Comte Olivier d'Athos de la Fere

Porthos nods, but some of the light in his eyes goes dull when Athos says they don't need to talk about it. That's the problem. They never talk about the things that fester and they get a chance to. "Okay," he says, but he's so tired of fighting and he misses Athos that, at this point, he's willing to give in. "Fine."

He keeps his palm firm on Athos' cheek and leans in for a kiss, one of the ones he's been missing, his other hand on Aramis' thigh as he slides it up that skin there.