Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Okay,” Porthos says, looming over the table. “What about the big fire in London?"

Aramis smiles and shakes his head.  Porthos puts Aramis’ coffee down in front of him, and takes a seat beside him.  

“The big fire in Rome?"

“Are you going to focus on purely fire-based ones today, love?” Aramis asks.  

“Wait.” D’Artagnan leans his elbows on the table. “What am I missing?” 

Athos doesn’t look up from his book. “I would have warned you, but I keep foolishly hoping they’ll grow out of this.”  He takes a sip of his coffee. 

Aramis reaches over and tugs at Athos’ book just to watch Athos tug it back with a frustrated twist to his mouth.

“Athos pretends he doesn’t like our favorite game. The rules are, Porthos names historical events…” He gestures for Porthos to continue.

“And Aramis has to tell me if he had a hand in them or not.”  Porthos can’t help but grin. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t answer that last one.  Fire of Rome, Aramis.”  Porthos nudges Aramis’ leg with the toe of his boot.

“I’m not saying that a good fire isn’t necessary from time to time, to encourage new growth, but I wouldn’t take out innocent lives with the bad. No, that wasn’t me.”  He rocks back in his chair. “Now, the party that some of the survivors had to celebrate being alive another day...” Aramis shrugs.

D’Artagnan stares at him. “Someone wished for that?"

Aramis twirls the ends of his mustache. “No, but d’Artagnan, sometimes even my non-supernatural powers of persuasion are impossible to resist.”  Aramis waggles his eyebrows when Athos scoffs.

“How long have you been doing this?” d’Artagnan asks.

“The game?” Porthos wipes foam from his mustache. “Since not long after I found out he was a genie. In the beginning I was trying to play it cool, didn’t want to look too eager or ask too much about his past."

“Do another one.”  D’Artagnan’s eyes are bright and curious.

Stretching, arching his back and scratching the back of his neck, Porthos hums in consideration. 

“The extinction of the dinosaurs.”  Athos suggests, eyes still firmly on his book. 

Aramis glares at him. “The age jokes stopped being funny after the first one you told."

“Which was in 1674.”  Athos looks up and stares at Aramis. The irony is not lost on either of them.

Porthos settles one arm across the back of Aramis’ chair, and runs his fingers up into the hair curling over Aramis’ collar. It’s a warm, familiar pressure, and it soothes his ruffled feathers instantly. Aramis sighs and sinks back into Porthos’ touch.

“Tell us one you did do,” d’Artagnan says and Aramis can’t resist that curiosity, can’t resist the urge to put on a bit of a show.

“Well.” Aramis draws out the last ‘l’ as long as he can without looking ridiculous. “Elvis. I did that. The death part, of course, not the talent. That was entirely natural."

Porthos’ brows draw together. 

“I thought you couldn’t end a life,” d’Artagnan says.

“We can’t, no,” Aramis says, twisting the fringe of his scarf around his fingers. "But if our wisher comes to us and says that a friend is in pain and needs an escape, or needs to start over, we can pull all the right strings to make it look like a life has ended.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “We can find him a nice place to live in a nice town in the middle of nowhere, and we can have lunch with him every few years just to see how he is because it turns out he’s a charming, funny, dear man."

“Did you change his face, too?"

Aramis leans forward. "D'Artagnan, do you think that if he were standing in front of you with a short haircut, in jeans and a t-shirt, that you would recognize him?"  When d'Artagnan shakes his head, Aramis nods. "Exactly. There was no need to change his appearance."

D’Artagnan smiles and leans back in his chair. "When we first met I asked you if Porthos was your wisher," he says and while it's not a question, both Porthos and Aramis shake their heads.

The sun is high, a late summer day of clear blue skies and Aramis can see the silver in Porthos' hair glinting in the light.  He looks at Porthos’ face, that same kind, beautiful face he’s been looking at for ten years, and thinks again how lucky he is, how the everyday reality of their life together is so special to him.

"So if he wasn't your wisher, how did you meet?" D'Artagnan is looking between them, his tone eager but cautious, as though he fears they're as protective of their pasts as he remembers Athos being in the beginning.

"It's Athos' fault, actually," Aramis says.

Athos swirls his coffee in his cup and tosses the rest of it back. "Don't involve me in this."

Even the idea that Athos doesn't want this discussed is enough to pique d'Artagnan's curiosity even further.  Aramis smells the interest like blood in the water.

"He's a man of leisure now, hasn't had a need to work since 1750, but every few decades Athos gets bored enough to want a job.” He grins, flipping through his memories of Athos grumbling at patrons. “The last time was probably fifty years ago. He bought a small, cramped, dusty little bookstore, as different from yours as night and day. He loved that place. And I think as much he hated having customers, the grouch in him made people want to come back more."

"I guess he wasn't always the warm, open, welcoming person he is now," D'Artagnan says and smirks at Athos.  

Athos glares at him, grabbing him by the back of the neck and squeezing, shaking d'Artagnan's head as D'Artagnan laughs.  The sound seems to ease Athos, because his smile comes back and his grip loosens, his hand just resting across the back of d'Artagnan's neck. 

"I would have assumed he wanted no one around at all, but that’s not the case. Sometimes he hires someone to oversee things, so that he doesn’t have to do any of the actual work.” Aramis turns to Athos. “Who was that manager you had when you owned the restaurant in Paris?  In the 1850’s?"

“Tréville.” 

Aramis snaps his fingers. “Yes, now I remember. Lovely man.”  He sits back, folds his hands in his lap. “Don’t tell anyone this, d’Artagnan, under penalty of Athos’ best glare, but I know the secret to telling if Athos likes you or not.”  He watches Athos color slightly, just little spots high on his cheeks. “He gives you a spot. You were able to cut through this by virtue of being both his wisher and absolutely irresistible.”  

Aramis leans across the table and pinches d’Artagnan’s cheek.  D’Artagnan grins at him, and Aramis can see Athos’ thumb trace the line of d’Artagnan’s neck.

“The rest of us, we have to keep an eye out for our spot. In that little bookstore, my spot was the ugliest chair I’ve ever set eyes on, but so comfortable. He put it near the window. Now, Athos said it was for customers and he’d frown at me whenever I sat in it, but he’d frown harder at any customer who tried to sit in it when I got up to go get coffee."

Athos snaps his book closed with one hand. “I don’t understand how anyone with as large an ecclesiastical leaning as you claim to have can lie with such impunity.” 

D’Artagnan looks between them, a line of worry between his eyebrows, even Porthos has leaned back a bit, but Aramis knows better. He just stares at Athos and grins.

“The true proof of how I’d given up on ridding myself of you,”Athos says, “is that I let you bring your endless parade of cats into my establishments."

Aramis’ can’t keep his smile from growing soft. Athos has been his best friend for hundreds of years, and his inability to be sincerely gruff to those he loves is part of why. “That’s very true.” He sits back in his chair, reaching over and cupping Porthos’ knee.  “I suppose, if I’m being fair and unbiased, it was the cat who brought us together."

Porthos looks down at the table and laughs. Aramis’ heart twists at the sight of Porthos’ dimples deepening in his cheeks. So many years and Porthos can still make him speechless with only a smile.

“That’s true,” Porthos says. “I miss that cat."

“I do too,” Aramis says.

“Yeah.” Porthos smirks. “But she loved me best.” 

Aramis reaches one hand out and strokes it down his face. “And who could blame her for that?"

~

(2006)

The bell rings whenever someone enters Athos’ store and every time she’ll leap from Aramis’ lap to investigate. This time he finds her winding her way around the newcomer’s legs. 

Aramis likes to think he’s better than other pet owners, that he’s somehow above pettiness, but he prefers it when his cats like him best so he tries to get her back over to him.  

“Annie,” he scolds her. “Leave Athos’ customers alone."

“Hello,” the stranger says, but he’s not talking to Aramis, seems not to have even noticed him standing there. He bends and scoops Annie up in his arms. When he stands again, Aramis can see his face and it takes a second for him to remember to close his mouth.

“It’s always nice to be greeted when you come into a shop, but this is something special.”  The man scratches Annie under her chin and she lifts her head, bumping her nose against his jaw. The only thing louder than her purring is the sound of Aramis’ heart. This stranger is beautiful. His eyes are lively and kind and his face seems so open.  His hands on Annie are gentle and though he’s cradling her entire body in one big hand, he doesn’t have her pinned in place. She can leap down whenever she wants. Then the stranger smiles.

Over the course of many centuries, Aramis has discovered that there are a few things that remain consistently true. You will always regret buying cheap shoes. You cannot make peace through war. And there’s no such thing as love at first sight — until it happens to you.

Athos is at the counter, his elbows resting on the polished wood. He glances at Aramis, catching Aramis trying to see his reflection in the shop window to make sure he doesn’t have smudged eyeliner or food on his shirt. “Is she even that nice to you?” Athos asks.

The stranger notices them then; he sees Aramis and worry flits across his face. “I’m sorry, should I—"

“No no.” Aramis interrupts him. “She’s very much her own cat, don’t let me interrupt your moment.”  He smiles and hopes it comes off as charming instead of inappropriately besotted.

The stranger smiles at him, and turns back to the cat. “What’s your name, then?"

Athos looks up from his ledger. “The spoiled, fat ball of fur is called Annie."

“Hello, Annie,” the customer says. “I’m Porthos. Who are your friends?"

“I’m Athos, and I’m responsible for letting her in here. Aramis—” he points at Aramis with his pen, “is responsible for the spoiled and fat part."

Porthos turns that smile on him again and asks, “Is this your shop?"

“Mine? No. This is Athos’ fine establishment. I’m only here as a guest."

Athos scoffs, scratching something out in one column and writing it in another. “Because you refuse to do real work, and I won’t pay you to be decoration with a flair for the dramatic."

Porthos bends and puts Annie on the floor. She immediately starts winding between his feet again.  

“Don’t mind Athos,” Aramis says. “He’s naturally grumpy. Later I’ll cheer him up by letting him play his favorite game."

“Yeah?"

Aramis hums in agreement. “He works his way through my tortured romantic past and tells me why each of them was too good for me."

“Got a trail of women in your wake, then?"

“Yes.” Aramis flashes his best grin. “But Athos went through them yesterday. Today he’ll probably focus on the trail of men instead.”

He hopes that sounded as casual as he wanted it to rather than like him trying to find out if he has a chance.  Straightening the folds of his velvet smoking jacket, Aramis tries to look confident and breezy while he’s busy figuring out what it is he’s actually feeling.

The shock of looking at such a beautiful man has passed, but Porthos’ smile is still tightening Aramis’ belly. He can feel the sweat prickle on the back of his neck and his mouth is dry.

Nervous. He’s nervous about talking to this man. Aramis tries to remember how long it’s been since he felt like this. Not this century, certainly, and not the last few either. The last time he remembers being anxious was when Anne had made her wish for him, but even that couldn’t be considered nervous. Not like this. 

Porthos is looking at him and Aramis studies his gaze, reading what’s there. He looks satisfied. Pleased. His shoulders are loose and relaxed and one side of his mouth is tugged up into a half-grin. “Well then,” he says and a smile breaks fully over his face like it’s thrown open the doors to let the sun in. “I’ve got to find a book for my sister’s birthday. After that, you wanna get a coffee?"

“Annie might get jealous,” Aramis says around the tightness in his throat.

“I’ll make it up to her,” Porthos says.

“I know the perfect place."

“Let me help you,” Athos says. “In the interests in moving this display to another location with all possible speed."

Aramis shakes his head as if to say that he’s not sure why this man is his friend, and he’s given up apologizing for it.  Porthos winks and follows Athos into the stacks.

Sinking into his chair, Aramis reaches for Annie. She hops into his lap and rubs her head against the underside of his chin and Aramis strokes her back. “How about that then, my Annie?  Who would have guessed?"

The coffee shop is on the corner of the block.  Looking around it seems the only place to sit is a cramped table in the middle of everything, so Aramis suggests they take theirs to go and walk instead.

“I don’t do this a lot,” Porthos says. “Asking out total strangers. I don’t know why I did it now."

“Really?"

“No.” Porthos shakes his head. “I know exactly why I did it. I saw that smile and I wanted to know everything about you."

Aramis laughs. “We don’t have enough coffee for that.” 

Porthos reaches out to pull a piece of thread off the shoulder of Aramis’ jacket. “If we run out of coffee, we’ll get lunch."

Aramis feels his knees go a little weak. “What book did you find for your sister?"

“I told Athos her favorite writer, turns out there’s a collection of short stories I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have yet. Is he always that grumpy?"

Aramis can’t resist the easy joke. “No, you caught him on a good day."

“I walked right into that one.”  

Aramis nods and smiles.

“Right,” Porthos says, “how are we gonna do this? One boring thing and one interesting thing?"

Aramis isn’t entirely sure what he’s talking about, but he nods again anyway. 

“My boring one,” Porthos says. “I have an extremely ordinary desk job. The kind where the most exciting thing that happens all week is if someone accidentally eats someone else’s lunch."

Aramis laughs. “I see we’re going for really boring. Very well, then.” He scratches his chin. “My favorite ice cream flavor is chocolate."

“I see what you did there, because if it were vanilla that’s strange enough to be interesting.” He ducks his head and laughs. “Now I gotta find something interesting.”  He’s silent for a minute and Aramis takes the opportunity to study his profile. Clenching his fist, Aramis shoves it in his jacket pocket to stop from touching Porthos’ perfect nose.

“I’m learning how to fly helicopters,” he finally says.

“Really?"

Porthos nods. “Started last week. My next lesson is the day after tomorrow." He bumps his shoulder against Aramis’ as they walk. "Your turn.”

Aramis plucks at his scarf, rubbing the soft wool. There’s no rule for when he tells people this, if he tells them this. Sometimes he knows that a relationship is only passing and he never mentions it at all. Occasionally he knows that the person can’t handle the information and keeps it to himself no matter how long they’re together. The ones he does tell always meet his confession with demands for proof or an explanation, if not outright fear and distrust. The negative reactions used to hurt, but these days it’s only ever when he cares what they’ll say that it’s a risk. Today, Aramis takes that risk again.

“I’m a genie."

Porthos stops and turns to him, stares. “You don’t mean that you dress up like one for children’s parties or some such, do you?”  Aramis shakes his head. “And this isn’t just… what did Athos call it? Your flair for the dramatic? I thought when he said that he meant you were a theatrical type. Maybe an actor."

Aramis shakes his head again. “No. I grant wishes."

The silence between them stretches on and on, until Aramis is almost ready to admit that he bet wrong, to make his apologies and walk away. Until Porthos slowly nods his head.

“Last week,” Porthos says, “my nephew told me that he’d found a four-leaf clover and I made him show me. But you? Somehow, you I just believe."

All the air leaves Aramis’ lungs at once and he can feel tension drain from his shoulders. Porthos starts walking again and when Aramis falls in step next to him, Porthos takes his hand.

“Athos?” he says, and Aramis knows what he means.

“Yes. It’s an odd friendship, but over the years we’ve found that like all jobs, this one is easier to do if you have someone to grumble to who understands."

“Is the lamp thing real?"

Aramis laughs and his heart feels lighter than it has in centuries. “I have one, yes. But I don’t live in it, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s lovely, engraved silver."

“Where do you live, then?"

He can’t help it, he winks. “Play your cards right, Porthos, and I just might let you see it."

They wander and talk for hours until finally Porthos says, “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to get home. Plus, I don’t want you getting sick of me."

“Trust me when I say that’s not possible.”  They’re standing in front of Athos’ shop again, it’s closed and locked now but Aramis knows Athos took Annie home with him. “Dinner?”  Porthos nods. “Tomorrow?"

“Yeah,” Porthos says, nodding again. “Absolutely. Do you know another perfect place?”  

“I do, as it happens.”

The place Aramis takes him is a hole-in-the-wall pizza place with a brick oven spilling smoke and wonderful smells into the alley beside it. They’ve just ordered and are sitting back to wait when Porthos says, “So I take it you’re not new at this."

“Are you asking me how old I am?”  Aramis tries to sound scandalized but it just comes out amused. He strokes his hand down his scarf, blue silk tonight. “Let’s say I’m a seasoned professional.” 

Porthos looks at him, looks into him. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t hang out in Athos’ shop all day if you didn’t like books at least a little. What’s the last good book you read?"

Aramis tries to remember the last time someone who knew he was a genie asked him a question not related to being a genie. If he discounts Athos, who mostly just asks him when he’s going to stop feeding Annie table scraps, he thinks it’s been at least two hundred years. “I read a guide book for Budapest,” he says and tries to make it sound like he’s not feeling his life starting again.

“Planning a trip?”   

He isn’t, he tells Porthos, but sometimes he gets curious, wonders how cities have grown and changed since the last time he was in them, what bits they’ve kept and what bits they’ve let go with time. Tourist guidebooks are a good window into those changes. From there, the conversation is about television, and books, and family. Porthos talks about growing up in a house full of adopted children and it what it meant for his definition of the word ‘family.’  For the first time in longer than Aramis can actually remember, he talks about his mother. 

“She loved her children. It was always just the three of us, my sister and me and our mother, and she took such good care of us. It wasn’t until I tried to take care of myself that I realized how hard it must have been for her. We always had our midday meal together and she would tell us stories, myths and fables. It was a different time, then. People weren’t as judgmental of her occupation as they would be now.” He wonders if he needs to spell it out. He should have had more faith; Porthos picks up on it up immediately.

“It’s not shameful, it’s hard work, and she had a family to feed. It sounds like you and your sister grew up with a lot of love."

“I did, yes. My sister.” He swallows. Two millennia and this is still hard. “My sister had it for a shorter time. She died when I was probably twelve. I know now that it was such a simple thing. She’d burned herself and it got infected, got septic. We simply had no knowledge of how to deal with that.”  Porthos reaches across the table and takes his hand. Aramis squeezes it. “Thank you,” Aramis says and meets Porthos’ eyes.  “It feels good to talk about them, like they haven’t been forgotten."

“What was your sister’s name?"

“Anahita,” he says. The feel of her name in his mouth is like water on a hot day. 

Porthos squeezes his hand again. “Is she why you call the cat Annie?"

Aramis swallows the lump in his throat and laughs. “No, and that’s a much longer story.” Porthos cocks his head, curious, but Aramis shakes his head. “If I tell them all now, how will I lure you back for a second date?"

“Third.” Porthos grins and Aramis watches the dimples come out.

This man is going to be the death of him. Aramis is opening his mouth to make a joke about third date obligations when he feels his lamp pull. His current wisher isn’t a bad man, but right now Aramis wants to unleash a plague on him. He’s not sure what shows on his face but Porthos lets go of his hand. 

“Did I do something?” he asks.

“No,” Aramis reaches out, grabbing Porthos’ hand back. “I’m so sorry, it’s not you at all. I have to go.”  Porthos looks confused. “It’s… it’s work. When they rub the lamp I feel it and I have to go.” He closes his eyes. “I would give anything to be able to sit and enjoy the rest of this meal with you. The rest of this day with you, even, but if I don’t go, it hurts.”  

Porthos’ fingers are tight on his, there’s a look on his face that’s concern mixed with a kind of fierce protectiveness. “Is it always like this?"

“It’s not bad, but it gets worse the longer I ignore it."

Porthos rubs his thumb over Aramis’ knuckles. “Best not to delay, then. Go. I’ll still be around when you get back."

“Are you sure you don’t want to run as soon as I leave the room?" He tries to make it sound like a joke, like he’s not dreading that very thing.

The lines around Porthos’ eyes deepen and he brings Aramis’ knuckles up to his lips. “Not for a second. Should I wait?"

Aramis feels like he could run to wherever his wisher is right now, like he has that kind of energy in him. He shakes his head. “Give me your phone number. I have no idea how long this will take, but I’ll call you as soon as I’m back."

Grabbing a paper napkin and borrowing a pen from a passing server, Porthos scribbles down his number and his name. Aramis digs some money out of his wallet and puts it on the table. Before he slips his wallet back into his pocket, he tucks the napkin inside it.

Porthos may say he wants to continue, but Aramis knows how fast a mind can change when that person is alone and has a few minutes to think. He’s had more than one lover leave him because he couldn’t give them guarantees or dependability. Porthos might have second thoughts the minute Aramis is gone and Aramis wouldn’t blame him, so on impulse, in case he never gets another chance, Aramis leans across the table and presses his lips to Porthos’ mouth. It’s soft and warm and a little awkward, the perfect first kiss.

“I’m so sorry,” Aramis says.

“We’ll work it out,” Porthos replies and it sounds like a promise. Aramis kisses him again and then steps outside to the alley and disappears.

It takes nearly a full day to get the gist of what Grant wants and put the wheels in motion to make it happen. Grant is Aramis’ least favorite kind of wisher. A smart and kind wisher is his favorite, in a pinch he’ll even take stupid and easily persuaded, but Grant makes wishes like he’s buying a used car. He’s very, very particular about what he wants, and he tries to bundle everything he possibly can into one transaction. Sometimes Aramis is able to insist that certain items should be separate wishes, but most of the time, like now, he just grits his teeth and gets on with it. Grant’s got three wishes left after this one and Aramis is starting to dream about who will have his lamp next, hoping they’re like Anne.

When he gets back he calls Porthos.

“I make Sunday brunch for Athos most weeks, could I convince you to come?"

“Yeah, that sounds great. Anything I can bring?"

A change of clothes for tomorrow? Your toothbrush? Aramis runs through a list of suggestive proposals before deciding he’s too nervous to get any of them out of his mouth. Porthos makes him nervous and it’s such a change of pace that Aramis finds it magical. “Bring your most devastating smile. And some orange juice."

It’s during that first brunch with Athos that Porthos starts his game. He sits back in his chair, his belly stuffed full of waffles and eggs, and grins at them both.

“Okay. I’m not asking how old anyone is, but I’m gonna name something, and you two have to tell me if either of you did it."

Athos shrugs and picks up his coffee cup, swirling what’s left in it and taking a sip. Aramis, on the other hand, is thunderstruck. People don’t usually try to get to know him; instead they assume that once they look at his scarves and eyeliner, they have him all figured out. Forget if they learn that he’s a genie. He knows that they don’t dig deeper in part because they don’t want there to be any more layers, they only want to know what he can do. They like his image, they like his power, they like dating a genie, or fucking a genie, or being friends with a genie. It’s the genie part that’s important.

Now there’s Porthos, and the only things he cares to know about Aramis’ job are how it will affect their time together, and what interesting things he’s done. Aramis likes this game already.

“The first world war,” Porthos says and both of them shake their heads. 

“I was in China at the time and I think Athos had lucked out and his wisher was just an average man who wanted average things."

Porthos chews on his lower lip. “England defeating the Spanish Armada."

Athos rolls his eyes and stares at Aramis. 

“Guilty,” Aramis says, raising his hand. “The only wish was that it be over quickly, and I think I accomplished that admirably.”  Predictably, Athos refuses to acknowledge the pun.

“You’d think you would have learned by now to keep things on a smaller scale,” Athos says and Porthos leans forward in his chair.

“I smell a story. C’mon, Athos. Out with it."

Athos flicks a glance at Aramis and Aramis nods his permission. 

It takes an hour to get through that story and by then Athos has settled into his theme and flows right into the next one. It’s late afternoon by the time Athos puts his coffee cup in the sink and hugs Aramis goodbye. “Don’t fuck it up” he says into Aramis’ ear, and from Athos that’s as good as, ‘You deserve to be happy.’  Aramis squeezes him, gives him the touch that Athos pretends he doesn’t need.

“Will you stay?” Aramis asks once Athos is gone. “I could use a hand with the dishes."

Porthos stares at him. “The dishes. That’s what you’re going with?"

Aramis is feeling nervous again, so he tries to camouflage it with panache. He takes the end of his scarf and tosses it back over his neck, looks at Porthos out of kohl-rimmed eyes and says, “Would you rather I said if you stick around, I’ll make all your wishes come true?"

Porthos laughs so hard he has to lean against the wall for support. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, because I do, but Athos was right. You’re a bit dramatic.”  He steps forward, cups Aramis’ cheek in one big hand and says, “I like that about you. I like everything about you."

He kisses like the rest of the world has dropped away. Porthos isn’t distracted by Annie walking between his legs or the car that backfires outside the front door. Aramis sneaks a peek and sees a furrow between Porthos’ eyebrows and knows that he’s being learned, studied, appreciated. The hand that isn’t cupping his face comes up to curl over the round of Aramis’ shoulder, squeezing it as Porthos breathes in and deepens the kiss. Aramis knows like he knows his own name that he has never been kissed like this.

“You’re right,” Aramis says. “The dishes can wait.” He takes Porthos by the hand and tugs him upstairs to the bedroom.

For a man who kisses with such intensity and focus, Porthos makes love with all the enthusiasm, abandon, and humor of a child in a water balloon fight. He likes to flip Aramis around just to see if he can, he smacks Aramis’ ass in public just to watch Aramis bite his lip to stifle a little moan. The moments where Porthos takes him by the front of the shirt and says, “I’ve got an idea,” become Aramis’ favorite ones.

Even when it goes horribly wrong, it’s full of joy. Even the time they tried to have sex in the shower and fell out onto the bathroom floor, they were laughing as they went down.  The time Porthos slipped and accidentally rammed his cock into the space behind Aramis’ balls his first response was to clutch his groin in pain, but his second response was to say, “Sorry, next time I won’t try making a new hole, I’ll just go with the one that’s already there."

To Aramis it feels like one day he’s making dinner for Porthos after their first marathon sex, and the next day they’ve been living together for six months and Aramis is smiling so much he’s worried Athos might throw something at him.

Grant’s last wish comes on a Thursday afternoon. Aramis scribbles a note on a post-it and sticks it to the mirror above the table in the front hall before vanishing. When he gets home a few hours later, Porthos has made dinner and is on the couch watching Law and Order reruns.

“How was work?” he asks and though it’s not the first time Porthos has asked that question, it takes Aramis’ breath away.  He’s not asking because he craves the power or wants Aramis to do something for him. Porthos wants to know about the wishes Aramis fulfills the same way he wants to know about the kids his sister teaches. He cares about this the same way he cares when Athos has a difficult customer, because this is the everyday working life of someone he loves.

Through the years, Aramis has seen every flavor of contrived relationship and convoluted scheme to get two people together; hell, he’s sure he invented some of them. What makes his relationship with Porthos special is that it’s the first normal, perfect thing he’s had since he became tethered to his lamp. Porthos is an extraordinary ordinary man. He’s not trying to be someone he isn’t or twist himself to be attractive to Aramis, he simply is who he is and hopes that’s enough. It’s so much more than enough.

The love Aramis gets in return is something he never dared hope for. Porthos loves Aramis for all of the reasons he thinks Aramis is remarkable, and not one of those reasons is that Aramis is a genie. He loves how Aramis puts on eyeliner even to go for coffee and how Aramis still uses a fountain pen because it reminds him of all the centuries he used a quill. He’ll tell you that he loves how Aramis’ wardrobe makes every day feel like a special occasion, and how wonderful it is to talk to Aramis about the past lives of every city they travel to.

Aramis has learned, over many relationships, to tone himself down, tuck parts of himself away. Now, with Porthos, Aramis gets the chance to live the life he’s always dreamed of, safe and happy and loved and without having to change anything about the man his life has let him become.

There are rules, the system protects itself, and just like Aramis can’t grant wishes for money, any attempt to sell a lamp once your wishes are through will end in failure, sometimes disaster. He tells Grant this; just before Grant’s final wish they have a whole discussion about what to do with the lamp after they’re finished. Not even a flat-out gift of the lamp will go as expected. 

Grant, though, is a rule pusher and Aramis fully expects him to test it. The longer he waits for a new wisher, the more Aramis finds himself scanning the news out of Sacramento for an article about some hideous misfortune befalling this otherwise unremarkable middle-aged man.

Perhaps in the end he believed Aramis, perhaps he just escaped the worst of the consequences or only tried to give it to a few friends and saw that it never worked. Whatever the reason, Aramis’ next wisher turns out to have found it the Air France business class lounge at JFK Airport.

He’s the kind of man Porthos would describe as a ‘nasty piece of work,’ and it takes Aramis four attempts to explain that killing this man’s political rivals is not an acceptable use of a genie’s skills.  In addition, he seems to have some kind of sixth sense for when would be a bad time to summon Aramis. The lamp pulls him away mid-movie, mid-meal, mid-kiss, and he never knows where he’s going or when he’ll be back.

As soon as it becomes clear that Piotr’s entire run of wishes is going to be dedicated to selfish accumulation of status and wealth, Aramis calls Athos and invites him to dinner. “I need your mind. I find myself faced with an immediate future full of shitty wishes, and I know how you feel about shitty wishes.” 

“I’ve half a mind to tell you that you need practice devising your own methods for getting out of this situation."

“Porthos is cooking."

“I’ll bring wine."

Dinner is fish tacos with chipotle lime crema, complemented gorgeously by a white wine which Aramis suspects Athos has been hoarding since the late 1800’s. Athos refuses to let them see the bottle. Dessert is fresh strawberries over vanilla ice cream, complemented by brainstorming about increasingly devastating methods of avoiding Piotr’s wishes. Athos is responsible for those as well.

The next few wishes, Aramis manages to twist enough that nothing bad happens to anyone else, but Piotr is livid.  He wants a sunny day for his golf tournament and Aramis nudges the weather just enough to push the threatening rain over his back garden and flood it. Piotr wishes to acquire a plot of land for development and Aramis makes sure that the plot, a perfect habitat for at least four endangered species, magically has a few dozen new inhabitants.  Porthos volunteers to call and tip-off the surveyor. 

It comes to a head when Piotr tells Aramis that he’s bidding on a contract and he wants his competitor to be out of the running.

“You wish to no longer be in competition with him for this contract?"

“Yes,” Piotr says, and Aramis almost bites through his cheek to keep from smiling.

When the call comes that the public bidding has been cancelled and the competitor is given the contract outright, Aramis’ summons is not far behind. Aramis waits until it hurts, just to let Piotr stew. He lets Piotr rage for almost five minutes about Aramis’ incompetence before he says, quietly, “Technically, you are no longer in competition with him for that contract."

A vein bulges alarmingly on Piotr’s temple and Aramis tries, and fails, to not be the kind of asshole who wishes for another person to have a stroke.

“That’s not what I wanted!"

“But it is what you asked for."

“You’re not supposed to do that!"

Aramis stands, drawing himself up to his full height. He reaches through his tether, into his lamp and pulls out just enough power to let his eyes blaze. That kind of personal use of power will give him a migraine later, but he’ll worry about that when it comes. 

“You arrogant, selfish, petty mortal. Do you believe that my kind exist to give you your every desire with no strings attached?  If you though that you would bend me to your will, if you believed, even for a second, that the purpose of your wish was anything other than to be an excuse for my will to be done, you are more ignorant even than I suspected.”  He’s not shouting, but his voice fills the room, bounces off the walls and shakes the windows.

He’s hoping against hope that Piotr will actually piss himself. Instead Piotr turns on his heel and storms out of the room. Aramis takes three deep breaths and vanishes back to his own couch. He closes his eyes and pulls his scarf over them to block out the light. Porthos gets home from work an hour later to find Aramis still there, asleep behind his makeshift eyeshade.

Tugging the curtains closed, Porthos gets a washcloth and soaks it in cold water. He pulls back the scarf and drapes the washcloth over Aramis’ eyes and kisses him, so softly Aramis almost doesn’t feel it, on his forehead. 

“Worth it?” he asks in a near-whisper, laying a quilt over Aramis on the couch.

Aramis thinks about nodding but can’t stand the idea of what it would do to his head. He gives Porthos a thumbs-up and Porthos kisses him again. “I want the whole story when you’re better,” Porthos says. “I’ll go get you some Excedrin and some water.”

The next day, when he can see without pain again, Aramis calls Athos to thank him for his assistance. 

“I won’t ask you to dinner again so soon, I know you break out in hives if you’re forced to be social twice in a month, but I can bring something by later.” Athos is silent. “Athos, don’t pretend you’re eating anything other than what the Chinese place will deliver."

There’s another silence; Aramis lets it play out.

“The fish tacos?"

“Absolutely,” Aramis says. “It will thrill him to know you liked them.” Across the room, Porthos smiles and blows a kiss.

“The secret is the lemon balsamic vinegar,” he says, loud enough for Athos to hear. 

Piotr’s last few wishes go just as well for him, but at least he keeps his anger to a simmering resentment. After his last wish, Aramis pauses for a second to hope that Piotr will try to sell the lamp, but stops short of actually checking to see if he does.

Whatever Piotr does do with the lamp, it takes almost six months for another wisher to summon Aramis. Somewhere in the third month, Porthos tells him that a bored Aramis is worse than a bored cat.  He comes home one day to find his boyfriend knee-deep in the contents of their closet. Annie is curled on top of a pile of scarves and sweaters, flicking her tail and watching them both.

“What are you doing?"

Aramis looks up, startled to find him there. “I thought I might organize the bedroom."

Porthos surveys the damage. There’s a silk dressing gown peeking out from under a mountain of trousers near the bathroom and a buttery-soft leather coat wedged behind the door, keeping it from opening all the way. “And did you?"

“Clearly I’m still in the middle of it. But I’ve started a pile over there for charity pick-up, in case you have anything you’d like to add.” He casts a meaningful glance at Porthos’ bathrobe where it’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door.  Aramis hates that bathrobe, and not just because it robs him of the chance to see Porthos wandering around naked after his showers.

Poking at the top layers of the pile, Porthos asks, “You had three nearly-identical cardigans?"

“Yes,” Aramis says. He knows sounds distracted but he’s not sure he’s ready for this conversation.

“If you’re getting rid of three of them, how many have you kept?"

“Some,” Aramis says, and he tries to sound light-hearted.

Porthos comes over to look in the ‘keep’ pile. “You’ve got at least four cashmere sweaters in here, including one that’s short-sleeved—"

“It’s a t-shirt."

“— I’m not even gonna comment on that. You’ve also got at least three velvet shirts and two pairs of velvet trousers.” He looks up, smiling. “Aramis, are you planning on sitting around and petting yourself until you get a new wisher?"

Porthos is laughing, but Aramis feels like all the air has left the room. He hates this truth about his past, hates how it makes people pity him, hates how it was his truth for so long that it’s still a part of him. There’s no way of knowing how long he’s been standing there, silent, when Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “Babe? What did I say?"

“I. I used—"

“Tea,” Porthos says, tugging Aramis out of the pile of clothing and into the kitchen.

“Fitting,” Aramis says, when he has his fingers around a hot mug. “I used to use tea, too."

Porthos takes his hand, rubs his fingers over Aramis’ knuckles. 

“Athos hugs me, but he doesn’t hug you,” Aramis says. “Have you noticed that?”

“Yeah, I thought he just took a while to warm up."

“We’ve been together for more than two years, Porthos."

Porthos shrugs. “However long he needs."

Aramis shakes his head, “That’s not why.”  He turns the cup in his hands. “Athos can’t touch you, it would hurt him and it would hurt you. Physically."

“But you?"

Aramis thinks of his Anna and can’t keep the smile off his face. “I was very lucky. I had a wisher, a long time ago, who spent one of her wishes making sure I could touch anyone I wanted, and they could touch me." 

Porthos moves to the chair next to Aramis and curls an arm around his shoulders. “I wish there were a way I could thank her."

“You do, every time you hug me or hold me. Right this moment you’re giving me the thing she wished I could have and that’s the best way to honor her. I don’t know if Athos has never had anyone who would or if he hasn’t even asked.”  Aramis is quiet for a minute, trying to imagine Athos actually asking for that, even hinting for it. “Before her, before Anne, the only people I could touch were other genies, and I never knew when I might find one. It was. It was sometimes a hundred years between meetings."

He swallows some tea and lets it warm him all the way down. “You get… so hungry for someone to touch you. It hurts. It starts in the tips of your fingers and before you know it your arms hurt, your heart hurts, you just want to touch someone, even for a second, to feel their fingers on your face. You find all the things that make you feel even a little bit like you’re touching someone and they’re touching you back, and you drown yourself in them.”  Aramis holds up his mug. “Warm tea. Silk scarves."

“Cashmere sweaters and velvet trousers,” Porthos says and Aramis hears the hitch in his voice.

Annie sways into the room and jumps into Aramis’ lap, butting in between their faces. Aramis laughs. “Cats too,” he says. “For some reason touching animals doesn’t have the same effect. When genies meet each other we smother one another in hugs and touches, we hold hands when we watch movies and kiss in greeting—and in Athos, after we got to know each other, I was lucky to have that often. Before Athos though, and during those times when we were away from each other, for decades sometimes, I did what I needed to do in order to stay sane."

“You got her wish, though,” Porthos says.

“Yes, I did. And for years after that I was indiscriminate in who I touched, how many people I held, and for how long. I took me a few years to get any sense of moderation back.” He smiles and kisses Porthos, enjoys the feel of skin on skin. “After so long with creature comforts as my only comforts, I found they’d become soothing even when I had someone to hold and kiss. Fur-lined gloves and velvet wraps and silk dressing gowns remind me of the centuries of time I spent with only them, and make me grateful every day for the gift she gave me. They make me grateful to have you, a man who revels in touching me, who holds me every day."

“’S that why you get cranky when you see that Annie loves me best?” Porthos asks. Aramis scoffs.

“My cat is an animal of taste and discretion, I assure you she loves me best."

Annie bumps her head against the bottom of Porthos’ chin and her purr is a steady rumble.  “Sure thing, babe,” Porthos says, squeezing Aramis’ hand again. “Hey,” he says, tugging Aramis’ hand until their eyes meet. “You know what’s better than touches or cashmere sweaters?"

Aramis knows where this is going, he knew it the second he saw Porthos’ expression, but he plays along. “What’s that?"

“Touches and cashmere sweaters. C’mon, let’s go fuck on the ‘keep’ pile."

Some of those garments require more than one trip to the dry cleaners. One pair of velvet jeans needs to be replaced entirely. It’s worth every penny.

“Bay of Pigs?”  Porthos asks.

Athos looks up from his book. “What? Where did that come from?"

“Been reading a really great biography of Kennedy. Now tell me, which of you did that?"

Athos and Aramis look at each other.

“It seems that it was neither of us,” Aramis says. 

Porthos scans the bookstore, his gaze landing on a pile of old National Geographic magazines.

“What about that?” he asks pointing to the one on top. The cover article that month is a theoretical reconstruction of the face of one of the most famous young men in history.

Athos cocks an eyebrow. “Are you asking if one of us had a hand in the work involved with the reconstruction of his face, or are you asking if one of us was the pharaoh Tutanhkhamun?” he asks, using the scholarly pronunciation.

“Or,” Aramis says, drawing out the ‘r’, “are you asking if one of us killed King Tut?”  Aramis watches Athos’ eye twitch and grins.

Porthos rolls his eyes. “Did either of you assholes have any role in any of that, how about that?"

Athos sniffs. “As it happens, I did. A few years ago I had a charming wisher, Elisabeth. Most of her wishes were the kind of frivolity I loathe and I had to tailor them significantly just to be able to grant them with my dignity intact, but she had heard that the scans were being proposed and wanted to be part of the process. Non-invasive exploration of iconic archaeology, how could I refuse?"

“For which you can thank me,” Aramis says. 

“Excuse me?”  Athos’ affronted tone is one of Aramis’ favorite things.

“Carter was a nice man, he deserved a break.” He strokes his mustache. “Besides, I was tired of getting called away from my nice comfortable home to the fucking desert, which is still the fucking desert no matter how good your food hampers are. And,” Aramis can’t help how his voice drops, “he deserved to be found."

“Oh, were you and the king close?” Porthos asks.

“Age jokes from you too, now?"

Porthos grins at him and, like it always does, Aramis’ heart skips a beat when his dimples come out.

“I love you,” Porthos says.

“I love you, too.” 

It’s not the first time they’ve said it, it’s not even the most meaningful time, but every time Porthos says the words, Aramis wants to go to his knees and thank the fates for bringing him this amazing man.

“If you two are quite finished.” Athos tops off his coffee mug and offers them both a refill. “Are you still without a wisher?” 

“I am,” Aramis says. “And to be honest, it’s spoiling me. I’m enjoying getting to eat my meals all the way to the end. Getting to sleep through the night and kiss Porthos without interruption.”  Porthos bends to drop a kiss on his mouth.

The thing is, after he says that, it starts to eat at him. It’s been months since Esther, the one who’d come after Piotr. She’d used her tenth wish and thanked him before saying goodbye and since then Aramis hasn’t felt his lamp at all. The longer he waits, the more he dreads when the pull finally comes. Piotr was far from the first terrible wisher Aramis has had, and likely he won’t be the last, but Aramis doesn’t know how he’ll deal with another power-hungry jackass trying to twist him.

He’ll always be able to outthink them, even if he has to call in Athos when there’s a real challenge, that’s how genies work. They will always have ways to make a selfish wisher pay. It’s just that Aramis it’s tired of having to do it. He’s tired of even the little bit that bad wishers get away with. He knows they can demand that he stay with them and he lives in fear of the day one of them realizes it, because however long he has to stay away from Porthos is too long.

The months go by, then years. What they can’t know, what they won’t know until a handful of years from now when d’Artagnan makes it possible for them to find out, is that Esther hadn’t been sure what to do with the lamp. She knew she couldn’t keep it, couldn’t sell it or give it to a friend. She could give it to a stranger, either by putting it in their hands or giving it to charity, or she could just leave it somewhere like Grant had, and let fate have its way. Giving it to a stranger was never an option; Esther would never have been able to deal with the worry that she’d given it to someone who’d abuse it.

After some deliberation, she’d stopped at an antique store on the way to her daughter’s house. She’d asked the owner to show her something from the front window display, and while his back was turned, she’d slipped the lamp in among the other bric-a-brac. To her credit, she had no idea it would sit unnoticed and unmoved for years. She’d assumed that he’d find it the next day and either rub it himself in an attempt to clean it, or put it on a shelf where it would attract more attention. ‘It’s a beautiful piece,’ she’d thought. ‘It deserves to be seen.'

There was no way she could have known that the owner of that particular store had his nephew do all of the tidying, a boy who only cleaned the pieces in the window every couple of months, and even then he just swabbed over them with a feather duster, barely looking at them. He had assumed his uncle was responsible for the new silver pot and didn’t ask questions.

And so the lamp sat.

“Is this the longest you’ve gone without granting a wish?” They’re curled on the couch, legs intertwined. Aramis is reading while Porthos surfs through Netflix for their next binge-watch. Aramis loves that after this long together, Porthos still wants to learn more about him.

“No, I once went nearly twenty years. The difference is that for all those years I knew exactly where my lamp was. I knew it was protected, as safe as it could be, and that my wisher was holding onto it so that I could be as close to a free man as she could manage."

“Was it Anne?"

Aramis nods. He reaches out, reflexively, to pet Annie. She’s old and she’s grown touchy, but she still lets Aramis stroke her back. He knows one day soon she’ll leave him and it will hurt as much as it always does. Perhaps when he goes to adopt her successor, Porthos will come with him.

“She made nine of her wishes and then told me to go away. Those were her words."

‘Go away, my Aramis,’ Anne had said. 'Go to far off places and come back to tell me about them. Go find love and peace and be your own man. I will keep your lamp safe.'

“So you had two decades?” Porthos reaches out to run one hand over the length of Aramis’ calf.

“Longer, I suppose, if you consider that she stretched out the four wishes before that for almost ten years. I hadn’t even known that was allowed until she did it.”  He’s quiet for a second, thinking about her laugh and her wit and how she would giggle when the kittens tried to climb her dresses. “I miss her."

Porthos kneels up on the couch so he can stretch himself along Aramis’ side and hold him close. “I know you do, babe.” With some awkward twisting and maneuvering, Porthos arranges them so that Aramis is draped over his chest, Aramis’ head in the hollow of Porthos’ shoulder.  He can feel Porthos big, warm hand stroking up and down his back. It’s comforting, safe, and Aramis feels his eyes grow heavy. He’s seconds from sleep when Porthos’ hand stops and he speaks, his voice unsure, hesitant, desperately hopeful.

“What if I had your lamp?"

“What would you wish for?” Aramis asks. He’s sleepy, but if Porthos wants to play this game that’s fine, too.

“No. I mean – I can’t believe I’ve never thought of this before -- if I had your lamp, could I stretch out my wishes over decades the way Anne did? Could we have all that time together with no jerks like Grant or assholes like Piotr calling you away in the middle of a kiss and keeping you for days?"

Aramis feels a pounding against his ribs but he’s not sure if it’s his heart or Porthos’.

“We could, yes." It’s simple, in theory. The hard part is getting the lamp.

Porthos drops a kiss into his hair. “I would like to give you a few years where you know for sure you won’t have to grant a wish that makes your skin crawl, because I know they still do. Even when you find a way to turn it back on them."

It’s quiet for at least a minute. Aramis reaches over and twines their fingers together, listens to Porthos breathing. “How?"

“You don’t know where it is?"

Aramis shakes his head. “I only know where it is if I’m summoned, and even then I only go where I’m called, I don’t know where it is until I get there."

“Alright. Time to do some thinking, then."

Aramis makes tea, Porthos gets a notepad, and they meet up in the kitchen.

“How does it work when someone’s wishes are done?” Porthos asks and Aramis tells him about the restrictions around gifting or selling the lamps. 

“So, is she the type to leave it somewhere or is she the type to give it away?"

Aramis remembers Esther, a woman of lists and packing the week’s lunches on Sunday night. “Give it away."

“To a stranger?”

“No, she’s more the type to put it in with the clothes she’s donating.”

“Locally?"

“That makes the most sense.” Porthos pulls out his computer and makes a list of every charity shop or thrift store he can find within twenty miles of where Aramis says Esther lived. When the list is finished, Porthos leans across table and cups Aramis’ neck in his hand, tugging him close for a kiss.

“I’ve got work tomorrow and Friday and I can’t take time off, but I promise you, this weekend we’ll hit every one of these places."

Aramis rests his forehead against Porthos’.  “When was the last time I said how much I love you?"

Porthos grins. “It’s been ages."

“Obviously I owe you some kind of apology."

“Are we too old for you to apologize to me on the kitchen table?"

It’s been years since they got so carried away that Aramis spread Porthos over the kitchen table and sucked him for so long that Porthos was nearly weeping by the time he came. He hasn’t lost his touch.

Despite their best intentions, it takes almost four months to make it through that entire list of stores. In each one they browse around, they ask about the lamp, Aramis even draws a few sketches. Their story is that Aramis’ beloved great aunt had left it to him after her death, but a spiteful cousin had gotten rid of it after the will had been read. Porthos thinks this is unnecessarily involved, Aramis thinks Porthos needs to embrace the imaginative spark within him.

They widen their search radius. A year later, Porthos and Aramis have been through every second-hand store, charity shop, or vintage boutique within 100 miles of Esther’s hometown. By now the journey has become part of them. They’ve bought a temperamental used car so they don’t have to rent one anymore. They have favorite road trip songs in a collection of playlists and rules about what can and cannot be eaten in the car. (Acceptable: sandwiches, fruit, M&Ms. Unacceptable: Anything dairy that might get forgotten for a week and start to smell, whatever flavor of Doritos Aramis picked that one time that smelled like feet, poutine. ‘Jesus Christ, Porthos, where did you even find poutine?’)

When Annie dies, peacefully and quietly while asleep in a puddle of sunlight, it takes them a few months to get another cat. This time Porthos chooses. Anya is a Russian Blue with enormous green eyes and a need to put her nose into everything.  They put her on a blanket in the back seat and she comes on at least half their trips with them.

Athos sells the bookstore, having decided he’s ready for another stretch of time without business obligations, and they take him along on a couple of their excursions. After the second one, he declines to come on any more. He says it’s because he can’t stand Aramis’ taste in music, but Aramis suspects it’s because he knows how important this is to them and wants them to be able to keep the moment of discovery, whenever it happens, private.

Soon enough, it’s time for another conversation over tea. It’s time for another notepad.

“What’s next?” Porthos asks.

“I saw a program the other day about antique dealers looking for stock in thrift stores."

“You’re thinking some antique dealer beat us to whatever shop Esther gave it to?"

Aramis shrugs, tries to feel hopeful about this new avenue instead of defeated by the time they’ve spend on this so far. Every minute of those trips with Porthos has brought them closer together and made him love this amazing man even more.

“I think it’s worth looking,” he says and Porthos nods. 

“I’ll get a list together."

“I love you,” Aramis says. Porthos steps across the kitchen and crouches down next to Aramis’ chair. He strokes Aramis’ cheeks before sliding his fingers into Aramis’ hair, cupping his face. Porthos’ hands feel warm against his skin, familiar and wonderful. He kisses Aramis with as much joy and passion and focus as the first time they kissed and Aramis loses himself in it, loses himself in the stroke of Porthos’ thumbs over his cheekbones. 

“I love you too,” Porthos says, bumping his nose against Aramis’. 

The first list of antique stores takes another year to get through. The second list takes nine months. They move house between the second and third lists and lose months of time to that process and even more to the projects involved in making the new place truly theirs. Halfway through the third list, d’Artagnan buys a small, squat ceramic teapot at a charity shop near his apartment and bursts into their lives.

One afternoon, between d’Artagnan’s third and fourth wishes, Porthos and Aramis are doing the shopping for the week and discussing the future for d’Artagnan and Athos.

“You know Athos will tell you he doesn’t have feelings, it’s just that d’Artagnan irritates him,” Porthos says.

“Well, he’s right about half of that. My point is, it’s not that he frustrates Athos that I find wonderful, though that is certainly delightful.”  Aramis puts three boxes of cereal in the cart. Porthos puts two of them back on the shelf. “It’s that he’s gotten under Athos’ skin. No one’s done that in the entire time I’ve known him."

“Is that a good thing?"

“He shakes up Athos’ life a little, makes Athos feel alive again.” Aramis holds up two melons, one in each hand; Porthos points to the left one and Aramis puts it in the cart. “You did that for me, you reminded me of how much more there was to me, to the world. Athos deserves happiness like that."

Porthos hooks an arm around Aramis’ waist and tugs him close. He buries his nose in the hair behind Aramis’ ear and kisses the skin of his neck. “Well, when you put it that way."

“Porthos.” Aramis is trying not to climb him. “Let’s finish what we’ve got to get done here and get home. Please."

Porthos kisses his neck one last time. He tears the list in half and hands part of it to Aramis. “You get those, I’ll get these, we’ll be home and fucking before the ice cream starts to melt."

“That shouldn’t be sexy,” Aramis says and Porthos’ eyebrows jog up and down. “Neither should that.” Aramis groans and heads for the frozen foods section.

They do, eventually, have Athos over for dinner to talk about his boy. Neither Aramis nor Porthos is sure they’ve gotten their point across until Athos skips out on a breakfast date to answer a summons from d’Artagnan and doesn’t come back. They wait a day, then two. Aramis sends text messages to both of them but doesn’t hear back.

“Any word?” Porthos asks over breakfast.

“Not a single one,” Aramis says with a self-congratulatory smirk.

“Where are we headed today?"

Aramis looks at the list. “McMaster’s Antiquities and Rare Books,” he says. “I’ll get directions, you put together some snacks.” The store’s website has all the hallmarks of having been designed by the owner’s well-meaning wife sometime in 2003.

Still, it has all the necessary information. There’s an address, the store’s hours, a phone number, and a huge photo of the storefront, including the ornate lettering of the store’s name painted across the top. Aramis finds his eye caught by a small object off to one side of the display and his heart stops because there--

There--

There in the corner of the photo, sitting in the midst of a display of milk glass cake stands, is Aramis’ lamp.

Aramis’ mug hitting the kitchen floor and shattering must make a sound. That must be what makes Porthos turn around. Aramis can’t hear anything over the roar in his ears. He doesn’t even see Porthos next to him until there are strong hands on his shoulders shaking him.

“Aramis!"

“I’m sorry."

“You’re scaring me, what is it?"

Aramis uses the tip of his pencil to point to the exact spot in the picture. “That’s it."

“That’s… it? Are you sure?"

“It’s been my lamp for two thousand years, Porthos. I’m sure.” Porthos looks startled by the number, but quickly smiles and strokes Aramis’ cheek, wiping away tears Aramis hadn’t even known were there. How long has he been crying?

“Forget the snacks,” Porthos says. “Let’s go now.” He snaps a picture of the address with his phone because it’s faster than writing it down, and they are out the door.

Porthos is driving as fast as he dares and Aramis has his head against the passenger-side window. Something about this feels unreal, impossible.

“Why is it so easy,” Aramis asks. “Why today does it fall into our laps like this?"

“It’s not easy, Aramis. We’ve been looking for it for years."

“You have to admit though, having it in the front of the display so it can be right there in the picture on the first page of the website, it seems a bit obvious."

“What’re you thinking?"

Aramis feels a smile curl his mouth. “I think d’Artagnan must have wished for it. I think that floppy-haired little shit spent one of his wishes to give us the thing we haven’t been able to do on our own.”  He’s outright beaming now. “And when I see him again, I’m going to hug him for hours."

Porthos reaches out and takes Aramis’ hand. They’re quiet for the rest of the drive, still worried that this coming moment might be taken away from them at the last second. Bringing the car to a stop in front of the store, Porthos squeezes Aramis’ hand.

“C’mon,” he says and Aramis smiles, nervous but determined, and opens the car door.

The store smells like vanillin and almond from the old books, and the particular aroma of well-polished wood, but Aramis barely registers anything about his surroundings before he’s heading for the front window, leaving Porthos to greet the person behind the counter. He can hear them making small talk about the weather and he wants to kiss Porthos for giving him these few seconds to look at it, to take it in.

“Go on, then,” Porthos says, coming up behind Aramis.

“I can’t. I can’t touch it, I need you to.” He points at it, dusty in the early-afternoon light.

Porthos picks it up and Aramis can feel his heart slamming in his chest. 

“This is a lamp?"

“Not specifically, no. ‘Lamp’ is just a term. Most of the early stories don’t mention a lamp at all, that doesn’t come until the Aladdin tales. The truth is,” Aramis reaches out to touch it, stopping with his fingers just above the surface and remembering all the years he spent hovering over skin in just this way. He takes a second to be grateful for Anne, for Porthos. “The truth is that while we say ‘lamp’ it could just as easily be a ring or a box or a bowl."

Porthos holds it up just a bit. “Or…"

“Or a vessel so old no one knows what it was used for. Not even me.” He smiles, wanting to trace the engraved falcons and floral patterns with his finger, wanting to bump over the lobes around the base. “It’s beautiful. And it’s mine. That’s all that I ever needed to know."

Porthos tosses it up just above his hand and catches it again and from the glint in his eyes he did it just to watch Aramis’ momentary terror. He knows the lamps have safeguards to protect them, but it’s still hard to watch someone handle a priceless object like that.

“Let’s go buy this not-a-lamp,” Porthos says.

The owner is confused by the lack of a price tag and the lack of an entry in his stock books. He sees the designs on it, the shape it’s in, and he sees the prospective buyers. Scratching his chin, he names an amount of money that would be more than enough to buy an extravagant dinner for two but not enough for third person to come along.

Porthos frowns and Aramis wants to plead with him, terrified that if they try to haggle they won’t be buying it at all. It seems just the frown was enough for the owner to knock twenty percent off the total and Porthos nods.

When they’re back in the car, the lamp wrapped in brown paper and sitting on the back seat, Porthos looks at him.

“How old is it if even you don’t know what it was used for?"

Aramis feels like he can breathe again for the first time since he saw it that morning. “It’s older than me by hundreds of years. At least.”  Porthos looks shocked, and not a little worried. “Don’t worry, it’s protecting itself. You can’t break it. Or burn it. Better genies than me have tried.”  Porthos runs a hand over Aramis’ hair, tucking a rogue curl behind his ear.

“Where should we put it?” Porthos asks.

Aramis can feel himself smiling, can feel this near-freedom making him giddy. “It’s yours, my love. Put it wherever you want."

Porthos frowns. “It’s not mine. It’s yours."

“You paid for it, you can touch it."

“I don’t want you thinking about me like those others. I don’t want to accidentally brush it and have you thinking about me while you feel that pull you hate."

Aramis turns in his seat, looking at Porthos’ profile. He traces the edge of Porthos’ ear and leans over to kiss his cheek. “When I see it in your hands I only feel joy. The most important person in my life is holding the most important thing in my life. I know you’ll look out for it like you look out for me.” He twists his fingers in the curls at the nape of Porthos’ neck. “And if you summon me, I’ll have a good memory of that to outshine every bad one.”  He tugs a bit on one curl. “I love you."

Porthos turns his head just a bit and looks at Aramis out of the corner of his eye, he’s smiling. “I love you."

He’s quiet for the rest of the ride home, and Aramis knows he’s thinking about the conversations they’d had years ago, when they’d first decided to look for the lamp. Porthos had asked why he couldn’t just wish Aramis free and Aramis had told him about asking Athos. He talked about hearing Athos story and the reality that there is no easy solution.

“Hey,” Aramis says as they’re walking up the front steps to the house. “We did it."

“Hell yeah, we did,” Porthos says, catching Aramis up by the waist and picking him up to kiss him.

He sets Aramis back down once they’re inside the door, stumbling and laughing. His smile falls for a minute and Aramis traces the curve of his eyebrows.

“It’s just a shame, is all."

Aramis can feel his heart twist. It is, and not even for what Aramis can’t have. He has near-limitless power and he still can’t grant the deepest wish of the love of his life.  “I know, my love."

Pulling the lamp from its bag, Porthos traces the designs. He looks up, curious, and Aramis guesses he’s wondering if this counts as summoning.  Aramis smiles and shakes his head. It doesn’t work when they’re in the same room.

“All the wishes in the world,” Porthos says, following the pattern of vines and falcons and leaves, “and that would be my only wish. I wish you were free."

Aramis has never been able to handle Porthos being sad. Angry, he can live with. Petulant or cranky or irritated? Aramis is used to those, too. But sadness on that face is more than he can take. Tugging Porthos’ face to his, Aramis kisses him deep enough to drive away the frown. He licks at Porthos’ lip, sucking the lower one in to his mouth and holding it with his teeth before letting go. "I would grant that wish for you. Your wish,” Aramis kisses him again, sweet and soft, “is my command."

Porthos runs the hand that isn’t holding the lamp down Aramis’ back, cupping his ass. “Is it now?"

It startles a laugh out of Aramis and he feels his heart get lighter. “Oh, Porthos. You’ve never needed wishes to get that."

Later, Aramis will be a little glad that Anya wasn’t around to watch their undignified behavior. They’d started in the living room, the lamp forgotten on the table. Grabbing Porthos by the ass, Aramis had dragged him into the kitchen, pushing him into a chair and straddling him. When it was over they lay sprawled naked on the couch, feeling their sweaty skin cooling in the afternoon air.

Porthos kisses him on his neck, his jaw, above his right eye. He talks about Athos and d’Artagnan on their holiday, how he hopes Athos isn’t sticking to his stubbornness. At first Aramis thinks Porthos’ wish to join them on holiday is a joke, but the more he thinks about it, the better it sounds. 

He agrees and kisses Porthos, then stretches back along his tether to the lamp, trying to find the wish. It’s the same way he’s granted every other wish, but this time feels different. It feels like nothing is happening. He must look confused because Porthos is staring at him with one eyebrow cocked.

Aramis asks him to try again.

“I wish we were on holiday with Athos and d’Artagnan."

Aramis nods. “Wish granted.” He reaches again, and again, it isn’t there.

He almost misses the look on Porthos’ face because almost as soon as the surprised expression appears, Porthos is putting his clothes back on and stumbling out of the bedroom after a quick kiss.  Aramis sits up and looks over the back of the couch just in time to see Porthos stuffing his phone in his pocket, the lamp in his other hand as he’s running out the door.

What the hell? It takes a second to find his jeans and dig around in the pockets to find his phone. 

It rings so many times, Aramis is afraid it’s going to go to voicemail. “Where are you going?” he asks before Porthos says a word.

“To the shop. I’m testing something!”  Aramis rolls his eyes. “You just be patient. I’ll see you in a minute, one way or the other."

He spends the next five minutes pacing and growing more and more frustrated. When the phone buzzes, Aramis has a speech prepared, but Porthos is already talking, his words tumbling over each other.

“Did you feel that?"

“I feel irritated that you ran out of here without a word while I’m trying to—“ There it is. There’s the thing Aramis has been missing. The only reason Porthos would have left with the lamp is to separate Aramis from it, and the only reason to do that would be to test the summons. “Oh. You rubbed it, didn’t you?"

Porthos is grinning so hard Aramis can hear it down the line. “I did! And you didn’t feel a fucking thing.” He’s coming through the door as he says the last words and he gets rid of the lamp and his phone before grabbing Aramis, arms tight around his waist. Porthos buries his nose in Aramis’ neck and Aramis holds him, clutches the back of his head. 

There’s only one reason a summons from the lamp’s rightful owner wouldn’t work. Aramis kisses him deep and slow. Kisses him like he has all the time in the world. Kisses him like a free man.

“You did it,” he says.

“We did it,” Porthos says, taking over the kiss.

They call Athos to share the news. When the line goes dead Aramis frowns at the phone. “He hung up on me."

“Worry about him later,” Porthos says, pulling him into the bedroom.

“The moon landing,” Porthos says.

Aramis is quiet for a minute, stroking his thumb over Porthos’ fingers. Today they’re outside, laying in the grass and watching the clouds moving overhead, puffy and white like a children’s book.

“No, I wish I had. The Wright brothers, though,” Aramis says. “I did that, so I suppose I played my part.”

“One of them was your wisher?”

Aramis shakes his head, a private smile on his face. “My wisher was a lovely woman called Evelyn.”

“And she wished for them to be able to fly?”

Closing his eyes, letting the sun warm his face, Aramis shakes his head again. “No, she just wanted a beautiful day for her daughter’s seventh birthday. I had to push out a storm to make it happen, kicking the wind up was the easiest way to do that. Not high, just enough extra wind to move the clouds out, and, apparently, to lift a small wood and fabric airplane.”

It’s quiet for a minute. Peaceful.

“So, I know how old you are now, and I have a question."

“Hmm?"

“What’s a better pet, a dinosaur or a cat?"

Aramis growls, pinning Porthos to the grass, and kissing him until he’s quiet.