Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers. The inspiration for this fic comes from the gorgeous fanart piece by Kaci on tumblr, found at: kaciart dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 79004667040. (Thanks for mucking with links so badly, .) Please go check it out. It's beautiful, and this fic was entirely based upon it and the discussion posted with it. All credit, therefore, goes to Kaci and the participants in the discussion. I really hope you like this!

Summary: At first, Porthos just assumes Aramis drank too much.

Et les Plus Sensibles Infortunes

"L'amour fait les plus grandes douceurs et les plus sensibles infortunes de la vie."- Madeleine de Scudery

[Love makes life's sweetest pleasures and worst misfortunes.]

Silk. Baubles. Perfumes. The banquet hall was filled with costumes and finery, not to mention the smell of exquisite food and drink that he was not going to- at least, was not supposed to- consume.

Porthos had joined the Musketeers for many reasons, not the least of which was adventure. He had never anticipated the amount of humdrum royal functions he would be expected to stand watch over. In desperation for something to keep his mind occupied, he had begun guessing the ages of all those present, followed by weights, followed by favorite sexual positions. This kept him at least moderately sane. But it could not fully protect against the utter boredom that came from peacetime activities.

Aramis, beside him, was making his own amusements. Porthos watched him warily as he caught eyes again and again with Queen Anne. One of them- it varied which- would blush and turn away, leaving the other to giggle in a manner most repulsive in its sweetness.

"You're going to get us all killed," Porthos sneered at him after one especially unsubtle exchange. But Aramis just shrugged. The king was engaged with his dinner, and the cardinal was sharing a cordial dialogue with Treville. Aramis, as always, was going to get away with it.

Concern, that was all Porthos was feeling. Concern and frustration and not even the slightest hint of jealousy.

The afternoon wore on. Eventually Porthos and Aramis, along with Athos, d'Artagnan, and the other assorted men, began to break formation and mingle throughout the hall, conversing with one another or with any woman not escorted by a husband. At ease if still slightly underwhelmed, Porthos made no attempt to track his friends as he would have in a fight. He had a general understanding that Aramis had struck up a conversation with Richilieu, with whom he had shared a very slightly warmer relationship- at least compared to the other Musketeers- since he had saved the man from being poisoned. But he paid it little mind.

That is, until he caught an unexpected sight out of the corner of his eye: Aramis, pale as death, stumbling from the hall; the cardinal watching him, a slight smile on his face.

Porthos glanced quickly around; there was literally nothing at all occurring but feasting and chatter. His presence was unnecessary and would not be missed. Not that he cared much- if Aramis needed him, he would go.

He slipped from the hall through the same door that Aramis had used, searching the grounds for his friend. He didn't have to look far. Aramis had come to a stop by a cluster of trees, shaded from the warm rays of fading sunlight.

Porthos sprinted to his side. But it didn't take long to realize what was going on, and when he did, he felt his heart begin to calm. They'd all been sneaking drinks, naturally- it was nearly expected. Leave it to Aramis to get sick off of them. He wasn't weak in that regard, but he was certainly less talented than the rest of them; it was not the first time Porthos had had the dubious pleasure of watching him empty his stomach.

Aramis was bent at the waist. One hand was braced on his knee and the other held protectively near his mouth; his eyes were closed, his handsome face the picture of misery. The ground before him was splattered grotesquely, but he seemed to be in a momentary reprieve.

Porthos stepped up to his side and laid a hand gently on Aramis' back. "Aramis-" But before he could speak, his friend's body spasmed and he began to vomit again. Aramis reached blindly back, pushing Porthos away; Porthos took a fist to the thigh but would not be budged. Let Aramis remember who stood by him as he suffered from his overindulgences. Not the queen, that's for sure. Nor any other subject of his dalliances.

"The cardinal's gonna hold this one against us, mate," Porthos drawled, crossing his arms. "Musketeers can't hold their drink- Red Guard's new slogan."

Aramis was down to dry heaves by now, and should have had the energy and decency to offer at least a token chuckle. He didn't. Porthos replaced his hand on Aramis' shoulder and was allowed to keep it there, but other than that Aramis gave no acknowledgment of his presence.

His heaves were fading now, but not ending. Rather they were transforming into something- shuddering? Almost like-

Suddenly Porthos' heart was back to pounding. Maybe this wasn't drunkenness; for all the world, Aramis sounded as if he were weeping. "Aramis?" Heedless of the stench of vomit, he leaned down to level his head with his friend's. "What's wrong?"

Aramis wrenched away, dizzily righting himself. Before he had the chance to dash, however, Porthos hooked his fingers primly into the loops of Aramis' belt. "What's wrong with you?" he murmured, tone more worried than accusatory.

Realizing that Porthos would not let him go, Aramis turned to face him; his features were contorted, and still pale with sickness. His breath came in shallow sobs. "Richilieu," he gasped, then his eyes abruptly filled. "Adele."

"Oh god," Porthos groaned, half-wishing for the ignorance of the minutes before, amused and self-righteous at Aramis' then-innocent episode. "C'mon." Royal grounds were no place for his conversation. Taking his friend by the arm, he led him stumblingly off the property and onto the street beyond, to their nearest quarters, which happened to be Aramis' own.

The distance to the apartment was mercifully short, but Porthos wasn't entirely sure if Aramis would make it or not. He sagged with grief at each step, ever more supported by the arm that Porthos had moved to his waist.

At last long last they were in Aramis' bedroom. Porthos kicked the door shut behind him and then let Aramis sink onto his bed, kneeling at his feet.

"Tell me what he said," Porthos demanded.

But rather than respond, Aramis recoiled. With a jolt of his own grief, Porthos recognized fear on the man's haggard face.

Changing his strategy, Porthos took a seat on the bed next to Aramis. "Whoa there. I'm not going in for the sermon. I just want to know what he said."

Aramis was trembling, completely undone. Tears returned to his eyes as he folded in on himself, as though keen to disappear entirely. Porthos hesitated only a moment before reaching out, cupping a hand under his jaw. "You can tell me," he soothed. "Come on, what happened?"

"Adele," Aramis whispered. It was the first word he'd said in nearly half an hour; and it was the same as his previous utterance had been. Porthos felt the familiar venom of envy, but he pushed it back determinedly.

"What happened to Adele?"

"Richilieu had her killed." As was its habit, Aramis' voice did not tremble with emotion; rather it faded, becoming so soft and breathless that Porthos strained to follow. "He discovered her infidelity. Had her taken to the woods and- shot."

Rage was building in Porthos. "That bastard," he growled, shifting closer on the bed.

"It's my fault," Aramis murmured. His tears spilled over at last, and he pulled away from Porthos' hand in shame. "You were right, Porthos."

It felt like a knife had gone into Porthos' guts. Bad enough that Aramis blamed himself; how could he think that Porthos blamed him as well? "No- Aramis, no, that's not- this isn't your doing. This isn't your fault!"

Aramis snorted. "Of course it is."

"Did he know it was you?"

"Why else would he have gone out of his way to tell me? To brag about how he handled an unfaithful woman?" Aramis' chin buckled, tears coming ever more freely. "I left a pistol there once, Porthos. On the day I was nearly discovered. He must have traced it back to me. Imagine his anger- Adele not only bedding another man, but a Musketeer?"

"This- Aramis, you can't blame yourself for this!"

"I can," his friend spat back instantly. "I must. And I do. God forgive me! God- God forgive me..."

With this utterance, Aramis fell silent; Porthos brought both hands to his face this time, one to wipe the tears and one to stroke tenderly through the sweat-soaked hair. They sat this way for some time. Each silent drop that rolled down Aramis' cheeks was captured expertly by Porthos' thumb in an unconscious rhythm.

He had drawn the man so close that they were practically embracing. And yet Aramis was gone from the moment, lost in his private ocean of grief and guilt.

Somewhere deep in the back of Porthos' mind, a plan formed. Selfish it may have been, but he was utterly at a loss and this had the chance of working, however scant.

The principle fact of Aramis was that he loved. He loved his friends; he loved his Company; he loved his God. He loved women and, on not-so-rare occasions, he loved men. And when he loved, he loved fully, loved with every inch of his body and mind and soul. Love was simply the largest part of him.

At times Porthos had derided this. At times he had envied it, and for the most part he admired it.

And now he planned to use it to his advantage.

Porthos' fingers curled, going from a light caress on Aramis' cheeks to a tighter hold. He pulled the man those last few inches to his own face- and kissed him firmly on the lips.

Aramis' eyes flew open wide, but before he could react, Porthos was pulling away with a grimace. Despite himself, despite the gravity of the situation, he could not help but be repulsed at how truly awful Aramis tasted. The sourness of his earlier sickness lingered. Naturally, cleaning his teeth hadn't been a top priority upon returning home despondent with grief.

"Lord," Porthos griped, scrubbing his mouth. "Have you got anything to drink?"

That startled a laugh from Aramis; Porthos, made drunk with the relief of any reaction at all, began to laugh as well. This encouraged Aramis, who continued, until they were both half hysterical.

Before long, though, Aramis' emotion took a natural turn back towards grief; laughter slowly became hitching sobs, and tears returned in full force. Porthos pulled Aramis to his chest.

They sat there a long while as Aramis wept openly. Painful as it was to witness, it was better to see than his vacant self-loathing; this at least promised to provide a measure of catharsis. And it was true that eventually Aramis seemed emptied, if not truly comforted.

"Porthos," he said quietly; his breath still crackled, but he was calmer, nearly slack in his friend's arms.

"Hush," Porthos told him firmly. "I'm going to see Treville. You've not had it easy the past few months; he'll see that. I'll tell him you need a few days to yourself."

"All right," Aramis agreed hazily. Porthos let go of him slowly, and Aramis sank in on himself, exhausted by his own emotions.

"I'll be back soon," Porthos warned. "If you're gone, so help me-"

"Not going anywhere," Aramis replied quietly. "You'll- you're coming back?"

"I'm coming back," Porthos affirmed, drinking in one last impression of the man before slipping out of the room.

Though it was well past nightfall, Treville was not hard to find. Nor was he hard to convince. Porthos withheld the details of the current situation, instead referring vaguely to a dead lover and fortifying his argument with the trials that had befallen Aramis in recent months. The captain consented easily to three days' leave. He was, Porthos saw, slightly drunk from the banquet, not to mention ill-favored towards the cardinal and eager to react with loyalty towards his own men.

If only he knew the whole of it.

Eager to return to Aramis' side, Porthos tore down the streets of Paris, nearly colliding with Athos on the street outside of their friend's apartment. Porthos winced. Wrapped up in his own ministrations, he had forgotten to worry what their friends might have thought of their double disappearance.

"What happened?" Athos demanded. Porthos hushed him and pulled him in tightly for a whispered conference. In a rush, he conveyed it all. He told of Richilieu's revenge and subsequent bragging; Aramis' sickness and guilt; and finally his grief. Athos' normally dispassionate face grew more stunned at every turn.

"Shall I stay with you?" he asked at last, glancing towards Aramis' window not far down the street.

"I think maybe it should just be me tonight. You know how he can be."

"I do." Athos sighed. "Guilty over every damn thing, like Richilieu wouldn't have killed her for anyone else. It's his favorite pastime, thinking he's gotten people killed. I'll be back in the morning."

Athos took his leave.

Porthos should have turned to hurry the final span to Aramis' quarters, but something had frozen him where he stood. Two slips of dialogue, two distinct voices whispered cruelly in his ear.

You were right. It's my fault, Aramis had confessed. You were right, Porthos. As though Porthos blamed him as well.

It's his favorite pastime, thinking he's gotten people killed, Athos had remarked.

"Lord," Porthos groaned, as a third voice swam back to him: his own.

You're going to get us all killed, he'd complained. Just minutes before the terrible revelation.

"Oh, you fool," he muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He knew now that his own words had been running rampant in his friend's head that night just as surely as the cardinal's had been.

"Damn, damn, damn," he swore, unsticking himself, making his hasty way back to Aramis' apartment. Letting himself in, he dashed to the bedroom.

Aramis was curled, still fully clothed, on the bed; he lay as though sleeping, but blinked through swollen eyes at Porthos as he entered.

A stab of his own guilt shot through Porthos as he fumbled his way to Aramis' side. He wanted nothing more than to rescind his words, to beg forgiveness for ever uttering them and causing his friend pain.

But to do so would involve reopening the conversation, when it was clear that Aramis would best be served by a good night's sleep. Porthos bit back his instincts, focusing instead on removing his boots, then Aramis'.

Aramis watched him drowsily, saying nothing. His only communication was a slight shake of his head when Porthos began to settle himself on the floor to sleep.

"Oh- all right." They'd slept side-by-side while out on missions before, and had certainly made good use of each other's rooms, but they had never shared a bed. Still, he was entirely willing to oblige. Porthos climbed carefully onto the narrow bed, fitting his chest against Aramis' back. After a moment's hesitation, he slung an arm around Aramis' waist.

Aramis began to wriggle under it, and for a moment Porthos was afraid he'd gone too far; but all Aramis did was turn onto his other side so that they faced each other.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, pressing his forehead into Porthos' chest. Porthos tightened his grip.

"What the hell for?"

"You. Us. You kissed me."

"Bad idea," Porthos joked.

"Yes, it was," Aramis said seriously. "It's never failed to bring trouble- and I don't mean to me."

"Aramis," Porthos replied, voice low. "You need to sleep." But Aramis was growing upset once again. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I cleaned my teeth," Aramis murmured.

"I should damn well hope so."

"I did it because- I thought you might kiss me again. But you shouldn't."

"Do you want me to?"

Slowly, timidly, Aramis nodded.

"Then I should," Porthos whispered, and did.

It wasn't long before Aramis' eyes began to slip shut; Porthos draped an arm around him to keep him near while they slept, and let his own close as well. What should have been an easy day had ended up long and painful. Loathe as he was to validate Aramis' guilt, Porthos couldn't deny that his friend pulled them all into dangerous territory along with him. Not that he could help it. Love was what Aramis did, but it was not a decision that he made; he could no more quell the love within him that Athos could quell his hatred or Porthos his own anger. How ironic that, of their three central tenancies, Aramis' should prove the most problematic.

And yet Aramis' love was to be treasured. Disaster it might bring, but it was not a curse; Porthos had been a recipient of it for long enough to know this well.

Now, dozing with the man in his arms, Porthos wondered idly as to the character of the love- was it brotherly, or was it otherwise? Would it end in tragedy like his love for Adele? Would it smolder with silent pain like his love for Anne? Or was it possible, just possible, that it could work out all right? Was that too far-fetched to wish for?

Perhaps. But as Aramis' arm crept around Porthos' chest, he had to admit: he wished for it anyway.