Athos chuckled.
D'Artagnan's face turned red.
Porthos laughed and slapped the young man on his shoulder as he rode his horse closer. "So if you're goin' at it like rabbits… when are you goin' to 'ave little d'Artagnan's runnin' around?"
D'Artagnan licked his bottom lip and shook his head. "Not soon enough," he said and then looked at Porthos, whose smile increased in size.
"I'll make an excellent uncle," he said, leaned back in his saddle and pressed his hand to his chest. "I'll teach 'im how to street fight —"
"And if she has a girl —"
"All the more reason to teach 'er 'ow to fight."
Athos grinned.
"Say nothing to Constance," d'Artagnan said.
"Or she'll what?" Porthos challenged. "Leave you hangin'?"
Athos snorted and wiped his lips. "Forget it, d'Artagnan," he said, "you will never go a day without someone giving you grief about being a married man when your wife…" he paused and looked at him, "dusts your hair and straightens your clothes before an assembly of musketeers."
"She does no such thing."
Porthos chuckled and shook his head. "That is a true sign of love," he said, and then glanced side-eyed at d'Artagnan, "when your wife corrects you… an' you don't even notice it."
"Utter nonsense." D'Artagnan shifted in his seat and looked ahead as the road to Paris felt even longer than it had two days prior.
"He doesn't notice it, Porthos," Athos said, "because he's still thinking about their abundant and renowned fornications that apparently take place at all hours of the day and night." He tried to hide his smile behind tightened cheeks but failed.
Again, d'Artagnan turned two shades of red darker. "How would…" he paused, unsure if he wanted to know.
"How what…?" Porthos said and grinned, "How do we know you're both tryin' to perfect the act of —"
"You're both imbeciles," d'Artagnan said and squared his shoulders. "If either of you makes a remark about —"
"Sex?"
"Copulation?"
"Procreation?"
Porthos snapped his fingers, leaned forward and looked at Athos, who rode to the right on the other side of d'Artagnan. "Coitus —"
"Now you're both behaving like children."
"Consider it practice for all those children you're goin' to 'ave."
"Constance and I —"
"Are goin' at it like rabbits… wild rabbits," Porthos said with a smile that lit up his eyes.
"Newlyweds always do," Athos said. He adjusted his seat and gripped the leather reins tighter between his fingers. "But from what I understand," he smiled, "you've both been rather active long before your wedding day."
"Is that what you do… sit around after I've left the garrison and talk about my me and my wife?"
"Don't 'ave to." Porthos wiped his mouth, licked his bottom lip, and snorted. "You, ah…" he paused and then shrugged, "have a look about you when you've 'ad a… full night."
Athos chuckled and shook his head.
D'Artagnan once again turned bright red. He swallowed, cleared his throat and rubbed the leather rein with the fat of his thumb. "What look?"
"Your collar," both Porthos and Athos said at the same time.
D'Artagnan reached for the collar of his blouse and tugged on it. "What are you talking about?"
"Constance is a seamstress, d'Artagnan, she always repairs it — and," Athos shrugged, "when you've been under —"
Porthos chuckled.
"When you've been under her tender ministrations," Athos said and looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, "you return in much better shape than when you departed."
D'Artagnan pursed his lips into a fine line and squinted. "You've been pulling the threads out of my collars?" He turned and looked at Porthos, who raised his hands in mock surrender.
"It was Aramis' idea… 'e wanted to see 'ow long it would be before you said somethin'." Porthos grimaced and then looked to his left as the winds kicked up. "He thought it would be funny… seein' 'ow many times she'd repair your blouse." He forced a smile, but this time it didn't reach his eyes.
"I miss her," d'Artagnan said. He looked down, rubbed the leather between his fingers, and took a deep breath.
Athos glanced toward him. D'Artagnan was young and about to face a war. He would need to leave his wife behind and she would consume his waking hours while on the battlefield. He would write to her at night, pray for her during the day, and yearn for her when the nights grew long. They had been together too long for moments of infatuation. Through it all, they had stayed together… even when they were apart. He thought about Constance while she thought about him. Two people had found each other through the madness of the world and for reasons that were incomprehensible, they joined themselves in matrimony. There was a hint of jealousy in Athos, a feeling of losing something he once had, and while he was very proud to know both Constance and d'Artagnan, their companionship was challenging to watch and be a part of. Athos wanted them to survive. He wanted them to have children and grow old together. He wanted them to be happy.
Athos looked toward Porthos, who had suddenly gone quiet as his grief tore at him. A big man with a bigger heart, Porthos wore his feelings on his sleeve, not unlike the pauldron he wore. He loved Aramis, and their brotherhood was one that they had both developed and survived because of their brotherhood. Athos watched Porthos rub his face, shift in his seat, and then look up the road.
"I'm sorry," Porthos said. He winced and then shrugged his right shoulder. "What you and Constance have is…" he took a deep breath and exhaled through puffed cheeks, "somethin' we would all like to strive for."
"She loves all of you, you know that, right?" d'Artagnan said. "You're our family — we don't have anyone else… and I can't imagine having anyone else as brothers."
Athos quirked a slight smile and nodded.
Porthos turned, looked at d'Artagnan, and saw him for the man he was.
Athos suddenly pulled Roger to a stop and dismounted. He ran his hand over the big black's shoulder, along his hindquarters, and finally down his leg. Roger turned his head and looked toward Athos, and then tossed his head.
"Is 'e alright?"
Athos winced, removed his gloves, and pressed his hands to Roger's hock. It wasn't a severe limp he felt, just a hitch in his gait that Athos had been aware of and was overly cautious about causing more harm. He patted Roger's hip and ran his hand along his rump and then looked at both Porthos and d'Artagnan. "I'm going to walk him back — ride ahead. It's only a few leagues… nothing but a long walk."
Porthos twisted in his saddle with his left arm on the pommel and his right on the cantle. "You want us to —"
"No," Athos said with a wave of his hand. "I'll only be a few hours… If Minister Treville asks, let him know I'll meet with him as soon as I return."
Porthos nodded and looked at d'Artagnan. "You want to get back? Got some coitus to perform?"
D'Artagnan growled, kicked his horse into a canter, and then shouted over his shoulder, "Imbeciles!"
"Go, Porthos," Athos said with a chuckle, "make sure they actually reunite in private… not before a company of musketeers."
Porthos nodded. "We'll see you when you return, Captain." He nudged his horse's sides and galloped after d'Artagnan.
Athos gripped Roger's reins as the big horse tossed his head and danced, wishing to gallop ahead. Athos ran his hand along Roger's neck, calmed him, and then slowly started the long walk to Paris.
