AN: A belated Christmas gift for Beast of Bird Fowl, who prompted me: "Modern day Musketeers (you've done such a good job with TDFS that I couldn't help it), and the three are Puppy'd into helping (on Constance's insistence) for a type of formal dance. I completely blame the movie 'Become Jane' for the dance idea."

I must confess to not having seen that film, but after a bit of research, I likened it to 'Emma' and consequently imagined Athos in Mr Knightley's coattails. I did, however, read the script, hence where the title came from (you know I love my titles).

This is more than just romance,
It's an endless summer.
I can feel the butterflies, leading me through it.
Take my heart, I'll take your hand,
As we're falling under.
This is an addiction girl,
Let's give in to it.

- Plain White T's, 'Our Time Now'

Athos stood perfectly still, fingers and thumbs holding his starched collar, gaze critical as he surveyed the scruffy figure in front of him.

He turned slightly, the figure frowning as he did so, and when Athos made an irritated little noise, so too did the reflection.

"Can we go? Or d'you need to look at yourself in the mirror more?" Porthos groused, sprawled over an overstuffed chair in the corner like a grumpy child. "You're gettin' as bad as Aramis."

Athos spared Porthos the unamused glance he wanted to give him in favour of tugging at the navy blue waistcoat clipped tight around his chest. "If Constance is going to guilt-trip me into this blasted thing, I'm going to do it right."

"Guilt-tripped, yeah, right, 'cause you're so against dressin' up." That did earn Porthos the glance, which Porthos returned with a slow, obstinate look that slid down Athos' body. "What're you worried about anyway, you look gorgeous."

Athos valiantly struggled against the smile that threatened to curve his lips, and instead returned his attention to the mirror. "You are biased, coeur de mon coeur, and amongst other things, blind to fashion."

Porthos straightened, his feet coming to rest on the floor with a bang as he glared at Athos in the reflection. "I'm not, I just don't give a shit."

"No, that would be my outlook, yours is rather more," Athos hummed an answer as he hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and thought about watch chains, "lax."

Porthos snorted, rising from his chair to join Athos on the raised circle, curling his arms around Athos' waist and tugging him off-balance against his chest. "I'll give you lax," he muttered, heat pushing intently at Athos' back.

"Crumple my collar and I will end you," Athos murmured, catching Porthos' gaze in the reflection with one eyebrow raised in warning.

"Sounds fun." Porthos nudged at Athos' ear until he bared his neck, and then mouthed along the pale length, Athos' eyes lidding as he tried to watch. The mirrors set in a half-circle in front of them gave him ample viewing, the two of them pressed together in the bright but boring dressing room, Athos in his trousers and waistcoat, Porthos in his jeans and t-shirt.

Stark contrasts, and they liked it that way.

On instinct, Athos arched a little more when Porthos growled appreciatively, but the second he felt Porthos' teeth graze his jugular, he ducked out of Porthos' grasp and stepped off of the circle.

This time, Porthos' growl was irritated, his chest heaving as Athos looked up at him. Athos' fond smile was at odds to the hand that reached up to grip Porthos' thigh, thumb pressing along the in-seam until he frowned at a fraying hole above his knee.

"There's deliberate distress, and then there's you need to buy a new pair of jeans."

Porthos' glower was equal parts heat and frustration – which was a very familiar feeling to them both, teases that they were. "I like 'em, they're comfy."

Athos let his fingers feather over the denim, finding more and more worn patches amidst Porthos' strained breaths when Athos ventured higher. "They're catastrophic."

"Look, just 'cause I don't know the exact shade to match my tie an' pocket-thing—

"You never match your tie and pocket-square, that's ludicrous."

Porthos huffed an exhale and tangled his fingers in Athos' hair, their exacerbated height difference putting his head at a rather perfect height. "Fuckin' 'ell, Athos, I will gag you."

Athos looked up from under his brows and let his lip tilt at the corner. "Sounds fun."

Porthos' half-exasperated groan was covered by the door opening, and Athos slipped away with practiced ease, smirking at Porthos' clenched fist.

"Comment se inscrit-il, monsieur la Fére?"

"Parfait, merci." Athos talked tailoring with the man, giving Porthos a minute to collect himself, and just when Porthos turned, Athos added, "Mon ami, aussi, s'il vous plait."

Porthos twitched, brow puckering as he translated the scant amount of French that he had picked up on over their time together. "Athos, what?"

The tailor simply smiled, nodding in the way of established craftsmen keen to show off their work. "Navy?"

"No," Athos mused, ignoring Porthos' accusatory stare at the raised circle Athos had tricked him onto, and Athos gave him the same long, slow look that he had been given moments earlier. "Plum, maybe aubergine."

"Athos," Porthos growled, but was resolutely ignored by the pair of them, the tailor as he held up colours, Athos as he continued the conversation in French, admiring the materials, wanting to emphasise Porthos' shoulders.

The tailor glanced at him only for a moment, but there was amusement in the man's knowing eyes. "Bien sûr, monsieur."

Athos let the smallest of smiles curve his mouth, and then nodded at Porthos. "Aramis' orders, mon coeur, and it's my treat."

"This ain't a treat, it's torture," Porthos muttered, and the tailor laughed under his breath.

"Coattails, too?"

Athos tilted his head to the side. "No, he'll only sit on them, and don't listen to his complaints about the tightness of an in-seam, it's all show," Athos said with a wicked grin.

Porthos gave the entertained tailor an unimpressed look. "Right, 'cause 'e stays with me for my jokes."

The tailor hid his laugh by breathing on the end of his measuring tape and Athos stood at his back, winking as he murmured, "Suit you, sir."

Porthos strained chuckle told Athos that he was very definitely in for it, later.

It sounded fun.

Aramis poked his head around the kitchen door from his perch at the breakfast bar, and mock gasped at the sight. Athos looked up with a sly smile, and murmured something to Porthos about hanging the two suit bags in the doorway.

"Mon Dieu, you did it."

"It took a lot of persuading, let me assure you," Athos said dryly, and distractedly rubbed the top of his collarbone.

Athos wouldn't have let Porthos mar his neck so close to the occasion, but apparently the struggle had ended when Athos had taken his dress-shirt off. Aramis knew very well why Athos hadn't allowed him to go with them, but even Athos, it seemed, hadn't been able to keep it strictly business.

"That wasn't even the punishment for draggin' me into this," Porthos warned good-naturedly, and fixed Aramis with a look. "You too, smiles."

Aramis' grin widened. "It's your own fault for not thinking you were involved."

"That's what I said," Athos called over his shoulder as he took out a wine glass and tipped it in a question at Aramis.

"Please, mon cher," Aramis murmured, and tilted his face up for a kiss from a still scowling Porthos as he asked Athos, "How did he look?"

Porthos growled against his mouth, "Like an idiot."

Athos laughed softly, "As I said, mon coeur, blind to fashion." Athos set the two glasses down, and disappeared into the next room for a bottle. "Stunning, if you must know."

Aramis felt Porthos' flush as it heated his cheeks. "I looked like a prat."

"When was the last time Athos complimented anyone?" Aramis whispered, and laughed when Porthos pulled back to look at him. "Apart from in bed, where he is gratifyingly complimentary."

Porthos grinned. "It's 'cause you arch so prettily."

Aramis licked Porthos' lip. "And because you look so very stunning when you're poised above us."

Porthos snorted in embarrassment, fingers tangling in Aramis' hair to give him a reprimanding tug. "Enough, alright? I said I'd wear the stupid thing."

Aramis let his smile soften. "Thank you, it means a lot to me."

Porthos kissed his nose gently. "Yeah, well, never been to a prom before."

Athos' aggravated sigh sounded as he stalked back into the room, drinks in hand. "If anything, it's a ball, there are dress restrictions."

Porthos brushed a kiss across Athos' head for the beer. "What's the difference?"

"Proms are for children." Athos settled on the chair next to Aramis, their thighs touching as Athos poured the wine. "Balls are proper affairs."

"It is a proper affair," Aramis conceded, "but there's no canapés and footmen, Athos."

Athos took a healthy sip and muttered, "I can but hope."

Aramis laughed, stealing a taste of the wine from Athos' lips, and getting a nip for his efforts. He leaned back into Porthos' chest, but pushed his leg against Athos' until Athos' palm squeezed his thigh and stayed there. "Have either of you heard from d'Artagnan?"

Porthos rested his chin on Aramis' hair and sighed, "He can 'ave my spot if 'e wants." Aramis matched Athos' glare, and Porthos raised a hand in defeat. "How else is 'e gonna be able to go? First years aren't allowed."

"Unless they're asked," Aramis corrected, and Athos raised an eyebrow.

"You think Constance will ask him? She doesn't even know that he's head over heels for her, nor she for him, and the day that d'Artagnan decides to rectify that, he'll be at our door before hers." The doorbell went, and Athos' forehead smacked onto the counter. "Kill me."

Porthos left Aramis to soothe the angrily muttering Athos, and opened their front door onto an anxious d'Artagnan. "Speak of the Pup!"

"You have to help me!" d'Artagnan cried, fingers twisting together as Porthos jerked his head towards the kitchen. "I don't know- is he okay?"

Aramis looked up from where he had been placing kisses along the exposed skin of Athos' neck as Athos' hand on his thigh crept higher and higher. "Yes, he's just moping, his favourite wine has stopped being produced."

D'Artagnan's open face closed in concern. "Oh, that sucks, can't you just buy it out or something?"

Athos raised his head to give an innocent-looking Aramis a stare, fingers stopping just short of where Aramis wanted them, and then he looked to d'Artagnan. "It's fine, what do you need?"

D'Artagnan blinked, and then his very important quest must have become apparent again, because he resumed twisting his fingers. "I wasn't going to go, I was just going to go home for a few days, maybe a week, stay away from the whole thing – because obviously I can't watch her go with someone else."

"Obviously," they all murmured, Porthos hiding his affectionate smile behind his beer as d'Artagnan stared to pace. There was no question as to what d'Artagnan was talking about, Constance was, after all, all he ever talked about, lately.

"And she was never going to ask me, because, you know, why should she? I'm just some first year."

Aramis opened his mouth to reassure the boy, but Athos squeezed his leg and gave him a look that told him to let the boy finish his lovelorn rant.

It was a good thing, too, because d'Artagnan looked up with a sudden determination sparking in his eyes. "But then I thought, no, I'm not just some first year, and I'm far better for her than anyone else could be – except for you guys, of course."

"Of course."

"So, yeah, why don't I ask her out?" he finished triumphantly, arms crossed as he nodded once.

"Because you're a first year?" Porthos said quietly, and Aramis glared at him.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," he insisted when d'Artagnan looked up nervously.

"You don't think it's stupid, because I'm younger than she is?"

"No, it's, ah," Athos blinked in surprise when Aramis' fingertips found the pulse in his wrist, and he had to clear his throat before saying, "admirable."

D'Artagnan beamed, and gratefully accepted the beer that Porthos proffered to him. "So why'd you need us?"

D'Artagnan's vigour left him in a rush and he fell back against the fridge with a sigh, "I don't know how to ask her." Big, brown eyes looked up at the three of them. "Will you help me?"

Aramis, naturally, caved first. "Of course we will!"

"We?" Athos muttered, and coughed again when Aramis' nails bit into his wrist and trailed up his forearm. "Yes, of course."

Porthos was grinning at them from across the room, eyes tracking the slow movements just barely hidden by the countertop. "Any time, Pup."

"As long as it's not for too long," Aramis whispered against Athos' ear as d'Artagnan leaned on the breakfast bar to detail his plans, standing too close for any more tactics beneath the table.

Unfortunately, d'Artagnan was nothing if not thorough in his plans to woo Constance, and those plans were both many and varied. They were a dozen bottles down before Porthos dragged a palm across his face. "Can't you just write 'er a poem or somethin'?"

D'Artagnan immediately looked at Athos, who was cradling his fourth glass of wine with a frown. "I am not getting involved in this, I gave you all of my suggestions."

Aramis poured the last of the wine into his own glass, poking his tongue out at Athos' glare. "Your suggestions were all of, write her a letter."

Athos slid a thumb over Aramis' bottom lip and gently pinched the fullest part. "Yes, and it's clearly the best suggestion so far."

Aramis licked the pad of Athos' thumb until fire blazed in Athos' blue eyes, and it would have all derailed from there but Porthos spoke up – with a hint of tension to his voice, "Just steal a poem."

Neither Aramis nor Athos paid much attention to d'Artagnan's tentative, "Is that okay?"

Porthos shrugged. "Yeah, I've done it before." That stole Aramis' attention, and Porthos held his hands up when Aramis gaped in outrage. "What? I never said I wrote 'em."

Athos rolled his eyes at Aramis' indignant noises, stealing Aramis' wineglass whilst he was distracted and replacing it with his own. "Aramis, it was Tolkien, how did you not recognise it?"

"I only watched the films to look at Aragorn and listen to him speak Elvish!"

Athos scoffed softly, but tilted his head to the side in agreement when Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Gin melin."

Porthos chuckled when Aramis sighed happily and flowed into Athos' arms. "I know that one, I love you, too, Strider." Athos smirked, but it turned into a snarl when Aramis drew back with the wineglass. "And this is mine, you can have it back when you get me an Evenstar."

"I did, you broke it pretending to be Éowyn."

As Aramis gave the wine back with a guilty smile, Porthos chuckled, fiddling with the gold ring on his pointer finger, upon which was inscribed something quite different than what people expected.

But then who ever expected Athos to be a romantic?

D'Artagnan threw his hands up in the air. "You guys are useless, stop being so cute."

"Maybe it's a sign," Porthos said with a shrug, wanting to help the boy but not sure how. "Don't overthink it, just tell 'er how you feel. S'not just about huge gestures, sometimes it's bein', y'know," Porthos' smile was lopsided, "cute."

D'Artagnan didn't notice the lovesick looks sent over his head, nor did he hear their goodbyes as he set off on a mission, or hear Athos' amused sigh and Aramis' wistful one.

"Young love."

"We are young, idiot," Porthos said, dragging Aramis against his chest to taste the drops of wine that Athos hadn't already claimed.

"I know, but, it's different." Aramis bit his lip. "I want to see what he does."

Fortunately for d'Artagnan, he didn't hear any of that conversation, nor the brief discussion that followed, not even the whispered promises of things that would come afterwards.

Unfortunately for d'Artagnan, he was watched as he strode confidently up to Constance's building, buzzed for her to come down, and waited anxiously in the slowly falling snow.

Porthos got bored first, throwing snowballs at Athos until the pair of them were sprawled on the floor and doing more kissing than actual fighting, but Aramis – bar the occasional glance at them when the sounds became particularly interesting – kept his gaze on a fidgeting d'Artagnan.

Aramis almost thought he could hear d'Artagnan's swiftly inhaled breath when the door opened.

"Hello, d'Artagnan, do you want to come in?"

"No, I mean, yes, but not yet, I just, I wanted to ask you something," d'Artagnan stammered, and from behind Aramis, the scuffling stopped.

Constance reached out to brush some snow from d'Artagnan's hair. "Oh?"

D'Artagnan blinked, his mind evidently having short-circuited. "I-… I-…"

Porthos and Athos reappeared at Aramis' sides, their cold hands twining with his. "C'mon, Pup," Porthos murmured encouragingly, even though they couldn't be heard.

"Breathe, d'Artagnan," Athos said quietly, bringing Aramis' fingers up to kiss them distractedly.

D'Artagnan straightened, his shoulders lifting, and then he blurted, "I think you're beautiful, Constance. I think you're graceful, and lovely, and generous, and I love spending time with you, and I know I'm only a first year, but I would really like to go to the dance thing with you." D'Artagnan looked down and up again, puppyish charms abound until they could tumble walls and skyscrapers. "That is, if it's okay?"

Constance's hand came up to her mouth, but her smile peeked out from behind it, and she stepped fully out into the snow to press a careful kiss against d'Artagnan's lips, and giggle, "Yes, of course it's okay. I wasn't sure if it was your type of thing, or mine, to be honest, but," Constance reached for d'Artagnan's hand, who was still staring in gobsmacked amazement, "I'm glad you asked."

D'Artagnan's smile was bright and deliriously happy, but then he looked nervously at the slim fingers held in his. "I don't think I'm a very good dancer."

Constance's soft laughter tinkled through the snowfall, and Aramis made an adoring, pained noise. "They're so cute."

"Alright, enough stalkin', you've both got some explainin' to do." Porthos pulled on Aramis' arm which in turn pulled Athos, who braced himself on Porthos' chest so that Aramis was caged between them.

"I don't have to explain anything," Athos stated, but he didn't move to allow Aramis to wriggle away, instead pressing closer against Aramis' front. "I was just following orders."

"Makes a change," Porthos growled, one arm reaching around Aramis to settle at the base of Athos' neck. "Let's see if you can follow some more, eh? Move."

Athos flashed Porthos a dangerous glance, but closed his eyes when Aramis kissed his neck, only a glimmer of blue showing underneath. "Oui, mon coeur."

D'Artagnan's week passed in a veritable blur, a colourful miasma of fabrics and Constance's smiles whenever they passed each other.

Yes, perhaps he was spending a lot of time in the textiles department and hovering around Constance's workstation, but now that he knew he had a chance, now that he had the slight flush to Constance's cheeks when he smiled at her, and his own flush when she smiled at him – although that one wasn't new.

And he didn't go fire-engine red, Athos was just being annoyingly poetic.

Of course, what didn't help was when he went to get fitted for his suit, and the tailor – the suspiciously friendly tailor who chatted in French for ages – pinned him into a deep-red waistcoat and said that the colour suited him.

Athos had coughed behind his hand, Aramis had smiled, and Porthos had outright laughed.

He had tried very hard to scowl at them, but he was too busy staring, open-mouthed, at the well-dressed person in the mirror that looked a little bit like him. The softest dove grey fabric donned him from head to toe, the stark colour at his chest drawing the attention away from the damned flush in his cheeks.

It felt strange, actually it felt good, empowering, and suddenly he didn't feel like some first year asking out a third year, now he felt like a man, a gentleman, asking out a woman.

Until he sneezed, and Aramis had to come over to sort out his hair as Athos thrust a handkerchief at him so that he didn't wipe his nose on the suit.

He was still a little offended about that – even if he had automatically gone to lift his hand to his nose.

Porthos had just guiltily hidden his shirtsleeves behind his back

D'Artagnan stared at the well-dressed person again, now, in the full-length mirror that spanned the long wall of the rented hall; the reflection already full of mingling people and soft lighting.

It had been a busy evening of preparation, Aramis had talked dancing at him and arranged his hair, Athos had wordlessly handed him a gleaming pocket-watch, and Porthos – when d'Artagnan had looked at him expectantly – just snorted and passed him a beer.

The beer had been a good idea, he had been a ball of nerves the whole way there, and it was only getting worse now that the string quartet started playing and Constance was nowhere to be seen.

"I ain't dancin' for love nor money," Porthos growled, aiming the former at Aramis and the latter at Athos.

"Why you think I would coerce you into dancing, Porthos, I don't know. I wouldn't be dancing myself if it wasn't for the fact that Aramis has already drawn up his payment plan for this evening." Athos said the last with a sly smile.

D'Artagnan choked on his own scandalised inhale and glared at a snickering Aramis who was resplendent in hunter-green, "What? I have to choose my battles."

Athos scoffed, "How is it that my battle for dancing was easier fought than with Porthos?"

Aramis leaned into the arm about his waist and brushed a kiss against Athos' freshly-shaven jaw. "Because, for all your grumpiness, you actually enjoy putting on a show when it's something you can do well."

Athos arched an eyebrow but, when he looked to Porthos and d'Artagnan who were both grinning, drained his glass and half of another before bowing low over Aramis' hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Well then, would you do me the honour, mon coeur, to show these amateurs how to dance?"

"The pleasure's all mine, monsieur," Aramis purred, and was promptly led out onto the dancefloor with a victoriously wicked glance over his shoulder.

"Minxes, the pair of 'em," Porthos said to no one in particular, but d'Artagnan thought that his voice was a little lower than usual.

Bereft of the distractions, D'Artagnan fiddled with the silver cufflinks he had inherited from his father, twisting them nervously as Porthos clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder – his attention wasn't on d'Artagnan, though, it was on Athos and Aramis as they swept around the floor.

He tried not to notice the distinctly interested gleam in Porthos' eyes, but he did notice the soft smile in Athos', and he heard Aramis' delighted laugh as they danced past.

He started panicking; he would never be able to dance like that, to be as effortless as they were. Athos said that he had two left feet when they had practiced earlier (honestly, d'Artagnan, think of it like fencing – but do try not to attack Constance, won't you?), Aramis had smacked him for it, but d'Artagnan had to agree.

He was going to fall flat on his face, at this rate.

Porthos distractedly batted d'Artagnan's hands away from once again checking the time on his borrowed pocket-watch, and when d'Artagnan looked up to scowl, he saw her, and breathing was but a distant memory.

Constance stood in the doorway, the white-gloved fingers of one hand toying with the others as she looked around the room. A crushed velvet dress in the same dark red as d'Artagnan's waistcoat was cut low across her arms and chest, and it blew gently outwards from her hips until it brushed the floor.

A thin silver necklace draped delicately over her collarbone, and the tiny silver hoops that he had bought her for her birthday hung at her ears.

He squeaked at first, unable to find his voice when his mind was tripping over how beautiful she was, and Porthos managed to drag his enraptured gaze away to see what he was looking at.

Porthos broke out into another grin. "Constance, you look stunnin'."

Constance's relieved smile when she spotted them only made her brighter in d'Artagnan's eyes, and she picked up her skirts to come over to them. "Thank you, you're looking very smart, yourself."

"Penguin suit," Porthos grumbled simply, and was surprisingly gentle as he enveloped Constance in a hug. "Don't want to ruffle you."

Constance laughed, the movement sending the auburn curls that tumbled over one shoulder into the light, and d'Artagnan could see little tiny bits of glitter there – the same ones that Aramis had in his hair, tonight.

She looked at him then, and it felt as if his heart had stopped and started and then possibly stopped again in the space of a second. "Hello," he managed, and secretly mirrored Porthos' roll of his eyes at his own bashfulness.

"Hello, d'Artagnan." There was the tiny smile that he always flushed at, fire-engine red to match her lipstick, and then it turned onto Porthos, whose gaze had returned to the two graceful figures putting everyone else to shame. "Are Athos and Aramis already dancing?"

"Yeah, an' probably will be for a while, yet."

It was said with fond exasperation, and Constance giggled, "Not joining them, then?"

That earned her a warning look, and then Porthos' elbow bumped purposely into his and d'Artagnan shook himself out of his stupor. "Oh, did you, um, that is, did you want to, er…"

Constance ducked her head and smiled. "Dance?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

Porthos chuckled under his breath, but he gave d'Artagnan a wink when he plucked up his courage and reached for Constance's hand – thankfully still gloved so that she couldn't feel his nervous palms as he headed in the same direction that Athos and Aramis had taken.

"I'm not very good at this," she whispered conspiratorially as he mentally rehearsed the steps he had to take. "I hope you don't mind."

He offered her a lopsided smile, finding it easier to focus on her than his panicking. "You'll be better than me."

Remembering what they had showed him, he let his hands settle in the right places, one curved under Constance's palm, and the other over her hip, which sent an anxious thrill of anticipation through his system.

They had only gotten through about half of the pattern before she broke into his silent counting and said, "You look very dashing." He snorted, trying to look away, but she caught his eye and grinned. "You do, your suit is lovely. Athos?"

"All three of them came with me, actually – and I never want to hear that many suits you, sir, references again."

Constance's laugh was soft, her eyes alight with amusement, and d'Artagnan thought he might lose himself in them – and was all too happy to do so. "It explains why Aramis was so keen to know what colour I was wearing."

D'Artagnan's thoughts scrambled over the mental beat they had been counting out. "What? They picked red because of you?"

"They picked maroon because of me, yes," she teased, "Why?"

"Oh," d'Artagnan stammered, grasping for words and for the infernal tempo of the music, "I thought- it was just-!" It was useless, he had to focus on one thing, and it had to be the dance, so he was honest. "They kept saying I always blush around you."

The prettiest pink flush came up on Constance's cheeks, and d'Artagnan was entranced by her beauty, by her, by the faint, rapid pulse he could just about feel against his own wrist.

"I like it when you blush, and I'm glad you asked me, d'Artagnan," she said eventually, after he had some modicum of control of his feet, which she promptly knocked askew by saying, "I wouldn't want to dance with anyone but you."

D'Artagnan blinked dumbly at her, just barely remembering to move. "But Athos and Aramis can both dance better than me."

There was a lull in the music, and Constance used it to lean forward and brush her nose along his. "But I don't want to dance with them, and I think you're doing very well."

Happiness bloomed in his chest, his smile silly and wide, and he rather forgot about the dance for a moment, his feet keeping time for him until the song drifted to an end. His heart was pounding, his anxiety turning into excitement, and his eyes closed in bliss when Constance's crimson lips curved and pressed against his.

It was soft, and gentle, but it was perfect, and she smelt like strawberries and sunshine, and she was perfect, and d'Artagnan thought he might very well die from delight.

Around them, the music started again, and Constance smiled against his mouth, nudging him into the next dance until he dazedly took the lead again.

There was the tiny smile, but it was different now, it meant something more, something better, and d'Artagnan mirrored it, trying to calm his erratic breathing when she looked away briefly.

"I wouldn't worry about it, anyway, d'Artagnan, I think we're doing better than they are."

D'Artagnan stepped on his own foot when he saw Porthos in Athos' arms, the pair of them arguing over who was going to lead, until Porthos simply lifted a scowling Athos up and deposited him at Aramis' side, who bestowed them both with hundreds of kisses until the pair of them smiled ruefully at each other over Aramis' head.

On a whim, d'Artagnan twirled Constance, and she spun prettily before falling against his chest and staying there. Her breathless laugh tickled his neck as d'Artagnan held her in his arms, his flush reappearing when he saw three encouraging grins, but d'Artagnan didn't mind.

He was growing fond of red.

AN: The song choice, idk, I have this headcanon that d'Artagnan and Aramis dance around to pop songs, much to Athos and Porthos' exasperation. They both end up humming along to Scouting for Girls and One Direction, though.

Also, FF friends, if you want more, find me on Archive of Our Own, I post more fics and more regularly there (and there's a veritable amount of smut, too)!