Athos trembles slightly into the kiss from Porthos, briefly covering his hand with his own. He still wonders at the idea that he could be the source of any spillover of joy, especially when he brings so many burdens with him. “What I intend to tell the others?” he clarifies, frowning at the hesitation in Aramis’ expression. Admittedly, a man of sparse words as he can be, Athos might not have thought to do so without prompting. “Of course. If you would like.”

“It is not that I do not know what you are to me,” he adds after a silence. “Only that it is not an easy thing to articulate.” Surely they, of all people, understand how he struggles with words to express his innermost emotions.