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“There is nothing better than the warm embrace of a lover” Aramis says, nodding sagely. Porthos chuckles and d’Artagnan smiles, shifting his hands from where they sit in his lap.
Athos distracts the both of them, rather fortuitously, and d’Artagnan drinks ale until he can pretend, at least to himself, that he is normal.
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The first time he kisses her, hectic and desperate not to be caught, it is soft and dry. His lips hover over her, and she is barely intruded upon despite his distraction.
Constance, briefly, thinks it odd before she slaps the presumptuous strange young man hard on his charming mouth, and that is that.
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She is not a clumsy woman, but even so, she stumbles over her boys’ things when they leave them out in her hallway unattended. d'Artagnan is passing her, barely brushing against her, and she’s falling until, suddenly, she isn’t.
He pauses as he stabilizes her, his hands heavy on her shoulders, and she can’t help but wish he would lean in just a little further, and kiss her like he did when they met.
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There is love in his gaze, but there is a lack of desire. That’s alright, though. There’s a young lady down the street with light hair and an alluring smile that Constance has had her eye on, anyhow.
-----
She forgets herself, one day, and, as they kiss, her hands wander down to his trousers.
He pulls away, anxious and seemingly disappointed in himself.
“I don’t… I can’t…” he says, faltering, and looking inexplicably pained.
“I know, darling. Shh. It’s alright,” she soothes. She runs her fingers through his soft hair and holds him until he leaves.