“I think I’d like to see that,” Athos murmurs with a brief curve of a smirk in response to Porthos’ quip about carrying Aramis. It’s hard not to feel exposed, both literally and figuratively, but he resists the urge to look away as the two men kiss, caught in a heady place between excitement and fear, like he has trespassed where he should not go, but has decided it’s worth the cost.

Heart beating hard, but expression composed, he watches Aramis go, his gaze then flickering to Porthos. A soldier is often called upon to feign confidence, and he puts that skill to work now, sitting up and gripping Porthos shirt to haul him close. With a hesitation that only those who know him best might detect (and the trouble is, these are the men who know him best), he kisses the other man hungrily, free hand snaking around to grip the back of his neck.