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Porthos had been late in coming home, but it's even more surprising that when he peeks through the flat, Aramis isn't there either and it's getting on past the time when he's usually back. With a buoyant grin, Porthos has the feeling that Aramis is probably out there with a woman, which means that there's a subtle, slight chance that it might just help with that mood of his. Porthos can only hope for it, digging through his paper bags to find the fish from the market, setting it on the counter to start boning it thoroughly as he whistles, cleaning his hands as soon as the fish have turned from someone's prey into their dinner, easing them into the oven before he heads into Aramis' washroom to clean up.

They really should start getting the ceiling knocked down, because sharing the one room is a bit of an inconvenience at the best of times.

Dripping wet and wearing his loose shirt and his leathers, he sets the table as he fusses with his hair to prevent it from going everywhere, his mind still occupied on a dozen thoughts as he moves. He thinks about the office and their work. He thinks about that computer upstairs and all the things it could teach him. Those thoughts lead him to Jim and he wonders at how the future is changed, how Jim's married to some other man and no one seems to mind.

It's not as if that's enough to spook or fright him and he's definitely not so uneasy like Aramis has been, but it's definitely something to think about. Idly, he hears the timer going off -- a reminder to start on something sweet for dessert -- and Porthos is halfway through digging through flour and sugar when he hears the door open.

"Who was she, then?" he asks brazenly, smirking when he sees Aramis wander in.

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Aramis flashes him a tired smile as he ambles through the door. He's a bit more worse for wear than he is upon returning from similar exploits - the ones that see him using doors, that is, rather than leaping from windows - his clothes in order yet a little rumpled, hair a bit wilder and cheeks colored with a heavier flush.

He's pleasantly sore all over, and moves like it, removing his hat and coat in slow and languorous movements. "Do you know," he says, "I've almost forgotten her name." It's terribly rude, but then, he feels terribly addled, and is certain the name will return to him. "Ah!" Aramis snaps his fingers. "Michele."

Porthos feels like he's never seen Aramis this debauched, this badly. He tries to think back, but can't pin down another time like this. He's always composed, even when he's dangling off buildings. This (hair a mess, cheeks flushed) makes him look like they've only just finished in the hallway and Porthos feels a bit embarrassed for it, not only because there's a thought that says Aramis looks good when he isn't all put-together.

It makes him seem a bit more down-to-earth, even. "Don't know any Micheles," Porthos replies, shrugging seeing as it hardly matters. He tips some of the melted chocolate into the bowl of sugar and flour, stirring as he leans his weight into the corner of the kitchen counters, arching his brow at Aramis. "Feeling better?" he asks, his smirk having yet to leave his face.

"You needn't look so smug," Aramis replies, but he grins back at him, loosening the ties of his tunic as he joins Porthos in the kitchen. "But yes, I feel much better."

He rubs at his throat, where marks are beginning to rise, fresh nail tracks stinging along his back and thighs. Aramis leans into the ache, savoring it. "My god, what are you up to in here?" he asks, leaning forward to gaze into Porthos' bowl. "It smells heavenly."

Porthos' brows knit together briefly when Aramis loosens his tunic, but he reminds himself he's seen the opposite many a time after a stop at the brothel or while waiting in halls outside of Aramis' mistress' rooms. It's only a reverse, is all.

"I was starting to get worried you'd lose your head, go mad," Porthos admits, his attention falling to the markings on Aramis' neck, reaching out to touch one briefly before he sets back to mixing the bowl. "Fish in the oven soaked in brandy and this'll be a cake, eventually," he says, peering into the mix longer than necessary, so he doesn't end up staring at purpling bruises in the shape of lips. "I half thought you weren't coming back. Might have to double the recipe."

Aramis doesn't go so far as to smack Porthos' hand away, but only because he wants a bit of that cake. "Careful," he says, "I'm a wounded man. And to make me smell this and not feed me would be cruel."

He leans back against the counter. "You're becoming quite the cook, Porthos. Chocolate?" They'd never have dreamed of eating like this in Paris. "Absolutely decadent."

He shrugs, eyes still lowered because it's something to focus on. He's feeling a bit odd, off even, like his head's gone strange and foggy since Aramis got back. Maybe he's hungrier than he thought and shouldn't have had that much wine before dinner. "I figured that I've got the time and I've got the money now," he admits, "So I made a list." He sets the bowl on the counter, finding the folded and crumpled thing he'd put together days back. "All the foods I longed for, that I saw nobles eating or trying, the things I craved," he says longingly.

"Working my way through 'em, now," he says. "Shame Flea and Charon aren't here to share it, being that they were at my side. Charon loved chocolate the most, too," he remembers, pausing before he ducks past Aramis to grasp the next few ingredients. "Used to go out of his way to thieve it, if he could." He's tucking away the list, his gaze back on the marks on Aramis' neck, like he's drawn to them, but he forces his gaze to the side, gesturing to the counter behind him. "Pass me the pan, would you?"

Aramis reaches, handing the pan over in silence. He doesn't like to think of Charon, not least because he was Porthos' friend and Aramis killed him. He'd had to, Aramis is certain of that much.

It's that he's equally certain he caused Porthos pain in doing it that troubles him. And even so, Aramis still feels a stir of jealousy when he thinks of the man. He'd shepherded Porthos through his youth, looked out for him, protected him in many of the same ways that Aramis does now. Aramis knows it is folly to feel that he, Athos, and Porthos have always been together when they have only known each other for a handful of years, but it is strange to think of life before them.

"He was kind to share it with you," he says at length. Chocolate was so valuable, and the price for stealing it so high. "He must have been a good man, before..." Aramis trails off. "Before he wasn't."

Porthos thinks back to the old days, before things got complicated and before Porthos figured out he'd wanted something more. He takes the pan from Aramis, fingers brushing over the warmth of Aramis' and he feels another strange assault of whatever that odd feeling is, like being kicked in the face with something. "I left the Court at fifteen," he says, which Aramis knows, but this part, he doesn't. "We shared ... everything," he says, heavily.

He takes the chance to turn his back on Aramis, pouring the mix into the pan while adding the last few ingredients atop (heavy salt and caramel to flavour it) and he clears his throat. "Sometimes, I think it's a bit like Marsac," he confesses. "Time wasn't very kind to them, is all."

Porthos turns away from him, and Aramis' heart sinks, only to leap uncomfortably in his chest at the mention of Marsac. "I suppose it wasn't," he says. "But they made their own choices, in the end."

He could forgive a hungry boy his stolen mouthful of food, but when Porthos became a man, he chose a new life for himself, fought for it, won it. Charon had done none of those things, a thief and a murderer to the last, and Aramis has few charitable feelings to extend to the man.

And Marsac. Aramis has a different tangle of feelings for that poor wretch, and none that he particularly wishes to dwell on. "Better to remember them as they were in better times."

"He was two years older than me, Charon. At least, we figured he was, wasn't like I could tell," Porthos says, feeling something in him shift uncomfortably and it's like his pieces don't fit. He always feels like this when he tries to reconcile his past with his present. He steps in front of Aramis, pan in hand, and raises his brows in silent demand that he move. "Up until the last of my days in the Court, we were always together. Before you and Athos, I had Flea and Charon. Though, things were maybe a bit different," he confesses. "Not Flea. I never got the courage until I went back."

"I don't blame you about him, you know," he says thickly, breathing in deeply and catching the smell of sex from Aramis' skin, a reminder of where he's been. "It was my life or his."

"You have a generous heart, Porthos," Aramis exhales. He's always known it, deep down, that Porthos did not hate him for it, but it is one thing to think it, and another to hear it from Porthos' own mouth.

"I am glad they saw you through so much," he says as he moves. "But I am equally glad you chose to leave them. Your Flea, though." He ventures a smile, wondering a touch at Porthos' phrasing. "She was a fine woman."

He shakes his head, not wanting to catch Aramis' eye as he slides the cake into the oven, pulling out the fish while he does. "It's not my generous heart," he confesses, feeling like the damned cross on his neck makes him tell this truth or whatever's in the air, but he feels like he can't breathe for it. "If I had the choice between you or him, it's you I choose," he says.

"And yeah, Flea's something. I asked her to come with me, when I left. I asked 'em both," he corrects himself. "It's what you do when you're fifteen and caught up thinking you're in love, isn't it?"

"One does all manner of mad things at that age," Aramis agrees, carefully turning his thoughts from the follies of his own youth. The fish comes from the oven, and Aramis breathes in deep, a small moan of wanting escaping him for the savor of it in the air.

He's ravenous, but he does his best to be polite, keeping his hands away from the hot dish. "You didn't tell me you were in love with her."

The sound makes him swallow hard, knowing something's wrong (he's drunk too much, he doesn't feel right). Porthos grasps a set of plates, nudging Aramis aside with his hip and using the spatula to plate it, checking that it's been properly descaled and cooked, because it's easier to fixate on the fish instead of his answer. He knows he ought to be honest, he really does, and he'd never willingly lie to Aramis, not even if this will cause judgment.

Still. People can do that here. Even if Aramis reacts poorly, he can't go report him and get him strung up and even if he could, he wouldn't, would he? "Them," he corrects gruffly, taking the casserole and the two plates to the table.

"Them," Aramis echoes, moved to a sudden stillness, all the food in the air, the oven, and on the table forgotten.

It makes sense, looking back. The passion between Porthos and Charon in their fury - one is not moved to great anger if great love has not come first, but he'd never before looked at them through quite this lens.

"You never said," he continues, turning his suddenly heavy limbs to watch Porthos' progress. He feels a buzz beneath his skin - this sort of talk is dangerous, especially for a man in Porthos' position, but then Aramis remembers where they are.

No Cardinal's man will come to hang them for speaking of it. "In all our years. You've never said."

Grasping the bottle of wine in his hand, he finally opens himself to judgment, turning to Aramis as he gestures to the air around them. "Why would I?" he questions, shoulders feeling knotted and heavy. "I might have been a Musketeer, but I know all too well what would happen if anyone found out. And Charon? He was a criminal, a thief," Porthos spits the words out. "You really think they'd be half as kind to him?"

He snorts, settling into the table with the wine and the cutlery, shaking his head in disbelief. "You might not have said anything, but talk moves in the garrison without you wanting it to. I was fifteen," Porthos says evenly. "I left that behind. Besides, it's not as if we ever did very much." He's thought about it since, has thought about other things since, but has never taken any action and he thinks that makes a heavy difference.

"I'm dying of heat," he grumbles, drinking straight from the bottle as he yanks at his collar, trying to beat away the flush in his bones since Aramis came home.

Modernity, Aramis finds, has its uses, both in Porthos' improved status in Darrow, and in the use of the box that keeps their food cool. Crossing to the refrigerator, Aramis pours from it a glass of cold water and hands it to Porthos.

"I would not have said anything," he agrees, for Porthos has said it himself. "I would defend you from any foe, from any source, even one that starts as small as gossip. And I would not - "

Taking a heavy seat at the table, Aramis chooses his words. "I would not think less of any man for being in love. Certainly not you."

"I'm not in love with him anymore," Porthos feels inclined to point out, reaching forward for the glass and deliberately letting his hand linger on Aramis' for a moment before he draws it back, gulping the water down desperately. The closer he is to Aramis, the stranger he feels, which raises his suspicions that maybe something happened while he was gone.

He doesn't feel like this is the time to mention that he loves Athos and Aramis, in different ways, because that's a whole other topic he doesn't feel inclined to broach. "Eat your food before it gets cold," he says, voice hushed. "Unless your appetite's already been sated."

It hasn't, though it's certainly been distracted. Aramis makes a plate, but it's to Porthos' side of the table he slides it. "It feels," he says at length, brow furrowed, "It feels as though we might have had this conversation long ago, had it been safer. But it was not safe, and I understand why you did not tell me."

Beginning on his own plate, Aramis offers, "I went through similar."

His head jerks up when Aramis says those words, accusation and disbelief warring within him. On the one hand, he hardly believes it because he knows Aramis and he knows everything about him, doesn't he? For another, how the hell does he balance the church and his God with what's supposedly so sinful? "With who?" he demands, unable to keep the heated jealousy from his tone. The rest of his water is gone quickly, fingers tightening around the cup until his knuckles crack.

Aramis doesn't know what reaction he'd been expecting, but on the heels of Porthos' own confession, it was certainly not this.

"Porthos," he says, sitting straighter in his chair. He doesn't fear his friend, but he cannot help to react for the anger he recognizes on Porthos' face. His mind moves swiftly, cataloging the location of his many weapons before he catches himself.

"Please, my friend." Aramis holds up both hands. Porthos wouldn't hurt him, not for this, but he is unpredictable when angry. He might very well hurt himself. "Calm down."

Porthos picks up knife and fork, sawing at the fish with determination and rigor, never once taking his eyes off Aramis. The cake will be done soon, which is good, because as soon as it is, he needs to get out of this room and whatever is clouding his head, like he hasn't felt in ages. "I'm calm," he replies, even if the anger is bubbling just below the surface, faintly controlled. "Who was it? Athos?" he asks, studying his face to search for the answer. "Maybe someone disreputable? Someone outside Paris?"

The old rumours can't be true. They can't be. Porthos had never believed them, not once, it can't be him.

"It doesn't matter," Aramis replies with a frown. Porthos is hacking at his food like he wishes it were not fish beneath his blade but someone's neck, and Aramis finds himself suddenly disinclined to share.

"It was long ago, and he is gone."

So he's not getting a name, then. In the wake of that, the information hits him like an unexpected blow to the gut, when he realizes what Aramis is saying. Rage is replaced by shock and his face loses its flush before he goes pale. He hides it by eating dinner with quickness, rising to get the cake from the oven with half the fish still left on the plate.

All these years, he'd thought Aramis' attentions only went one way, but that's not true, is it? If it hadn't been in the past, it might not be now. He shoves the cake onto the counter with little grace, pulling off the gloves and staring at the door as if assessing a quick exit. "But you loved him," he says, finally, because he wants the answer.

For a moment, Aramis thinks of lying, and he doesn't know why. Lying is dishonorable, and Porthos is his friend. He owes him the truth.

So why does it suddenly feel so bad to give it? "I did," he says, and Porthos is looking everywhere else, but Aramis can only look at him, transfixed by the fury sending tremors down every inch of that powerful body.

"I am sorry. Perhaps I should have simply let you eat."

Porthos shakes his head, because while he might be angry and he might feel out of sorts and out of place, he'd never wish for Aramis to lie to him. they're being honest, now, and isn't that what he's always wanted. With the distance between him and Aramis now, it's easier to breathe. He takes new plates with him and the cake, putting them on the table.

He lingers behind Aramis, eyes tracing the curve of his neck and those marks there. He thinks that maybe some day, Porthos will see Aramis with another man here, as the times allow it. If that's his choice, then Porthos will stand by him.

Deep breaths, in and out, and he counts to ten. "Jim," he finally starts, calmer than before, "you know Jim? He's married to another man. Married," he echoes. "So I think it's more than okay here. You know, if you were...if you were wanting to find someone like that again. I wouldn't care," Porthos promises. "Really."

It is a fine promise, spoken from a heart that Aramis knows well. He can hardly reconcile the anger that had come before with the man standing before him now, but this is the Porthos he knows. Generous and loyal, as good a man as Aramis has ever known, perhaps even the best.

He smiles up at him, feeling his own racing pulse begin to slow. "I do not know what I want," he admits. "It may be ages before I am truly comfortable in this place. At times," he says, hesitating before pressing on, "It feels as if you are my only safe harbor. But if you were to want someone, someone like Jim does, I would not think less of you, either. I never will."

Don't be so sure of that, says the small voice Porthos has learned to ignore. He'd figured out with Alice that he can't stop living the life he does, but he still wants a sort of future where he gets someone who understands him. His fingers reach out, but he halts them before they can clasp Aramis' shoulder. It's enough that they're shared what they have.

Tonight's no place for Porthos to tell Aramis what he means to him. He barely knows himself, never letting himself really think about it, but if he looks at his life closer, he should know the signs are all there. "Eat your cake, I made it for you," he says, which is as much confession as he's willing to give tonight. "I know you like a bit of indulgence, now and then." He does reach out, then, tracing the marks with tentative brushes of the pads of his fingertips. "What happened while you were out there?" he wonders. "It's like you brought something back with you, something I can't put my finger on..."

"I hardly know myself," says Aramis with a small laugh, relaxing now that it seems the argument, such as it was, is over. "I met her in the park. She was very forward, even for these modern women. We'd hardly set down together before she began to touch me, and then it was as if I couldn't get enough of her."

Aramis shrugs. "A most beguiling woman," he murmurs, frowning a little as he says it. "It is rare for me to react with such abandon." A beat passes before Aramis amends, "In public."

He hasn't stopped touching the marks, like he can figure it out based on the red and purples, or maybe it's just that touching Aramis like this is calming him down. "Ever since you got back, it's like my head's clouded. I'm quicker to anger..." He shuts his mouth, not wanting to bring up the burning in his blood. "It's not natural," he grumbles, breathing in another lungful of whatever's affecting him, even if it's seemingly wearing off.

Maybe he ought to sleep upstairs tonight. After the conversation (or is it a fight?) they've had, he can't imagine Aramis wants to be anywhere near him.

"Perhaps not," says Aramis, stomach beginning to roll uncomfortably. He hadn't at all minded at the time, too content to be swept away on a wave of passion to wonder at its cause, but the more he thinks on it, the stranger it all seems.

"I have not felt quite myself, either," he says, looking up at Porthos as the sense of foreboding grows stronger. He can feel Porthos' fingers on him, following the marks, and finds all at once that he does not like the portrait Porthos is tracing. "Not unhappy, but not natural, either."

Maybe that's why they've both been moved to confession tonight, on a topic that had been buried deep enough to have been forgotten for years. His fingers slide around to cup the back of Aramis' neck, drawing in closer, and then he hears Aramis' words, sees where they stand, and comes back to himself. Flushed, he pulls away and clears his throat. "I uh, I shouldn't stay, then."

Aramis' eyes close for the sudden pressure at his nape, but it's gone in the next moment, leaving him unsteady despite his firm seat in the chair. "Perhaps," he exhales. The last thing he wants is for Porthos to go, but if there is some power at work here, he'll not see Porthos stay to be tormented.

"Porthos," he says, his eyes troubled when he lifts them. "Is it possible? Am I bewitched?"

He's moved that hand to his own neck, scratching and rubbing as he wonders what it might be. "Don't think so," he admits. "Otherwise I am, too, feeling the way I do," he gets out, lips twitching as he tries to offer an easy smile. "I can't go yet, anyway," he adds, gesturing to the table. "I need to see the look on your face when you try dessert, after all."

Dessert. "I had almost forgotten," says Aramis, grateful for both the distraction and Porthos' seeming decision to stay. Strange forces working on them or not, Aramis still believes they are better together than apart.

Leaning across the table, he drags the cake to him and sticks his fork directly into it. The chocolate bursts on his tongue, sweet and rich and still warm, better than Aramis had been anticipating, and he closes his lips around the fork with a startled sound.

He's hopeful, watching, because he's been practicing since he got here, but he's never tried dessert until today. It doesn't seem too bad, but then Aramis makes that sound and Porthos' heart leaps into his throat and he grips the back of Aramis' chair firmly, before he sways forward and does something stupid. "I take it you like it," he says, stomach fluttering. "Unless you make that sound for every cake you eat."

"I do not," Aramis confirms, helping himself to another forkful, this one larger than the first. He hasn't even over many cakes in his life - the ingredients are so expensive, only when allowed into the court kitchens has he tasted anything so fine - but already Aramis believes this one to be the best.

"I've never tasted its equal," he says, marveling at the little bursts of salt.

He's beyond ecstatic to hear. Clapping his hands together in delight, he knocks Aramis on the shoulder before dragging his chair beside him, picking up his form to get a bit of his own before Aramis can eat it all. "Good," he says, buoyed. "Maybe I'll make a habit out of this sort of thing, but you're contributing with some coin of your own," he warns, flicking Aramis' fork away to get his own bite.

Aramis reaches into the one pouch he still wears and tosses his coin purse onto the table. The paper money inside diminishes the effect somewhat, but there are enough coins rattling inside to make a satisfying thunk.

"For this, my friend, I would become a sellsword."

Porthos rifles through the money, taking a few coins before he sends it back to Aramis, a fond soft smile on his lips as he considers he'd do this for nothing at all. "Keep your money," he says. "And promise that you'll be okay with Jim coming around, getting us set up. You don't need to sell yourself for me to treat you well," he says, flushing to the tips of his ears. "I'd do it for nothing."

"Porthos, please," says Aramis with a wide smile, one that quirks to see the rising flush on Porthos' cheeks. He can hardly help but to encourage it, just a little. "I said sell my sword, not myself," he says with a wink.

"And your Jim can come round at any time, though I still prefer he knock like a civilized person."

"I never know with you, you're so shameless sometimes," Porthos huffs out the words, pouring himself more wine once the richness of the cake settles in and he knows he can't take another bite. "Why were you so cross with him? I'd have thought you would've been impressed and amused with someone picking at the locks to get inside."

And instead, Aramis had been icy and frightening in his rebuke.

"He didn't pick my locks," says Aramis with a shrug. "He picked yours." And, not that Aramis will admit to it, the sight of so many new forms of the technology he's not yet come to trust had set Aramis on edge. He can hardly keep modernity at bay as it is, now it is to come in through locked doors?

"But I am certain we will all be great friends now."

He shakes his head. "No," he says. "They're yours," he says firmly. "I live here with you, in our home, just like that's the office. Half mine, half yours," he says stubbornly, which makes upstairs belong to Aramis, too, even if he doesn't seem to understand it. "Maybe we could have him and his husband over," he says, just to say the word, just to feel what it's like. "An apology dinner?"

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