struggled for months now to deny, he threw himself onto his knees before the chest in the corner and flung open the lid, dug frantically through the clothing and the books within, and let out a gasping sob when his fingers hit glass.
He gripped the bottle desperately, found and closed his other hand around a second one, pulled them both free and stumbled to his bed–
And lost himself, and her, in the familiar oblivion of wine.
*****
They walked through the streets of Paris, Athos slightly ahead, Aramis and Porthos slightly behind. His shoulders were straight, taut, one hand clamped tightly about his sword hilt, his other knotted into a fist at his side. Beneath the lowered brim of his hat, his gaze swept restlessly about, searching every shadow, every doorway, every window and alley, while his ears strained for the sound of the voice he still heard in his dreams.
Tension rolled off him in waves.
Behind him, Aramis and Porthos exchanged dark, worried looks. They knew this, had seen it so many times before … and had thought, hoped, they’d never see it again. Athos had gotten so much better since he’d spared his treacherous wife’s life and let her go.
Perhaps I was saving myself.
And he had. He’d seemed to make some peace with his past, with himself, had seemed lighter somehow, easier in his own skin. He’d begun smiling more, talking more … and drinking less. He no longer began each morning miserably hung-over, no longer sought refuge in wine throughout the day, no longer ended each night passed out on a table in a tavern or in his own bed.
They had rejoiced at these changes in him, knew they were seeing something of the man he must have been before his life went to hell. He relaxed more, teased more, touched more, the stubborn steel that ran down his spine softening, the rigid band of iron wrapped around his heart loosening. He’d become easier with them, freer, more able to give himself, and able to give more.
Sometimes he even came wondrously near laughing.
But the work of six months had all come crashing down in an instant in the forest near Honfleur. They’d both feared this the moment they’d seen her emerging from the trees near the slavers’ camp, the moment Athos had seen her, the moment they’d seen the shock and horror rising in his eyes and washing over his face.
In that moment, both would have sworn they heard something in the man crack.
And now the cracks were spreading …
Porthos slowed his pace enough to fall back another step or two, and Aramis slowed with him. Neither of them missed the fact that Athos never seemed to notice.
“He’s drinkin’ again,” Porthos said in a low voice, his dark, worried gaze never leaving Athos. “I’ve heard from some of the men on night watch that he slips out of the garrison late, comes staggerin’ back a few hours later. An’ ’e was hung-over this mornin’.”
“I know,” Aramis sighed, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. “I went to his room yesterday to return a shirt he’d asked me to stitch, and,” he winced and shook his head, “there were two bottles by his bed. Empty.”
“Shit,” Porthos groaned, bowing his head and closing his eyes as a sick feeling of familiarity twisted through him. He’d thought, hoped, they were past this, that Athos was past this, had hoped he truly had turned a corner.
Of course, none of them had expected the man’s goddamned wife to be waiting just around that corner–
“Porthos,” Aramis said in a low, troubled voice, catching Porthos’ arm and drawing his gaze back to the man ahead of them.
Athos had stopped in the middle of the street, his whole frame rigid, his sword already half out of its scabbard. Aramis and Porthos immediately stepped up, one at either side, Porthos looking around for any danger, Aramis ducking his head to peer under that concealing hat brim.
“Athos?” he called softly, stepping closer still and clasping a hand to one tight shoulder, squeezing gently, his other hand resting on the one clamped so tightly about that sword hilt. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Athos’ eyes were the only part of him that moved, searching his surroundings frantically. He’d seen … something … from the corner of an eye, a flash of color … green? blue? … and the glint of sunlight on dark hair. He’d heard … a voice … laughter – had it been laughter? her laughter?
Christ, what was Anne doing back in Paris? He’d told her, he’d warned her–
“Athos?” Porthos called softly, frowning worriedly. He couldn’t see anything amiss around them, just the usual parade of people going about their day, men and women going into and coming out of shops, street vendors and street thieves, children and dogs and coaches. Nothing that should cause Athos such alarm. Should cause him to look so stricken.
“Did you see her?” Athos whispered harshly, straining in Aramis’ grasp to peer around Porthos. “I thought–” He clutched suddenly at Aramis, seeing– No. Nothing. “Christ!” he whispered, sagging into Porthos but still clinging to Aramis. “I’m going mad!” He closed his eyes and swallowed, sliding his sword back home with a shaking hand. “I need a drink.”
“No, you’re not,” Aramis said softly, slipping his arm about him and leaning close. He instinctively knew what, who, Athos had thought he’d seen, remembered all the hallucinations of her the man had suffered while getting sober. “And, no, you don’t.” He lifted his gaze to meet Porthos’ eyes over Athos’ bowed head and saw a worry, a sorrow, that matched his own. “You don’t want to go down that road again.”
“I can’t–” Athos suddenly pulled away from Porthos, a flash of wildness in his eyes. “I have to warn d’Artagnan–”
“D’Artagnan’s not here,” Porthos said quietly, cupping a hand around Athos’ neck and stroking slowly, catching and holding that troubled gaze with his own. He heard Athos’ frantic breathing, felt the fine tremors racing through his body, and sought to ground and soothe him with his voice, touch, and eyes. “Remember? Tréville sent him out on a mission for a few days with Guillaume and Michaud to get him out of Paris until the king’s over his … snit.”
Aramis snorted derisively and rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a snit. His Majesty was in a full-blown, furniture-kicking, servant-scaring rage because d’Artagnan had refused to murder a man who’d helped save their lives. Tréville had sent their youngest away to protect him from the king’s wrath, and was even keeping them off palace duty until the royal temper cooled.
Porthos ignored Aramis and concentrated on Athos, who looked as if he were about to fly apart. He smiled slightly, softly, still stroking Athos’ neck with his fingertips, rubbing his other hand slowly up and down the man’s sword arm. They’d learned this in the early days, that while Athos seemed reluctant to initiate touch, he responded instinctively to it, as if it were a need even he didn’t know he had. They’d learned how and where to touch him to calm and settle him … and how and where to touch him to break him open when he needed that.
Touching Athos had become a detailed course of study for them both.
Athos shuddered and sagged again against Porthos, desperately needing the big man’s warmth and solidness. Aramis pressed closer in as well, and, cradled between the two of them, he felt safe as only they could make him.
Sheltered.
“I can’t do this again,” he confessed in a shaky, breathless whisper. “I can’t–”
“You can,” Aramis assured him in a low, gentle voice, rubbing slow circles into his back. “I know you can. And we’ll help you.”
“I need a drink!” he pleaded, hating himself for it, but unable to help this need, this weakness, in himself. He’d tried, Christ, he’d tried–
“Maybe one cup,” Porthos said quietly, ignoring the outraged stare Aramis shot him. “But not here.” He slipped a finger under Athos’ chin and lifted until their eyes met, then smiled softly into that anguished gaze. “Let’s get off the street, go where it’s quiet.” He cupped his hand to Athos’ face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. “Let us take care of you, yeah?”
Aramis relaxed at that, his anger at Porthos immediately dying. One or two cups of wine wouldn’t hurt Athos, might even help to settle him. And they could take care of the rest.
Athos swallowed, staring into Porthos’ eyes, trying to take some of their light, their warmth, into himself. And failing. “I am not … good company,” he breathed.
Aramis pressed a hand to Athos’ chest, over his heart, and smiled warmly, his dark eyes soft and deep. “We aren’t asking you to entertain us, cher,” he said gently, “only that you let us help you. It’s all that we have ever asked.”
Athos stared at the two of them, felt their hands upon him and their care within him, and couldn’t help the confusion that stabbed through him. “Why?” he whispered, unable to understand why they simply hadn’t given up and walked away when he’d done nothing but disappoint them. “Why do you keep doing this? Why do you trouble yourselves? I am not worth–”
“Don’t,” Porthos growled, pressing a finger against Athos’ lips to silence him, “say that. You’re not allowed to say that ever again, you hear me? We’ll take whatever trouble we want with you, because you are worth it. You always have been.”
He saw the doubt, the disbelief, in Athos’ eyes, and felt another hard surge of anger at Milady. This was why he hated her. Not for her crimes, her lies, her killings, not even for her part in the plot against the queen, but this. She had broken Athos, shattered him to the point that he could see nothing but the absolute worst in himself and expected that others saw only that as well.
Porthos decided it was time he and Aramis reminded the man what they saw in him.
“Come on,” he said gruffly, looping an arm over Athos’ shoulders and tugging him gently forward, smiling slightly as Aramis fell into step immediately at Athos’ other side and linked an arm through his. “Let’s see if we can’t get your mind off her.”
*****
They returned to Porthos’ room at the garrison. Besides having a bigger bed – “I’m a big man, I need a big bed,” he’d argued as he’d dragged Aramis through Paris on a quest to replace the narrow cot that came standard in every Musketeer’s room – his room also had the advantage of being between Aramis’ on one side and d’Artagnan’s (currently unoccupied one) on the other, ensuring them all the privacy they would need.
Yet even within that safe and familiar place, Athos still felt unsettled, on edge. Unable to resist the impulse, he searched every corner and shadow, as if expecting her to step out of them at any moment, his hands clenching and unclenching nervously at his sides. He knew it was ridiculous, knew it was impossible, but–
She’d made the impossible her art form, hadn’t she?
Aramis and Porthos exchanged somber glances as they quickly divested themselves of hats, weapons, and doublets. Athos was one of the strongest, deadliest men they knew, yet just now he looked like a wounded wild animal searching for the predator he feared was near. He started at every unexpected sound, and his muscles were so tight it hurt them to look upon him. They had known his wife’s unexpected reappearance would inevitably hit him hard. They simply hadn’t realized how hard.
Determined to make him feel as safe as possible, Porthos locked the door with an audible click, then arched a brow at Aramis, almost daring him to protest, and went in search of wine. He didn’t like it either, but if Athos needed a cup or two to relax, then so be it.
Swallowing his disapproval, Aramis went to Athos, who still stood unmoving and rigid in the center of the room. When he made no move to do so, Aramis smiled and removed his hat, brushing gentle fingers through his thick hair as he did so, and tossed it onto the nearby table. Next, he reached down and took Athos’ clenched hands in his own, gently tugging the long, stiff fingers open. He peeled off Athos’ gloves and tossed them onto the table with his hat, then clasped Athos’ hands in his.
“She isn’t here, cher,” he said softly, smiling gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He lifted Athos’ hands to his lips and brushed tender kisses across each set of knuckles. “There is no one here but us. For all we know, she isn’t even in Paris.”
Athos felt a flash of anger, though at exactly what he couldn’t say. Perhaps at Aramis for underestimating her, or at himself for overestimating her. Or perhaps at her for once more throwing his life into confusion. “Of course, she’s in Paris!” he snapped, pulling his hands out of Aramis’ and turning away. He began to pace about the room, too agitated to remain still. “Where else would she go? Where better than here to torment me?”
“But why?” Porthos asked, pouring wine into a cup. “She’s got nothin’ here. Cardinal’s dead, so she’s got no patron. D’Artagnan knows who she is now, so she can’t get ’er claws into ’im. Then there’s that whole business of tryin’ to kill the queen. She’d be stupid to risk comin’ back here.” He came over and held the cup out to Athos. “An’ while she’s a lotta things, I don’t reckon she’s ever been that.”
Athos licked his lips slowly, staring fixedly at the cup in Porthos’ hand. He knew it was wrong, knew it was weak, knew it was a betrayal of their trust in him, their belief in him, but couldn’t help it. Her invisible presence was so heavy about him, had been since that moment she’d stepped out of the trees, and the wine … Christ, he could smell it–
He all but snatched the cup from Porthos, raising it to his lips and drinking deeply, desperately. He didn’t even taste the wine, didn’t need to, just needed to feel its familiar warmth, its familiar promise, spreading through him.
That promise was a lie, he knew that. But it was a lie he needed.
Porthos felt a sharp twinge of familiar pain as he watched Athos drain his cup. Even so, he swallowed the pain, the sorrow, and reached out, brushing gentle fingers over Athos’ hand. “You need another?” he asked softly, feeling Aramis tensing beside him and half expecting him to explode at any moment.
Aramis, though, remained silent, once more reminding himself why they were here. But they would discuss this later, he promised himself. They couldn’t keep putting a cup in Athos’ hands when life got difficult. Not if they expected him to get better.
Athos thought briefly of saying yes; he desperately wanted another. But, just as the “yes” sprang to his lips, he saw the flash of Aramis’ eyes, the set of his jaw, then shifted his gaze and saw the guilt in Porthos’ face. And a sudden, hard wave of shame at his own weakness engulfed him.
They’d been so certain he could fight this, could conquer this, had stood with him, tended him, as he’d suffered through every agonizing, humiliating moment of withdrawal. They had held him and bathed him and endured the foul and hurtful abuse he’d hurled at them when the thirst had clawed at his mind and his body, had waded into his rage and his pain and his shame, and shown him only tenderness and care in return.
Because they’d believed in him.
And this was how he repaid them. He stared down at the empty cup in his hand, only barely resisting the impulse to fling it against the nearest wall. Instead, he exhaled sharply and bowed his head, running his free hand through his hair.
“Christ, I’m such a fool,” he breathed, his shoulders slumping. He’d thought he had bled all her poison from his veins, had thought he had finally found his way out of her darkness. Yet she had only to reappear before him once, and he was lost. He couldn’t imagine now why he’d ever thought it would be different, that he would be different. Would be better. He’d been lying to himself and, worse, lying to them.
They had all forgotten just how hopelessly broken he was.
Seeing the despair flooding those green eyes and sensing the direction of his thoughts, Porthos took the cup from him and handed it to Aramis, then gathered Athos into his arms and pulled him close, cradling him gently, determined to keep him from sinking any further into his own head. That was always the most dangerous place for Athos, he knew, the place they always came closest to losing him.
“Ssh,” he said softly, nuzzling his face into Athos’ hair, “it’s all right. We’ll all get through this, just like we always have. And we’ll do it together, yeah?”
Athos swallowed hard and tried to relax into Porthos’ arms. He desperately wanted, needed, to lose himself in the big man’s warmth and strength, but couldn’t. She was still too much with him, her presence a dark and constant shadow upon him. He saw her again as she’d been that day in the forest, that goddamned smirk on her lips, and tore himself out of Porthos’ embrace with a ragged cry, turning away and burying his face in shaking hands.
Christ, would he never be free?
“Athos?” Aramis set the cup on the table and quickly went to Athos, taking his hands and holding tightly to them, peering worriedly into those anguished green eyes. “Talk to us, cher,” he pleaded. “We can’t help you if you don’t let us.”
“She is … everywhere,” he rasped, his gaze slipping past Aramis and again flitting nervously about the room. “On the streets, in the shadows … in my room. When I close my eyes, I see her. She haunts me!” he whispered bitterly.
Porthos moved up close behind him and set his hands at Athos’ hips. “’S that why you’re drinkin’ again?” he asked softly. When Athos flinched and tried to pull away, Porthos only wound his arms about him, refusing to let him go. “You didn’t think we’d notice?” he asked.
“I … had hoped,” he whispered, though he knew now how ridiculous that hope had been. They knew him so well, too well; of course they would know this.
“And you were afraid we’d think badly of you,” Aramis guessed, reading the answer in Athos’ eyes. He sighed and lifted a hand to cup his cheek, brushing his thumb lightly over his lips. “I promise you,” he breathed, “that will never happen.”
“It’s not possible,” Porthos assured him, pouring a wealth of feeling into the words. “We love you too much.”
Athos stared at Aramis in utter confusion, seeing that love in his eyes, hearing it in Porthos’ voice, feeling it in their touches against him, and not understanding it one bit. How could they possibly still feel that way when he’d done nothing but disappoint them?
Aramis smiled at his bewilderment. “Yes, I know, we constantly confound your poor rational, logical mind.” He winked. “It is our gift. But,” he glanced at Porthos and arched a brow, then looked back at Athos, “you are ours, cher, and we want only to help you. To take care of you.” He trailed his hand down to stroke Athos’ throat with the pad of his thumb. “You will let us,” he asked in a low voice, his eyes darkening a shade, “won’t you?”
Athos felt the hard, painful knot that had taken up residence in his chest, in his soul, loosen. “I don’t deserve you two,” he sighed, slowly relaxing into their hands.
“Rubbish,” Porthos growled, bowing his head to trail soft kisses down the side of his neck. “That’s just her poisonous influence talkin’. You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to us, an’ we’re not about to let you forget that.”
“Oh, yes,” Aramis murmured, leaning forward to claim his mouth in a slow, sweet kiss, “I do believe a reminder is in order.”
Athos gasped and shivered as they pressed against him, captured him between them, and set about undoing him with the utmost tenderness. He closed his eyes and sagged back into Porthos, turning his head to give the man greater access to his neck, and sighed as Aramis nuzzled at his lips, never forcing, never insisting, merely tasting. Then Aramis’ hands slid down to his waist, and another gasp escaped him.
“Ssh, it’s all right, cher,” Aramis whispered against his mouth. “We just need to get rid of a few things.” He nipped at the scar in Athos’ top lip. “Far too many layers for my liking.”
Athos exhaled unsteadily as their hands and mouths moved with sweet precision against him, two veteran soldiers joining forces to launch a tender attack upon him. He tried to lick his lips, encountered Aramis’ mouth instead, and moaned as a thirst that no wine could quench rose within him. Aramis’ light fingers danced at his waist, Porthos’ long, blunt fingers went to work with equal skill at the many buttons securing his doublet, Aramis’ tongue swept against his mouth, and Porthos licked and sucked at the tender flesh just beneath his ear. Heat kindled in his blood and spread beneath his skin, and he began to tremble. He thrust his left hand back to clutch at Porthos’ hip and knotted his right around one of Aramis’ leather braces, grounding himself in them.
The belts came free and Aramis hummed low in his throat. “Back in a moment,” he whispered against Athos’ mouth. “Just need to get rid of the pointy things.”
Athos couldn’t help the small sound of loss that escaped him as Aramis pulled back from him. “Please–”
“Ssh.” Aramis kissed him again. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” He gently pried Athos’ fingers from him, then lifted them to his lips and kissed them. “Stay with Porthos.”
“Might as well take this,” Porthos said, disentangling Athos’ hands from himself and slipping his doublet from him. “It’s too pretty just to dump on the floor.”
“You show more regard for it than he does,” Aramis teased, taking the garment from him and thinking of the many times he’d seen it lying in a neglected heap on the floor of Athos’ room.
“I like pretty things,” Porthos answered with a grin, then winked. “’S why I tolerate you two.”
Aramis gasped and pressed a hand to his heart, looking mortally offended. “Tolerate? Porthos, you wound me!”
The big man snorted and arched a brow. “You’ll get over it, I’m sure.”
Aramis sniffed and lifted his chin. “I will never get over the insult of being merely tolerated.” He glanced at Athos, and his face softened. “See to him while I hang these up?”
“Oh, yeah,” Porthos rumbled, slipping his arms about Athos’ waist and cradling the smaller man to him, “I got ’im, don’t worry.”
Aramis smiled softly at him. “Never when you’re around.” He moved away to hang Athos’ belongings with his and Porthos’, planning the next phase of their “siege.” Athos needed distracting from his thoughts of Milady.
They could do “distracting” …
Porthos again pressed his mouth to Athos’ neck and began slowly kissing his way down, savoring the taste of sweat, gunpowder, and Athos. His tugged the man’s shirt out of his breeches and slipped his hands beneath it, his fingers lightly stroking against warm skin and tenderly caressing the scars they encountered. As his hands moved upward, his mouth moved downward, until he came up against an obstacle – the fabric of Athos’ familiar scarf.
“’At’s gotta go,” he rumbled, withdrawing a hand from under Athos’ shirt and digging impatient fingers into the scarf to pull it away.
“Wait!” Aramis said sharply as he rejoined them, his dark gaze going at once to that scarf. He was suddenly struck by a memory of d’Artagnan’s hand pulling it roughly from Athos’ neck, by the momentary flare of something he’d seen in Athos’ eyes, and smiled slowly as inspiration took him. “Untie it,” he said, lifting his eyes to Porthos and praying the man understood, “but leave it on him. We will need it later.”
Porthos understood immediately and smiled in wolfish anticipation. This was something he and Aramis had done between themselves often enough, but never – yet – with Athos. The man clung to his control too tightly, needed it too much, for them just to take it from him.
With her reappearance, though, Milady had taken it and now held it over him, whether she knew it or not. And it was destroying him. He was in her hands, at her mercy, as surely as he’d been when she’d burned his ancestral home down around him at la Fère. She’d already driven him back to the bottle; God alone knew what was next.
No. For his sake, for his sanity, they would take that control out of her hands and into theirs, into hands that would only ever treat him as precious and beloved.
He nodded his understanding at Aramis, then returned his full attention to Athos. He knew what Aramis intended – the two of them would wipe every thought of Milady from Athos’ mind and free him, at least for now, from her pernicious influence. To do that, they would need to make certain that they were all he saw, felt, thought of, knew. They would need to imprint themselves on every part of him, plant themselves, and them alone, in his every sense.
They needed Athos completely open, completely vulnerable. Completely theirs.
So Porthos concentrated first on removing any barriers, however flimsy, between them. He quickly stripped off his own shirt and tossed it aside, but made his actions with Athos more languorous, more sensual. He slipped his hands once more under Athos’ shirt and resumed stroking him, fingers trained from childhood to be sensitive to the workings of locks and the location and contents of pockets and purses now dancing and dragging over skin, caressing scars, tracing the curve of rib and sweep of muscle, fingertips playing through hair. As his hands drifted upward, they lifted Athos’ shirt with them, slowly exposing his pale belly and chest, calluses scraping over nipples and bringing them to pebble-hardness.
All the while, he worshipped Athos’ neck with his mouth. He laved his tongue against the tender flesh just below Athos’ ear, nuzzled through his beard to nip at his jaw, licked, kissed, and nibbled a slow, wet line down to the junction of neck and shoulder. He lifted his mouth only to remove Athos’ shirt and drop it at their feet, raised a hand to unknot the scarf but left it hanging around Athos’ neck and down his chest, then homed in once more on that pale throat, licking and kissing lazily as his fingers teased the dusky buds of Athos’ nipples.
Athos moaned and shivered and dropped his head back against Porthos’ broad shoulder, exposing the arch of his throat. Porthos couldn’t resist – could never resist that – and dragged his mouth to the pulse throbbing there, teeth and beard scraping across tender skin. Athos gasped and dug his fingers into Porthos’ hips, driving his back into Porthos’ chest and shivering again as the press of skin to skin sent lightning darting along his every nerve. Porthos growled deep in his throat and clamped his mouth hard against the pulse point, sucking hungrily.
“My God!” Aramis breathed fervently, his soul rising sharply in religious appreciation of the sight before him. Athos was stretched open and vulnerable against Porthos, slender and taut, and Porthos was wrapped around him, all his strength and ferocity now bent to tender protectiveness and adoration. They were a beautiful contrast – pale cream poured over chocolate – and Aramis felt closer to God in that moment than he ever would in any church.
He couldn’t help himself. With any act of worship, he was drawn to join in, and these two were as pure and beautiful a prayer as any he’d ever known. He exhaled unsteadily and moved to them, setting one hand at Porthos’ hip and the other at Athos’, desperate to feel them both, and leaned forward, capturing Athos’ mouth with his in a deep and hungry kiss.
Athos uttered a soft, breathless moan as Aramis licked into his mouth, then tore his hands from Porthos to clutch at Aramis and pull him closer still. With every breath, he inhaled their mingled scents deeper into himself, and, between that unique and heady fragrance, the taste of Aramis in his mouth and the feel of Porthos’ mouth and body against him, he was growing increasingly light-headed. Yet he needed still more. Aramis leaned closer into him, driving him further into Porthos, and shoved a hard thigh between his two. Athos could feel Aramis’ erection pressing into his groin, could feel Porthos’ against his ass, was achingly aware of his own straining against his breeches. He groaned and clutched at Aramis with one hand, lifted the other to dig his fingers into Porthos’ arm, wanting nothing more than to remain here, cradled between them, safe from her, forever.
“Tell us what you want, love,” Porthos breathed against his throat, his breath fanning hotly over Athos’ sensitive skin. He brushed the pad of a thumb over one nipple, dragged a fingernail down the line of dark hair between Athos’ pectorals.
“You!” Athos gasped into Aramis’ mouth, the simple answer almost more than his overheated mind could manage. “Both of you!”
“And you shall have us, bien-aimé,” Aramis assured him, kissing the corners of Athos’ mouth and brushing his lips over cheekbones, eyelids, and the tip of his nose. “We are yours. Always.”
Athos leaned back against Porthos, feeling the hard and steady throb of that powerful heart against his shoulder, breathed in Aramis’ scent and grew almost drunk upon it. For a moment, he thought of wine, but immediately pushed the craving aside.
What need had he of that lie when he had the truth of these two already singing in his blood?
Aramis smiled softly at the sight of Athos, darkly flushed, needy, and pliant in their hands, his customary cool detachment in tatters. It was a rare sight, one gifted only to them, and he, as ever, gave thanks for the wonder and beauty of it. Yet, mindful that it was a gift, and determined never to misuse it, he reached up and ran gentle fingers through Athos’ hair, then brushed them down his face, drawing the heat-glazed gaze of heavy-lidded green eyes to him.
“Before we go any further, cher,” he said quietly, “I must know, do you truly want us to take care of you? I don’t want you to do this simply because you think we want it.”
Athos frowned, struggling to make sense of Aramis’ words. “Don’t– don’t you want to?” he asked, confused. He’d thought they did, had thought they’d made their desire obvious.
Or perhaps she had so clouded his mind that he was misreading everything–
“Ssh, of course, we do!” Aramis assured him, sliding a hand down to his chest and stroking lightly to settle him when he began to grow agitated. “But this is not about what we want. This is all for you. But you are so vulnerable just now, and I – we – don’t want to risk taking advantage of that.” He darted a quick glance at Porthos, who smiled and nodded approvingly at him.
Neither of them had any wish to betray Athos’ trust as his wife had done …
Comprehension slowly dawned upon Athos, and he smiled softly, reaching out to take one of Aramis’ hands in his. “There is no one I trust more than the two of you,” he breathed. “And I give myself gladly into your hands.”
Aramis smiled broadly, delightedly, and swooped in for a long, deep kiss, his tongue diving past Athos’ lips and teeth to sweep against and tangle with his tongue, tasting fully before he pulled back slowly, gently breaking off the kiss and wringing a small, breathless sound of loss from Athos. He exhaled unsteadily and tipped his forehead into Athos’, the two of them breathing fast, Athos’ long fingers digging into his arms.
“God,” Porthos groaned, tightening his arms about Athos and shivering as he watched them through darkening eyes, “the two of you … so beautiful!”
Aramis lifted his head and smiled up at him. “You should see how the two of you look together, cher,” he breathed in a low, husky voice. “Athos makes artwork of us all.”
Athos looked up at that, blinking slowly and frowning slightly, his heat-addled brain struggling to make sense of Aramis’ words. “I do not–”
“Ssh.” Aramis ducked back in and kissed him into silence. “For now, you will accept all of our praise and adoration without argument. You think too little of yourself as it is, and we will not have any of that here.” When Athos winced and looked away, Aramis sighed and slipped a hand under his chin, turning his face back and smiling gently at him. “Remember, bien-aimé, this is all for you. We are here today to take care of you.”
Athos frowned and reached out, idly knotting his fingers in the billowing fabric of Aramis’ shirt, needing all the contact with these two he could get. He had felt so adrift of late, since her return, had begun to fear he might start sinking into the cracks she had reopened within him. His only hope for not losing himself again was, as it had ever been, these two remarkable men.
“You shouldn’t call me that,” he whispered. “I am not–”
“You are,” Porthos assured him. He gently untangled Athos’ hand from Aramis’ shirt and turned him carefully in his arms, smiling softly down into confused green eyes. “You’re our beloved,” he breathed, slipping a hand around the back of Athos’ neck and bowing his head. “And we’re never gonna stop remindin’ you of that.”
Athos moaned and sank into Porthos as the man’s lips claimed his in a slow and tender kiss. His mind stuttered, tried to reclaim dominance, then simply gave up, allowing his body, his need, to take over. Porthos’ mouth moved gently, searchingly over his and he gave in readily to it, opening his to allow Porthos’ tongue entrance, then shivering and clutching at broad shoulders as that tongue teased, tasted, and explored him with a delicious thoroughness. He was used to Aramis shattering him by degrees. Sometimes he forgot that Porthos could be every bit as devastating.
Porthos lavished hungry attention upon his mouth, licking into him, nibbling at and dragging his tongue over his lips, finding the scar in the top one and laving his tongue against it. Once upon a time, Athos had hated that scar, had seen it as a constant reminder of the disfigurement with which he’d been born. Then, later, he’d simply forced himself to ignore it, thinking no more of it than the many others he was accruing as a Musketeer. Only when Porthos and Aramis had begun showering their particular attention upon it, seizing upon it as something unique and fascinating and even somehow alluring, had he actually made his peace with it.
Not even she had given him that. Only they had.
Aramis ghosted up to Athos’ back, stroking his hands down his sides and bowing his head to brush a series of slow, wet kisses along one shoulder to its junction with his neck, then licked and nibbled a path to the hard knob at the top of his spine. He showered a trail of kisses down Athos’ spine, licking and sucking at each vertebrae until he encountered the high waist of his breeches.
“Hm,” he breathed against the small of Athos’ back, wringing a hard shiver from him, “perhaps it is time we got rid of these, as well.” He kissed and licked his way back up, then slipped his arms about Athos’ waist and pulled his weight against himself. “Porthos, would you do the honors?”
Porthos growled low in his throat and wrenched his mouth from Athos’, then bowed his head and licked a stripe down his throat. “You ready, love?” he whispered.
Athos could barely think, could barely breathe. He vaguely knew he was in Aramis’ arms, felt as if the rest of the world were disappearing into a red-gray haze. Heat seared along his every nerve and thundered in his blood, and his cock ached as it strained against his breeches.
“Please,” he whimpered, not at all certain what he was pleading for, knowing only that he needed them.
“It’s all right, cher,” Aramis breathed, “we’ve got you.” He nuzzled into Athos’ hair and swept his tongue against the pale shell of Athos’ ear. “We won’t let you fall.”
Porthos kissed his way slowly down Athos’ chest, lowering himself as he went, until he was kneeling with his face pressed into Athos’ pale stomach, his hands at the buttons of the man’s breeches. With each button he slipped free, he licked a wet patch against Athos’ skin and then blew softly over it, until the man was gasping harshly and quivering helplessly in Aramis’ arms. At last he released the final button and parted the leather of Athos’ breeches, smiling as he beheld the man’s erection straining through braies already damp with pre-cum. “’Ere we go,” he rumbled. “All ready and waitin’ for us.”
“Perhaps we should adjourn to the bed,” Aramis suggested. “I’d hate for him to fall and hit his head. It would prove a most disappointing … climax to the afternoon.”
Porthos nestled his face into Athos’ groin and mouthed his cock through his drawers. But, gradually, the sense of Aramis’ words broke through to him, and he pulled back with an effort. Athos moaned and clutched at him, and Porthos rose lithely to his feet and leaned in to kiss him tenderly. “’S all right, sweetheart,” he whispered against Athos’ mouth, “it’s only for a few moments. I promise.”
A few moments seemed painfully like an eternity when all Athos wanted was their mouths and hands upon him, their bodies against him. But, trusting them to know best, he allowed them to guide him to Porthos’ bed and then lower him gently down onto it. Porthos quickly stripped down to his braies and arranged himself on the bed, sitting up with pillows beneath his shoulders and back, then gathered Athos into his arms, settling him between his legs, Athos’ back against his chest, and wrapped his arms around him, trailing slow kisses and tender caresses over him.
“Boots and breeches, cher,” Aramis urged, settling himself on the bed between Athos’ legs. He tugged off one boot, then the other, tossing them over his shoulder to he cared not where, peeled off stockings and cast them away, and then swatted one of Athos’ hips gently. “Lift up for me.” Athos did, and Aramis pulled both breeches and braies down, then pushed his hips back down and finished stripping him. “Beautiful,” he breathed, tossing the tangled clothing aside and gazing down hungrily at Athos’ hard and darkly-flushed cock. He trailed his hands lightly up the insides of Athos’ thighs, swept his gaze adoringly over his naked form, with its contrasts of pale skin, dark hair, and golden-brown freckles. “Michelangelo himself could never have done you justice.”
Athos winced, embarrassed by Aramis’ words and his hot, worshipful gaze, and turned his head, burying his face in Porthos’ neck. But the big man only chuckled quietly and pushed him back slightly, grinning down into his eyes.
“Don’t try to hide in me,” he teased, trailing a hand lightly down Athos’ face, throat and chest, finally letting it rest on his flat belly, “I agree with ’im. Goddamn beautiful, you are.”
Athos swallowed hard and tried to look away, but Porthos’ eyes – so dark and deep and heavy on him – refused to release him. “I am–”
“Not going to say anything to contradict us,” Aramis interrupted firmly. He left the bed to strip quickly out of his own clothes, putting to use the practice gained in countless bedrooms across Paris, then returned to Athos and slithered up his body to claim a deep and hungry kiss. He swept his tongue over the seam of Athos’ lips and then through it, licking, plumbing, plundering, stealing Athos’ breath and replacing it with his own. As he kissed him ever more deeply, he reached up and wrapped long fingers around one end of the scarf, pulling it free with a slow and steady slide of soft fabric over skin.
Athos moaned and clutched at Aramis as that sensation, so strangely erotic, was added to the host of others bombarding his mind and body. The acrobatics of Aramis’ clever tongue against his own, the man’s taste and scent, the slow dance of Porthos’ agile hands over him and the warm press of the man’s mouth at his neck and shoulder, all combined with the pressure of their bodies against his to strip him of thought and reason, leaving him with nothing save the want and the need bleeding from his every nerve and pore.
“Do you trust us, cher?” Aramis whispered against his mouth, needing to be certain. “Do you trust us to take care of you?”
He could feel Porthos holding his breath, waiting. No matter how much they wanted this, neither of them would ever consider continuing without Athos’ consent.
Athos knew that as well, knew it with a certainty that surpassed any other in his life, knew he need never fear for himself while he was in their hands. “I do,” he breathed, that certainty a weight in the center of his bones. “There is no safer place for me than in your hands. Do with me what you will.”
Aramis pulled back and searched his eyes, reading the absolute trust there, where trust so seldom showed, and smiled softly. He reached for one of Athos’ hands and cradled it to his heart. “All we have ever wanted to do, querido,” he murmured, cradling his other hand to Athos’ face, “all we intend to do now, is to love you as you deserve. As you should have been loved all along.”
Athos exhaled unsteadily and nodded, then let his gaze drift to the scarf draped over Aramis’ forearm. “And that,” he rasped, nodding at the length of fabric, “has some part in this?”
Aramis smiled gently at him. “Yes, but only if you wish it,” he said. His smile faded somewhat, and he brushed his fingertips lightly over Athos’ cheek. “You’re overwrought, cher,” he said softly, sadly. “Your mind and your eyes are playing nasty tricks on you, tormenting you with phantoms and threats that aren’t real. We want you to relax, to stop thinking and simply feel, and this is the best way we know to do that.”
Athos stared at the scarf and licked his lips slowly, suddenly uncertain. He’d set aside reason and relied on his feelings once, and it had led to unimaginable disaster. Had led to her, and to his brother lying dead at his feet. Had led to his letting her live, that she might return to torment him anew.
But … she wasn’t here now. He knew that, despite the warnings firing in his brain. She wasn’t here. Only Aramis and Porthos were. And he would not, could not, allow her shadow to fall over and dim their light. To darken the brilliance they brought into his life. He wanted to feel only them, know only them, see only them. And if that meant he had to be blind to everything else–
“All right,” he said quietly, raising his eyes to Aramis’ face and sliding a hand down to cover Porthos’. “As I said before, I am yours.”
Aramis smiled brilliantly and kissed him again, then sat back, pulling Athos up with him. “Sit up and close your eyes,” he instructed, lifting the scarf.
Athos swallowed hard but did as Aramis asked, trying to relax. Yet as Aramis began wrapping the fabric around his eyes, plunging him into darkness, he felt a momentary spike of panic. He suddenly felt too helpless, too vulnerable, unable to see anything, to guard himself against whatever might–
“Hey, it’s all right.” Porthos’ deep voice sounded in his ear, the man’s warmth pressing against his back, strong hands stroking slowly, soothingly down his arms and sides, over his chest and stomach. “We’re here, we’ve got ya. Trust us, yeah?”
He exhaled unsteadily and leaned back into Porthos. He was safe here, with them, as he’d never been anywhere else, with anyone else. If he knew nothing else after all these years, he should know that.
“I do,” he breathed, finally relaxing under Porthos’ gentle hands. “I just–”
“I know,” Porthos murmured, trailing slow, soft kisses over his shoulder while brushing fingertips along the line of his collarbone. “It’s hard for you to let go.” His fingers feathered up Athos’ throat and ghosted over his jawline. “But you can do that with us.” He nipped at the junction of Athos’ shoulder and neck, then laved his tongue against the bite. “Just put yourself in our hands. I promise, we won’t let you fall.”
Athos tried to answer, but couldn’t speak beyond a soft, breathless moan. He almost felt as if he were falling, blind to the world around him, Porthos’ mouth and hands robbing him of all thought and reason, even of breath itself, reducing him to mere sensation. He reached out instinctively, needing something to hold onto, and felt his hands taken into Aramis’. Then one hand was turned up, a tender kiss was pressed into his palm, his wrist, Aramis’ beard scratching lightly against the tender skin there, and the actions were repeated on his other hand, palm first, then wrist. From there, Aramis’ mouth swept slowly up his forearm to the bend of his elbow, trailed up his arm to his shoulder, and kissed a slow, wet path to his neck. The world simply dropped away from him then, as, cradled between the two, Porthos on one side and Aramis on the other, he was seduced, worshipped, swept up in a slow-building storm of wet, lingering kisses and tender caresses that ignited a thousand fires beneath his skin and that somehow softened the edge of his arousal to something far sweeter than pain.
By mutual if silent accord, Aramis and Porthos conspired to take their time, to go slowly, to explore, taste, and touch Athos with a languorous thoroughness, to shatter him completely but by degrees. Working together, they lowered him gently back down against the bed, one on either side of him, and bent themselves over and around him, fixing upon him the same rapt and tightly focused intensity they showed upon the battlefield, though with much more pleasurable intent.
They left no part of him neglected. Tongues traced the delicate shells of his ears, lips brushed over every part of his face not covered by the scarf, teeth and tongues traced the curve of his jawline, mouths plundered and ravished his with a delicious abandon. They licked, bit, and kissed down his neck and over his shoulders, took turns sucking at the notch of his collarbone and the pulse throbbing frantically in his throat, bit and sucked at him until bruises arose, then kissed and licked the bruises to soothe them. They mapped his freckles with tongues and fingers, lavished kisses and caresses upon every scar, dragged beards and scraped fingernails over sensitive flesh, teased his nipples between their teeth, swept lips and tongues over the curve of his pectorals and the valley between them, and blew puffs of air through the dark hair on his chest. They trailed mouths and fingers over the curve of his ribs, sucked at the hard jut of hip bones, tongued his shallow navel and nipped at and stroked the tender flesh of his belly. Tongues sought and explored the creases at thigh and groin and lapped at the cum leaking from his swollen, aching cock, agile fingers cupped and caressed his balls, mouths licked, kissed, bit, and sucked at the inside of his thighs.
Athos writhed and moaned and trembled between them, arched against them and clutched at them, dove into and devoured whichever mouth was nearest, wound long fingers into and pulled at Porthos’ curls or Aramis’ thick waves, dug them into ams, shoulders, backs. He found he didn’t really need his eyes, knew each of them intimately by feel, by scent, by taste, by the mere press of their fingers on him or the texture of their skin against him. He surrendered wholly to those sensations, let his mind and all thought go and simply gave in to instinct, to need and want and desire, to the urges of his body and the demands of theirs. The blindness freed him from his usual reticence and reservation, relieved him of any inhibition, unlocked a wildness, a wantonness, otherwise alien to him, allowed him to express and explore the full depth and ferocity of the passion he normally kept under such tight control.
Aramis and Porthos allowed themselves to be guided by him. Normally careful of and with Athos, understanding, after his revelations about his wife, why he exercised such rigid control over himself, they now abandoned all restraint, let their own passions, their own desires, command them. Athos’ eager hands and greedy mouth aroused them, inflamed them, stoked their hunger for him to a fever pitch. And their proximity to each other, the collision of their hands, mouths, and bodies as they explored Athos, sharpened and deepened their craving for each other. Aramis surged into Porthos, burying his mouth in the other man’s and raking hands down his powerful back, digging fingers into hard muscles, as Athos licked, kissed, and bit a wet path down his back. Porthos knotted one big hand in Athos’ hair, pulling his head back and claiming his mouth in a ruthless kiss, while his other hand swept down Aramis’ body to the rigid flesh of his arousal, wringing breathless cries and pleading whimpers from him as he stroked him with a devastating slowness.
For years they had been known as the Inseparables, brothers in all things and all ways. Yet here, now, in this bed, were they truly one. One mouth finding another, they breathed into and for each other, little knowing, or caring, where one ended and the other began. Hands joined and fingers intertwined, sweat-slick bodies pressed closer, ever closer, hearts beat in the same frantic rhythm as ragged voices rose and fell in anguished cries and sweet endearments, in desperate pleas and filthy promises. Athos and Aramis together stripped Porthos of his braies and paid homage with mouth and hands to his magnificent body, Athos and Porthos explored every inch of Aramis, Aramis and Porthos held Athos stretched out and quivering, straining, thrashing between them, shattering his reason slowly, lovingly, and driving their most rational, reasonable, logical brother into a wild and keening madness.
Somewhere along the way, in the heat and frenzy of the moment, Athos lost his blindfold, and it mattered not. Sight returned, but restraint did not. HIs brothers, his lovers, had freed him, at least for now, had given back to him a reckless abandon he had known once, years before, and had since come to fear. But there was no fear now, only a joyous release, the knowledge that, with them, he could be as wild, as demanding and needy and shameless, as he wished, and utterly without fear.
They would never betray him. They would catch him when he fell. And when he broke, as he inevitably would, they would always, always put him back together, somehow making him stronger after the break than he’d been before. They would see his wounds, his flaws, the cracks running through him, and bind up every one.
And so, when he could stand no more, when his need was thundering and pounding and raging through him, he begged for relief without fear of what such weakness might cost. Aramis prepared him, a rich, sweet scent wafting from him as he oiled his hands, then those talented, agile fingers brushed against his hole and slipped inside, one at a time, exploring, stretching, heightening his need, while that nimble tongue and those gifted lips further worshipped and tormented his aching cock and heavy balls. But it was Porthos who entered him, who filled him, who thrust into him, slowly at first but with a building force and fury, who wrung wordless cries from him and drove him into a mindless frenzy, and who led him, finally, into shuddering, shattering release. He spilled over his belly, felt Porthos spending into him, and then nothing else. He was falling again, blind again, but knew with instinctive, unshakable certainty that he was safe.
They caught him, held him, guided him back to earth, cradled him between them until he could breathe again. And then, to his awe and delight, the two of them fell into each other, re-learning with mouths, hands, and bodies what was already known by heart. The scent of oil washed over him again, and through wondering, adoring eyes he watched as Aramis wrapped around and then lost himself inside Porthos, watched olive and bronze skin meld together, watched their hands join as their bodies did, saw Aramis’ face go soft and open with bliss while Porthos’ was wreathed in the unique mixture of ferocity and tenderness that was his alone. He could not keep his hands from them, needed to be with them in this as in all other things, was utterly swept up in the prayer and the poetry and the wholly stunning beauty of two glorious men of war made one in love.
He could almost believe in God in that moment, could almost understand what Aramis felt in church when the priest prayed over the bread and wine and joined heaven and earth. But these two were his only sacrament now, their musk and sweat and the smell of their cum the only incense that mattered to him, their cries and whispers the greatest hymn he knew. He breathed their names, reached for them and pulled them down to him, lost himself in the feel of their bodies, their skin, their warmth, against him. Porthos’ strength engulfed and enfolded him. Aramis wound about him and whispered Spanish endearments to him. He clung to and kissed them, saying without words all that lived in his heart, open and broken and vulnerable and whole as he could only be with them. Slowly, helplessly, he drifted into sleep, exhausted and sated, his head against Porthos’ chest, Aramis a warm, close presence at his back, one arm draped over his waist.
He vaguely felt Aramis tucking his scarf beneath his cheek, breathed in their mingled scents from it, and knew that he was safe.
The End