"I want to last, damn you," Aramis hisses, mouth open for further admonishments that die on his tongue as Athos strokes him. His touch is firm, unpracticed but unrelenting, and Aramis feels his toes begin to curl. Porthos has not lied, if he looks into Athos' eyes too long he will come, but he cannot bring himself to look away. "Athos," he whispers, traitorous back aching for the blunt edge of his nails.