"Athos, no," Porthos insists, firmly. "I can't, we couldn't. Aramis is taking on contracts to allow pictures of him to be sold and I'm prize fighting when I can manage. We'll pick up more, but we'll make do," he swears as he adjusts his blanket, listing to the side and only stopped when his shoulder nudges against Athos', gravity pulling him down as his eyes grow half-lidded from weariness. "I'm sorry, but no. I'd rather see you spend the money finding something you enjoy, here."