Porthos longs to snatch the cup from Athos' hands, but his mobility is restricted. His blood is boiling, even with the lethargy of the mind and he's decided that's it. He's had enough. He's tried to be patient, tried to bring Athos into their work and lives, tried to do everything he could and still, it isn't enough. Porthos really hates not being enough. "Don't you understand?" he spits out, eyes hot with moisture from exhaustion, anger, and pain. "We know our oath to France and King is temporarily on hold because we're trapped here by some volition of a city. We know it's not our choice, Athos. Just as I know, deep down, but don't want to admit that one day it might bring me back and I would return to that life unhappily, but willingly."

"We've done everything we can to make a duty for ourselves to keep busy. There are days when I barely can move for all the duty I'm upholding between friends, civilians, the night job, and the day one." Porthos forces himself onto his feet to try and escape, but it's no use. With a cry of pain, he falls back down again, but he musters up his strength to do so again, stubborn to get away before he can say more. "You're fighting us, Athos, every step and we don't know why. We love you," he growls. "And you could have purpose here, but you're so damned stubborn that you ignore it," he snaps, muttering swift profanities learned in the Court under his breath. "You picky son of a bitch," he rails.

"Though, why should I be surprised," he scoffs. "You nearly let me die to hide your past." It had been a thing in his outer vision, but Porthos had seen, had heard that conversation between Aramis and Athos. "Why wouldn't you stubbornly ignore opportunity when you could drink yourself into a osti de calice de pourris gutter hole?"