Porthos' eyes light up at the glass. Yes, he knows Aramis will be cross and will make that horrible face where he's disappointed in him, but Porthos hurts so badly and wants to make that go away. He takes hold of Athos' hand, a little longer than possibly necessary, but time blurs and hazes for him, and what he thinks to be two seconds is more likely ten. "He says they'll kill my liver," he says, but reaches for the wine once it's down, sipping it once and then thinking again of Aramis' face.

Which is when he scowls and sets the wine out of his reach, thumping back against the chaise with a pout. "And if I drink it, he'll find out and be cross," he mutters. "Maybe more pills, is all I need. Or you could help me to the kitchen?" he suggests hopefully. "I'm going out of my mind, Athos. Please."