Warnings: Open Relationships; Canon Typical Violence.

You Know Me

The morning after Aramis confessed his love to Porthos was much like any other. He awoke plastered to Porthos' side, an arm draped over his back and Porthos snuffling in his hair. It was far from the first time they'd woken thus, though it was the first time they had awoken as lovers.

Aramis smiled and stroked Porthos' arm, letting his fingers slide up until he cupped the back of Porthos' neck. Porthos grumbled, as he was wont to do, and burrowed closer.

"Porthos," Aramis whispered, leaning down to let his beard tickle Porthos' ear.

A growl and the tightening of Porthos' arm about his waist was all Aramis received in answer.

He chuckled. Porthos was notoriously surly in the mornings. "Very well," he said in his normal speaking voice. "I thought we might put the morning to good use, but if you want a lie in…"

Porthos' head shot up, eyelids fluttering rapidly. "I'm up!"

Aramis raised his brows. "Are you?" Eager to feel for himself, he gripped Porthos' thigh, fingers inching toward the patch of curls between Porthos' legs.

Porthos gave one of his vibrant belly laughs, the ones that always made Aramis feel a little lighter. "I'll be more than up at that rate."

Aramis sighed, rubbing their cheeks together, glorying that he now had the freedom to do these things. There were so many touches, so many gestures he had stopped himself from making – and what an idiot he was, not to see why – and now he could explore Porthos' body with impunity.

At least, he could when they were safe behind closed doors. In the dark, where no one may see them.

Aramis stilled.

"Aramis?" Porthos whispered. When Aramis didn't answer, Porthos reached across him, grabbing the bottle of wine that Aramis kept on the little table by the bed. Pulling the cork out, Porthos swished the wine around in his mouth, swallowing with a gulp. That done, he set the wine bottle on the floor on his side of the bed, then took Aramis' face in both hands and pulled him into a sweet, gentle kiss.

Aramis moaned, a knot in his chest loosening, though not vanishing completely. Porthos' hands were large and warm, and Aramis liked the feel of his calluses. Taking someone stronger and larger than himself to bed was something he'd never experienced before, and yet had always wanted without knowing it. There was something incredibly freeing about the fact that Porthos could hold him down, could manhandle him, and Aramis would allow it because he trusted Porthos completely.

Porthos finished the kiss with a swipe of tongue and a sting of teeth, and then pulled back, though only far enough to rest their foreheads together.

"Second thoughts?" he asked.

Aramis buried his face in Porthos' neck, and Porthos let him shelter there. "Second and third," he admitted. "But not about you. About the world. I dislike lying about something so important. I will not hide who I am. Hypocrisy of this nature is why I left the church, you know that."

Porthos wrapped his arms around Aramis, pulling him closer until they were pressed chest to chest. Aramis could feel a burgeoning erection against his stomach and smiled into Porthos' shoulder.

"Ignore that," Porthos told him. "Can't help it, not when you're in my arms like this."

Aramis snorted. "Flatterer."

Porthos shrugged.

That sat together quietly for some minutes, Aramis basking in the feeling of being held. Of being so close they need not speak, or put up pretense. They could simply be. He did not usually reach such a point with his lovers. His affairs were quick, forbidden things of fierce passion. It was rare for him to have the opportunity to stay the night with one of his women without fear of discovery, and even when he did they expected him to act the gallant. None had ever comforted him, or allowed him to be quiet, just listening to them breathe.

Though he supposed it could simply be that Porthos had already heard all his stories, and in fact been there for most of them. It was difficult to impress a man with your scars when he was the one who'd held your guts in while you stitched yourself up.

"About the world out there," Porthos began, prompting Aramis to look up at him.

"What of it?"

Porthos flexed his jaw, and Aramis tensed. Porthos was wearing that expression of his that said You aren't going to like this.

"No one will think anything of it when they see us coming and going from each other's quarters. We've done that for years. But if we stop taking women, you especially…"

Aramis pulled away from Porthos, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and casting about for his braies. He suddenly didn't want to be naked. Once he'd found them and put them on, he ran a hand through his hair, opening and shutting his mouth twice before he'd worked through his initial reaction. Finally, he plucked at his moustache and said, "You think me incapable of fidelity?"

Had he not proven his loyalty beyond any doubt? He, who fought and killed for Porthos to prove his innocence, and killed again in the Court of Miracles to save his life? He, who had mended bones and sewn flesh to hold Porthos' body together? He, who had been brother and comrade and lover in all but deed for nigh on five years?

Porthos stood, naked and magnificent, and stroked Aramis' cheek, smoothing his hair back from his face and soothing Aramis against his will. "Peace, Aramis," he said, following the words with a kiss to Aramis' temple. "I know you. I know how you are. You'd do whatever I asked. If I wanted you to forsake women for the rest of your life, you'd do it."

Mollified, Aramis relaxed against Porthos, pressing his cheek more firmly against Porthos' palm. "I would," he confirmed. "Anything you asked."

Porthos nodded. "And I'm asking you to keep on as we have. Not because I don't think you'd give up women for me. Or because you aren't enough for me. People will notice, Aramis, if we both suddenly stop taking lovers. And then they'll start asking questions."

Aramis squeezed his eyes closed. "And because you know me."

Porthos shrugged. "You love me. Have for a long time. But you love women too. There's love enough in your heart for both of us, and you'll always love me most."

Lips twitching, Aramis took a deep breath. "Someone is awfully sure of himself."

Porthos smiled, and it was breathtaking. The flash of white teeth against black beard and brown skin… Aramis had never seen anyone who could match Porthos' smile, and he doubted he ever would.

"You love me," he told Porthos. "As much as I love you."

"Yeah," Porthos said. "I do."

-l-

The day of the tournament between the King's Musketeers and the Cardinal's Red Guards dawned bright and sunny, reflecting on the banners that decorated the stands. Aramis stood with Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, right on the field. It was a place of honor, given to them by Treville.

Aramis let his eyes roam over the stands, devoting the attendees to memory, lest it should prove important later.

"You invited your widow," he observed, spying Porthos' patroness, a dark haired beauty with skin like porcelain. She was wearing blue silk, with pearls in her hair, and Aramis despised how lovely it made her look.

"Her name is Alice," Porthos said.

More sharply than he'd intended, Aramis retorted, "You only needed thirty livre. Not a wife."

Love had made him foolish. And jealous. It had seemed a fine plan, the morning that they discussed it, the pair of them continuing to lie with women. Aramis did love women, loved speaking with them, touching them, loving them with all he had for a night or two until their time together came to an end, but when the pact was made he had not considered how he would feel to see Porthos doing the same.

"Did I say anything about marriage? No."

Well if he wasn't going to marry her, what was Porthos doing inviting her here, pulling her into the world of the Musketeers, their world? They had agreed to take women, not keep them, and Aramis was comforted not at all by Porthos' silence.

Porthos gave him look of displeasure, and some part of Aramis knew that jealousy had made him ugly and small, but that part of him was drowning beneath a torrent of feeling so heavy that Aramis nearly staggered. "My God, you're actually considering it!" he pressed on, unable to help himself.

"There's more to life than the Musketeers, you know," Porthos said, and Aramis heard, There is more to life than my being with you.

His tongue felt numb in his mouth. He could scarcely pay attention to the proceedings. His vision narrowed into a black tunnel of despair. He looked toward the fight, but all he could see was the lovely widow in her blue dress, prancing off with Porthos on her arm, inviting him to live in her house until he grew fat and lazy and lost his desire for fights and campaigns filled with little sleep and muddy boots. Until he lost his desire for Aramis.

It was all unfolding before him. Porthos and the widow would have children, beautiful children with honey brown skin and curly black hair, and perhaps one would even be called Aramis, just to drive the knife a little deeper into Aramis' heart.

He was going to be sick.

Porthos smiled at him, no doubt seeing the distress in his face. Porthos had always had a sixth sense about these things. He always knew when Athos was having a bad night and would need to be carried home, when Aramis couldn't sleep alone because of the ghosts of Savoy… He'd even started doing it with d'Artagnan, pulling the young Gascon to the side for a wrestling match when d'Artagnan's temper threatened to overwhelm him.

Out on the field Treville screamed, drawing Aramis out of himself. He threw his hat to the side and had his sword out even as he catalogued the captain's injuries, satisfying himself that the arm was likely a greenstick break, if the bone had splintered at all. The real damage would be to the joint. It might be dislocated. At the very least, the bruising would swell and keep Treville from moving it easily for a fortnight.

Blood pumping, Aramis raised his sword, twirling to gut a man, only to be brought up short by the king calling a halt.

He grit his teeth, turning his killing blow to the side, not sure if he was relieved. He never reveled in death and always prayed for the slain, but just this moment his thoughts were bloody and bleak and might have been alleviated by painting his sword red.

God forgive me.

D'Artagnan took the captain's place and the tournament resumed. This time Aramis focused intently on the action, his breath coming in heaving gasps as if it were he who was fighting. In a way, it was. D'Artagnan was brother and squire to all of them, perhaps even something like a son, and Aramis couldn't help but grin when d'Artagnan performed a sword flourish that Aramis had taught him.

Then came the killing blow, and Porthos' hand on Aramis' shoulder. They turned to each other, as they always did, and Aramis forgot his jealousy, forgot the loss of Porthos that loomed in the distance. They were Aramis and Porthos, as they always had been and always would be.

But then Aramis saw the widow exiting the stands, and his smile froze in place.

Porthos tilted his head, turning to look over his shoulder.

"Oh. I should go talk to her."

"Yes, you should," Aramis said, wondering if he sounded anything close to normal. "I'll be here."

He went to fetch his hat, telling himself that he wasn't going to watch.

But of course he did.

They were speaking. Aramis couldn't tell if it was going well. The widow had her back to him.

If Porthos married her, Aramis supposed he would have to learn her name. He would not let himself treat her badly just because she could openly love Porthos.

They kissed. Aramis bit his tongue and tasted blood, bracing himself to smile and congratulate them.

But then the widow was walking away.

Forcing himself to move at a normal pace, Aramis put his hat on and approached Porthos, mouth dry and hands clammy. Just what was it about Porthos that disarmed him so completely?

"So, will you marry the lovely widow – Alice?" Aramis quickly corrected himself. He would start as he meant to go on. If Porthos chose to take a wife and have Aramis as his lover, Aramis would treat the lady with respect. He would be godfather and uncle to the children, and no one would ever suspect that his smile was not an expression of joy so much as a bleeding wound disguised.

Porthos turned to face him, expression inscrutable. "Who would look after you if I did that, eh?"

Aramis' heart skipped a beat, and he felt at once like a man who'd been given a reprieve from execution. He slung his arm around Porthos' shoulder, remembering at the last moment that he could be close, but not too close when they were in such a public place, and turned what would have been an embrace into a backslap.

Maybe he would have to share Porthos one day, but it was not this day, and Aramis was glad. He wasn't ready yet. He might never be ready, and Porthos probably knew that.

Porthos knew him.