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Chapter Text

Dancing with a lady was nothing like dancing with Athos, nothing at all.  Even while Philippe had mastered the technical steps of the dance, he wondered if he would ever feel the ease a king was supposed to feel. . . the ease of not caring what anyone thought of him.  The girl with whom he was dancing, one of a multitude of noblewomen’s daughters present at yet another ball, smiled at him with brown eyes full of charm and wonder.  Her face looked open and honest, and Philippe wanted to like her—no, Philippe did like her, but he didn’t know if he should trust her.

Porthos had told him to enjoy all the beautiful ladies who would be his dance partners, with a certain emphasis on the word “enjoy” as if to imply that Philippe might consider finally taking one back to his bed.  Aramis had chuckled and said that Philippe would do well to exercise some discretion, but yes, he should enjoy himself.

And then Athos had muttered something in his reedy voice about what d’Artagnan had always said, to beware women who loved the crown and not the man who wore it.  He hadn’t been looking at Philippe, or at anyone else, when he spoke, but Philippe could imagine those intent brown eyes fixed on him, ready to judge him.  Sometimes, Philippe felt that Athos was always judging him, still, and Philippe trembled at the thought he might be found wanting.

He had no intention of bedding this girl, though, or any other that night.  Or any night, really, for all he cared.  Philippe craved companionship, and he appreciated beauty, but he hadn’t yet felt any of the desires Porthos crowed about so loudly.  He was too embarrassed to say so to his advisors, but Aramis as usual seemed to know what he hesitated to confess.  The priest assured Philippe that one day he would awaken to his manhood, and that he had all the time in the world.  Philippe was still learning how to live as a free man (or at least as a man imprisoned in a palace instead of the Bastille), Aramis said, and it was understandable that he wasn’t ready to lie with a woman.

So when the dance ended, Philippe bowed to his partner and thanked her, then returned to his throne to watch the guests, not heeding the confused and slightly offended look the girl gave him.  Philippe supposed he should have danced longer, and with more women, but it was just so emotionally draining to be always on his guard, careful not to say or do anything that would be considered improper.  His thoughts again returned to his lessons with Athos, where even Philippe’s initial clumsiness was a source of comfortable merriment instead of embarrassment.  Once Philippe had finally mastered the art of stepping lightly in his ridiculous shoes, the dancing had filled him with pleasure—sheer joy, even.  He had fun cavorting about the old cottage, holding Athos’s fingers in his own and laughing as he twirled the older man like Athos was a woman.

Really, I should have played at being the girl, Philippe thought, not sure why but knowing that somehow, it would have felt right.  But I couldn’t have learned to dance like a king that way. . . .  He smiled, eyes glazed over as he quit focusing on his guests and indulged in his memories.  If only he could have stayed in that cottage in the country forever!  Being a king wasn’t so bad with only the three older musketeers as his subjects.  At least they are still with me, Philippe comforted himself, even if my father is not.

Philippe wanted to help them all, to make them happy as a way of repaying their kindness to and sacrifice for him.  Helping Porthos was easy—or at least it was easy to set up an examination for him with the royal physicians.  Convincing Porthos to follow their recommendations wasn’t quite so simple, particularly as far as losing weight was concerned.  Still, unbeknownst to Porthos, Philippe managed to arrange for certain substitutes to be made in his diet which made it modestly more healthy, despite the fact that Porthos was eating in larger quantities than ever now that he and the others lived at the palace.  The change in diet aided his digestion at least somewhat, and at Philippe’s urging, Porthos also began to drink more water.  That too eased his gastric discomfort, as well as nearly eliminated his kidney stones.  As a result, Porthos complained less and seemed happier, especially one morning when he announced over breakfast that “the beast had reawakened” the previous night, whatever that meant.

Pleasing Aramis was even simpler; all he asked was that he have quiet and privacy for his prayers (which mostly meant keeping Porthos away from him for an hour or two each day), and that Philippe negotiate more gently with the Jesuits than his brother had done.  Philippe was happy to oblige him on both matters.

But Athos. . . Philippe had no idea how to please him beyond what the young king had already done, and what he strove each day to continue doing: being the king and the son Athos wanted him to be.  Somehow, incredibly, acting like that king came easily—apparently Philippe’s very nature was that which Athos desired in a monarch.  As Philippe grew used to life as a king and the role came more naturally to him, Athos seemed more and more satisfied with his performance.

Philippe tried his best to be a good son as well.  Athos had lived for Raoul, and with the young man’s death, a hole had been left gaping in his father’s psyche.  Of course Philippe knew he could never replace Raoul, but he tried to fill that hole by acting like a second son.  That was what Aramis thought Athos needed and wanted; and since Philippe knew Athos would never ask for it himself, he had pled for the older man’s love, and offered his own in return.  Athos had not replied in words, but he had taken Philippe’s hand and kissed it in acquiescence to his king’s wish.  Their behavior toward one another did not change—Philippe, for one, had always acted with love for Athos, and he felt the older man did the same for him—but their relationship was now fixed by Philippe’s words and Athos’s kiss.  Surrogate father and surrogate son, replacing each other’s dead.

But Athos was not happy, and Philippe knew it, and he despaired of how to help the person he loved most after Anne, his mother.  Sometimes Philippe thought that if he could trade his life to restore Raoul’s, he would do it, for Athos’s sake. . . but that was the one thing even a king could not accomplish.

Athos hadn’t even come to the ball that evening, although Philippe could see Porthos and Aramis among the crowd.  The young king wondered if it was too early for him to retire, in order that he might slip away and find his friend.  He wasn’t worried about Athos, so much as he simply wanted to be with him; still, Philippe decided that concern over Athos’s absence gave him enough of an excuse to seek the older man out.

At the end of the next dance, Philippe rose from his throne.  In an instant, every back in the room save his own was bowed, and a path opened for him through the crowd.  Remembering to keep his head high and his chin tilted, Philippe walked out.  He didn’t look at Aramis or Porthos, as meeting their eyes might signal to them that he wished for them to follow.  Instead, he wanted them to remain behind and enjoy themselves in his stead.

As soon as the young king reached his own chambers, he locked the door and stripped out of the finery he’d had to wear to the ball.  Philippe wrapped himself in a robe that had been his brother’s, made of crimson silk embroidered in gold thread.  At first, he hadn’t liked it or any of the other elaborate clothing he had to wear as king, but now he rather enjoyed the robe and the freedom of movement it gave him.  Leaving the doors to his suite bolted, Philippe instead slipped out through one of the secret passageways connecting his rooms to the apartments of his advisors, hoping he could find Athos there.

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Athos was, indeed, in his bedroom, playing his violin and enjoying himself far more, he was convinced, that he would have at the ball.  Porthos adored such events, of course, and all the ladies they lured to the palace; and Aramis enjoyed the food, the wine, and the other sensory delights on display.  Athos, on the other hand, hated standing around until his feet and legs, stiff with age, were aching almost as much as his head throbbed with pain brought on by the very sensory overload Aramis appreciated.  He hated the noise and the perfumes and the garish colors, and he hated watching the king dance.  As much pride as Athos took in Philippe and the way the young man had assumed the royal mantle, the dancing irked him.  It reminded him of the lessons he’d given Philippe, and seeing some fine young woman now dancing in his place made Athos feel old and used up.

I served my purpose bringing to the throne the king France deserves, Athos thought as he played, so what good am I now, to him or to anyone else?  He knew that he was being what Aramis would have called boring, but Athos believed he’d earned the right to sulk every once in a while.  By the same token, he also knew that he was good for Philippe, at least as his advisor.  However, Athos was, he suspected, very bad for Philippe as the surrogate father the young man wished him to be.  But Philippe had begged for his love, and Athos had kissed his hand as if to grant it, for what else could he do?  One could not refuse the king, and Athos could not refuse Philippe, in particular.  Not that Philippe was difficult to love, but that was the problem.

At the very first, Philippe had reminded Athos of Raoul: his politeness, his kindness, the innocence of his self-deprecation.  Philippe had said he’d tend lambs forever with the gentle shepherd girl he’d noticed, and he’d sounded so like Raoul and the way he’d spoken of Christine, that Athos’s heart had ached.  And that was all right, that was good, as Aramis had said.  The memory of Athos’s son had softened his heart toward this stranger who looked so like the king he hated; Philippe had warmed to Athos simply because the man was the first to show him any kindness; and it had all gone according to clever Aramis’s clever plan.  Athos hadn’t even resented the way he’d been manipulated because as always, Aramis had the best of intentions, and his scheme to replace the king had worked in the end.

Except Aramis had never considered one possibility.  He had thought, Athos was sure, of how Philippe’s resemblance to Louis might disgust Athos, and Aramis had counted on the utter difference in the twins’ natures to overcome that hurdle.  It had.  But Philippe’s difference from his brother showed not only in his behavior but also on his face: while both young men had an almost feminine look about them, with their golden hair and pale skin and pink lips, Philippe’s blue eyes frequently softened to express everything that made him different from the king who had sent Athos’s son to his death.  Those eyes pled with Athos for forgiveness whenever Philippe thought the older man was angry with him, sparkled when he was happy, widened with wonder when he beheld any number of things Athos had long ago ceased to notice as he grew older and more jaded with the world.

No, Aramis hadn’t planned on Philippe’s beautiful eyes, or the way his blond hair fell around his face, or the soft parting of his lips when he was lost in concentration.  Aramis probably never even noticed those things, focused as he was on his plans and his prayers.  But Athos noticed.  He saw all those things when he was teaching Philippe how to hold a glass, and Philippe dropped it and apologized and spoke of Raoul.  Thoughts of Raoul had made Athos weep, but they weren’t what drove him from the table.  Philippe’s eyes had done that, his eyes and the questions they asked and the answers Athos wanted to give.  You shouldn’t care about me, Athos had said, and he meant it on the surface, but underneath, he was saying, I shouldn’t care about you, because you aren’t Raoul, and when you look at me like that, I can’t think of you like the father I know you want me to be.

But Athos had tried, all the same, and when Philippe asked so sweetly if he could love Athos like a father, and if Athos could love him like a son, the older man had consented—or, at least, he had not refused.  Athos was good at that, avoiding words so he didn’t have to lie.

As he stroked the violin’s strings with his bow, Athos thought instead of stroking the king’s long hair with his fingertips, pushing it back from his slender neck, caressing the pale skin there until he coaxed whimpers from between Philippe’s lips.  Athos imagined drawing the young man back to his bed, undressing him with whispered reassurances to counter Philippe’s shy modesty, and teaching him to make love, as carefully and as thoroughly as Athos had taught him to dance and speak and hold a glass.  The king was still a virgin, and Athos had been celibate since he lost his beloved wife some twenty-odd years prior.  It might be awkward at first, and it might take time.  Nevertheless, Athos believed they could learn how to bring one another pleasure.

Except we can’t.  Athos cut his fantasies off at the same instant as he silenced the violin with a squawk of the bow across its strings.  As always after he had indulged such thoughts, Athos’s self-remonstrations were as unforgiving as his sword: We can’t, because I am a man and he is the king, and because the only love he wants from me is that of a father.  When Philippe does take a lover, he’ll want someone like that farm girl with her lamb, someone as young and innocent as himself—not an old man, and certainly not me.

Then he heard Philippe’s voice from behind him: “I love hearing you play.”  Athos drew in a sharp breath and turned, dropping the violin from his shoulder to hang in a numb hand at his side.  The king was standing by the hidden door that connected Athos’s apartment to the passageways that crisscrossed the palace.

“I didn’t know you were there,” said Athos.  He scowled, because that was the only way he could be sure no emotion showed on his face.  Philippe was wearing that silk robe again, the red voluminous one that hid the shape of the young man’s body but at the same time tempted Athos to touch Philippe by virtue of its light, slick fabric.

“I left the ball early,” Philippe explained.  “I got bored.  Porthos and Aramis are still there, or at least they were when I left.”

Athos turned away from him and asked, “Do you need something?” as he placed the violin back on its stand.

“No.”  Philippe sounded more hesitant, slightly confused.  “I just wanted to see you.”

Athos rested his hands on the stand and lifted his eyes up and to the right, looking at a spot high up on the wall as he willed his heartbeat to steady itself.

“You. . . weren’t at the ball,” Philippe continued when Athos didn’t speak.  He sounded as if he was giving a speech which he had rehearsed but then half forgotten.  “I thought perhaps you were ill, so. . . I came to check on you.”

“I’m not ill,” Athos told him, his back still to the king.  “And you could have sent a servant.”

“I’m sorry,” Philippe returned.  Athos had never quite broken him of the habit of making automatic apologies, and the older man sighed to hear this one.  At the sound, Philippe stammered, finally repeating, “I just—I wanted to. . . I wanted to see you.”  Then, with desperation, he asked, “Are you angry with me?”

Athos gave in and turned to face the boy whose blue eyes now swam with hurt.

“No,” sighed Athos, “no, Philippe, I’m not angry.”

“I thought I might have disturbed you,” the king murmured, still uncertain of himself.  Athos hated that uncertainty because it was the very thing he and the others had tried to drive out of Philippe, and because it made Athos yearn to take the younger man in his arms and comfort him.

“You are the king,” Athos told him.  “You shouldn’t worry about whether or not you disturb your subjects.”

“So I did disturb you?”  Philippe swallowed, and Athos could see his throat working.  “You stopped playing.”

“I told you, I didn’t know you’d come in.  I’d been playing for a while, and I thought I should stop and go to bed.”  Athos looked at the way Philippe’s hair fell upon his shoulders, hair the same golden color as the expensive thread embroidering the king’s crimson robe; then he looked away.  “And you should go back to your room and go to bed as well.”

“I won’t sleep,” Philippe murmured.  “Most nights, I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I, but Aramis says that rest, even without sleep, is beneficial.”

“Aramis also says that when I can’t sleep, I should pray,” said Philippe.  “But I don’t.  That is. . . I pray, but not for hours in bed at night.  Do you?”

Athos couldn’t hold back a short, somewhat bitter laugh.  Aramis had been saying that for as long as they’d known each other.

“No.  I don’t pray.  At all.  Aramis’s God and I have nothing to say to one another.”  He looked back at Philippe again, and the boy was still watching him with sympathy and yearning in his lovely eyes.

“I think,” Philippe told him.  “When I can’t sleep, I mean.  I lie in bed and think.”

“That’s probably far more productive than praying,” muttered Athos, because it sounded like the sort of thing he’d be expected to say.  He tore his eyes from Philippe’s and began to move about the room preparing for bed, hoping the king would take it as a hint and leave.  But Philippe didn’t move, even when Athos sat on the edge of his bed to remove his shoes; he only stood there and watched.

Finally, unable to bear the weight of those eyes any longer, Athos threw down his shoe and growled, “What do you want, Philippe?  I am tired, and I want to go to bed.”

“I’m—” Philippe began, eyes wide, but he stopped himself before he got to “sorry.”  Instead, he choked out, “Nothing.  I don’t want anything.”  He spun around and shoved aside a fold of the tapestry concealing the hidden door, but as he pushed the door ajar, Philippe stopped and clenched his delicate hand over the molding.  His golden head bent forward, and he whispered toward the floor, “I was dancing at the ball, and it made me remember dancing with you, and I wanted you.  I wanted to dance with you again.”

“Why?” Athos rasped.  He couldn’t get his own voice much above a whisper, either.  Philippe turned his head to look back at him without raising it.

“Because I can be myself with you.  I don’t have to worry about how I act—I don’t have to wear the mask.”

Athos knew exactly what Philippe meant and against all his better judgment, he sighed, “Then come over here and dance with me.”

Philippe stared at him and let his hand fall from the door, which slipped shut.  He didn’t move until Athos got to his feet and held out a hand, a faint smile on his thin mouth.

“Come on,” Athos insisted.  “Come have your dance so I can go to bed.”  Finally, Philippe smiled too and went to him.  He slipped one hand—a hand that was still rough and calloused in places from his imprisonment—into Athos’s and put the other on the older man’s waist.

They had no music, but they had had none in the cottage either, so when Philippe hesitated, Athos asked, “What is it?”

“Would you lead?” Philippe asked in a soft voice.  Athos was surprised and a bit puzzled, but really, it was no stranger than Philippe coming to him, wanting to dance.

“All right.”  Athos nodded and began the first step.  Philippe followed, the smile returning to his lips and his crystalline blue eyes lighting up.  The young king’s dancing had improved with his time in the palace, and now, instead of hating to see it, Athos enjoyed watching Philippe move.  His delicate hand warmed Athos’s, and when their eyes met, the joy in Philippe’s kindled a similar warmth in the older man’s heart.

“I wish it could always be like this,” Philippe breathed as Athos twirled him, nearly laughing himself for the first time in a long while.

“Like what?” Athos asked him.  Philippe’s eyes drifted over his face as he tried to put his feelings into words.

“Enjoyable,” he finally answered.  “Happy.  I’m happy when I’m with you and Porthos and Aramis.”  His steps slowed, and Athos stopped their dance.

“No one can be happy all the time,” he told the young king.  “Of course, we want the greatest happiness for you, Philippe, but you should also be thankful for the moments of joy you do have.”

“I am,” Philippe assured him with an innocent earnestness.  “I only wish that I could be with you like this more often—alone, where I can be myself.”  He was still holding Athos’s hand, and he only clutched it tighter when the older man tried to withdraw it.  Philippe’s eyes dropped, and he pulled Athos’s hand to his chest.  “I get lonely.  Even when I’m surrounded by a hundred people, I feel lonely when you’re not there.”

Philippe’s words moved Athos far more than his impassive face showed, and he wondered, Does he mean me, only?  Me and not Aramis or Porthos?  He knew that what he and Philippe shared differed from the king’s relationship with the other two musketeers, but he selfishly wanted Philippe to confirm it.

However, Athos only replied in as emotionless tone as he could manage, “Philippe, you cannot get too attached to me.  Even as your advisor, I can’t always be with you, and you must learn to rule on your own.”  He looked at his hand, still in Philippe’s, and spread his fingers outward against the slick fabric of the young man’s robe.  “And I will not live forever.  I’m old, Philippe, and—”

The king flinched and hissed, “No, don’t speak of your dying.  I cannot bear it, not tonight.”  He drew a slow breath then went on in a calmer tone, “Please, Athos, can’t you stop being my advisor, at least for a few moments?  I don’t want you to be practical.  I want you to comfort me. . . to be my friend.”  Philippe lifted his eyes to Athos’s, but the look in them was unusual for him: not pleading or uncertain, but firm.  The look of a king demanding what he knew to be his right, Athos thought.  Even though Philippe was contradicting him, something in Athos rejoiced to see that expression in his eyes, for it meant the young man was finally learning the confidence he needed to survive.

“I am your friend, Philippe,” Athos murmured.  “And I wish the same as you, that it could always be like this.”  He slid his hand out of Philippe’s, up to curl under the younger man’s jaw where he brushed his thumb over the king’s cheek.  Philippe’s eyes softened, and he stepped forward to embrace Athos, wrapping his arms around Athos and resting his chin on his shoulder.  Athos lacked the fortitude to keep pushing Philippe away; instead, he put his own arms about the young man and held him.

“Athos,” Philippe breathed.  “I love you.”

Athos turned his head to press his lips to the king’s hair, and he sighed, “I love you too, Philippe.”

Philippe remained silent a moment; then he murmured in a tone of wonder, “You’ve never told me that before.”  He drew back his head so that he could look into Athos’s eyes but stayed in the older man’s arms.  “Do you love me like your son?”

“That’s what you asked me to do, isn’t it?” Athos replied, putting a note of amusement he didn’t really feel into his voice.

“But do you?  I don’t even know what that means—I never was anyone’s son before.”  The king’s eyes dropped in thought before lifting back to Athos’s once more.  “I asked you for what I thought you wanted to give, and offered you what I thought you wanted to take, because my greatest wish is to bring you happiness.  But I don’t know if I’m doing it correctly.  The way I love Mother is so different from the way I love you, and I don’t know which way is right.”

“You’ve brought me much happiness, very much,” Athos told him.  “Don’t ever doubt that.  Philippe, I cannot tell you that I love you the way I loved Raoul.”  The blue eyes boring into him searched his face, Philippe’s brows shifting into an anxious expression Athos longed to reassure.

“Just know that I do love you,” the older man went on carefully, “and that if it is not as I should love a son, that is my own failing and not yours.  The affection and caring you show your mother is exactly as it should be—your heart is so pure, you need not question it.”

“And what I feel for you?” Philippe asked.  He finally freed Athos from his intent gaze, but only to lay his head on Athos’s shoulder.  His breath tickled the older man’s neck when he went on, “Is that as it should be?”

“What do you feel for me?” Athos murmured.  He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t, but he had to ask.

“I don’t know,” Philippe breathed.  For a moment, Athos felt like they were just traveling in circles, but then the younger man whispered, “I just know that I love you, I love you.”  Suddenly, his mouth was on Athos’s neck, lips rasping over his rough skin.

Athos gasped, “Philippe, don’t,” but of course it was far too late; he should have stopped Philippe as soon as he found the young king in his room, should have turned him around and sent him right back to his own chambers.  Philippe lifted his head, and now his eyes were burning, almost like the eyes of his brother but underlain with love instead of arrogance.

“I think I know why I don’t want all the things Porthos talks about,” he murmured, “the things a young man is supposed to want.  I want you instead.”

“No, Philippe.”  The words came out as a groan, far heavier than Athos intended.  “You don’t.  You can’t, you’re—”

“I’m what?  Confused?  Vulnerable, lonely?”

“Insane,” Athos declared, not without a certain wryness.  “Look at me, Philippe—I’m a cynical, bitter old man.  Even if you really are inclined towards men, you can do better.  You are the king.  A young, handsome. . . companion can be found for you.”

But Philippe only smiled and shook his head, undeterred.

“You are handsome, Athos, and if you are cynical and bitter, I love you all the more because I’ve seen the kindness that lies beneath.”  The king tilted his head and leaned it inward until he touched Athos’s mouth with his own.  Athos didn’t move and only stood there with his mouth gone dry as Philippe kissed him, close-lipped, with the lightest of touches before drawing back again.

“Please, Athos, teach me how,” Philippe whispered.  “Teach me how you like to be kissed.  You said you love me—so love me like that.”

“I cannot.”  Athos summoned every last bit of his strength and pushed Philippe away from him, stepping backward himself at the same time to put more distance between them.  As the soft folds of the king’s robe slipped out of his fingers, he likened the feeling inside him to the sensation of cloth being ripped apart between his hands.  Tears started in Philippe’s eyes, but he blinked hard, and they did not fall.  Athos was proud of him for that.

“I don’t love you like that,” he told Philippe, but only after he had turned away and stalked over to his window to look out, to look at anything besides the beautiful face of the man who was all but throwing himself at Athos.  Athos’s hands clenched over the window sill so tightly, his knuckles whitened, but as long as Philippe couldn’t see that, or the strain on Athos’s face, only his voice could give his lie away.  For a man who usually only lied by omission, he thought his words sounded convincing.

Athos repeated, “I don’t want you, and I don’t love you in that way.  And Philippe, you don’t love me that way, not really.  It is only an infatuation that will pass.”  That much, he was certain, was the truth.  As Philippe continued to recover from his years of emotional trauma, he would cease clinging to Athos, and his desires would focus elsewhere—perhaps on another man, after all, but on someone else.  So it’s better I stop this now and hurt him a little, than let it continue only to destroy me later, Athos insisted in his own mind.

“It isn’t,” Philippe whispered.  “And it won’t.  But please forgive me for it—for forcing myself on you, even for speaking of it.  It’s too much like something my brother would have done.”

“You hardly forced yourself on me,” Athos replied, “and had I been a young woman, your brother would have done far worse.  It’s nothing, and my fault for letting you think that I. . . .”  Normally so good at finding the exact, often biting word, Athos fumbled for the right phrase.  “That I wanted your kiss,” he finally muttered.  Philippe said nothing, and for a moment, Athos wondered if the king had already slipped out through the concealed door.  But then he heard the faintest rustle of silk as Philippe moved, and when Athos looked back, the young man was standing just behind him, looking past him out the window into the night sky where the waxing moon hung.

“The moon is almost full,” murmured Philippe.  “When I was locked away, she was all I had of hope.  She would shine in on me, only for a few days every month, and I imagined all the other people she would be shining on at the same time.  The same moon looking down on all of us, free and chained, king and peasant.  I thought that maybe one day when she came up and looked for me, I would be free too.”

Athos turned away from him to regard the moon and answered, “I remember the way you looked at it, the night you couldn’t sleep and I sat up with you.  I dozed off, and when I woke up, at first I thought you were gone—but you had only gone to the window, and you stood there looking up at the moon with such wonder.”

“Yes,” said Philippe, “because my hope had come to pass.  She found me free, even if it was only for a few weeks.  I will never forget how the moon looked, and how I felt. . . and how kind you were to me, when you were hurting in a way I will never be able to imagine.”  He had inched forward as he spoke, until he was standing at the window by Athos’s side but a polite distance apart from him—Athos’s outburst had ruined the closeness they had shared only a few moments earlier.  In spite of everything he thought to be right, Athos felt guilty for it.  His guilt was only compounded by what Philippe said next.

“I’ve only repaid your kindness by hurting you more.  Please say you forgive me, Athos, and then I’ll leave you and not speak of any of this again.”

“Philippe, there is nothing to forgive,” Athos muttered.  “I told you, any misunderstanding was my own fault.”

Philippe looked at him, the king’s lips pressed together in a grim line; then he nodded and said, “All right.  Good night, Athos.  I hope you sleep well.”

“Good night, Philippe,” Athos replied.  Philippe withdrew from the window, and Athos heard a faint creak from the hidden door as the young man left his room.  Once he was alone, Athos bent over the window sill, braced on his elbows, and dropped his forehead into his hands with a groan.  After a moment, he straightened and left the window to finish preparing for bed.

--

To be continued

Chapter Text

“I want a mistress,” Philippe announced the next morning after breakfast, in a private meeting with his advisors.  Porthos and Aramis stared at him; Athos was not present, having left early that morning for some business he said he had to attend to in the city.  Philippe had been hurt once he awoke and Aramis mentioned that Athos had left without seeing him, but it helped the king decide for certain to carry out the course of action he had planned the night before.  Besides, it was far easier to ask for the other musketeers’ help without Athos present.

“You what?” Aramis asked for clarification, after no one had spoken for a moment.

“I wish to take a mistress,” the king repeated.  He looked at the two older men with his mouth set in a stubborn expression similar to the one his twin brother had often worn.  Aramis and Porthos turned from Philippe to glance at one another; Aramis raised his eyebrows; then Porthos broke into a wide grin.

“Finally!” he cried.  The large man leaned forward in his chair, beaming, and went on, “My dear Philippe,  which lady has captured your heart?  That lovely brunette you danced your final dance with, last night?”

“N-no, there. . . isn’t anyone in particular I had in mind,” Philippe stammered, his resolve already shaken.

“Oh?”  Porthos sat back again.  He looked a bit puzzled, and Aramis looked downright suspicious.  Philippe swallowed hard and tried to avoid the priest’s eyes.

Aramis broke the ensuing awkward silence: “You don’t have your eye on anyone, you just. . . want a mistress?”

“Yes.  Yes!”  Philippe turned back to him with something of the stubborn expression back in place.  “It’s time, I think.  I know that I’m. . . inexperienced in some regards for a man of my age, so I should. . . get some experience.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows again.  “Yes?  Go on.”

“Well, it’s only that I—I have no idea how to go about it, how to choose a girl and—and proposition her.”  The young king looked at Porthos again and entreated, “Please, will you help me?”

Porthos gave a booming laugh, all confusion gone, and chuckled, “Certainly!  It will hardly be as difficult as you seem to think, my boy.  You are the king, and a very handsome king at that.  Most any young lady would be more than willing to take up living in that fine apartment which has stood empty since you came here.  A little instruction from me on what to say—and do, hehe—will give you the confidence you need.  And if you really have no one in mind yet, I can recommend several very fine girls who—”

“Now, just a moment, Porthos,” Aramis interrupted.  “I’m a bit curious.  Philippe, what precipitated this decision?  Only yesterday you told us you were nervous about the ball, because of the pressure you felt from the ladies in attendance.  But now you’re ready to make love to one?”

“Yes.  Yes, I am.”  Still, Philippe couldn’t meet his eyes.

“And what does Athos have to say about this?”  Aramis blinked when Philippe started at his words.

“I—I haven’t spoken to Athos about it,” the king stammered; then he cast a frantic look at the priest.  “Please, don’t say anything to him!  I can’t discuss such a thing with him.”

“Whyever not?” asked Aramis.  “Have you had a quarrel with him?”

“No. . . no.  It’s just that he—he wouldn’t understand,” muttered Philippe.

Porthos laughed, “That’s almost certain!  As dear as our friend is to me, he never has quite grasped the delicacies involved in keeping a mistress.”  Philippe nodded, a bit too eagerly, and Aramis continued to regard him with some suspicion.

“Let us think on this, Philippe,” the priest finally said.  “It is a delicate matter, as Porthos pointed out, and not just any girl will do.  I trust you have the patience to wait a little while, at least until tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course.”  Philippe nodded with an air of tranquility, which he promptly belied when he murmured, “And you really won’t tell Athos?”

“You and Porthos are quite correct,” Aramis replied.  “Athos would not understand.”

--

Thus, not having promised he wouldn’t do so, Aramis went to speak to Athos that evening, as soon as the latter returned from his excursion in Paris.  Athos was in his room reading—he didn’t have the heart for the violin that night—when he heard a gentle rap on the door to his chamber.

“Who’s there?” Athos called, tense and hopeful that the answer wouldn’t be “Philippe.”

“It is Aramis.”  Athos relaxed and told the priest to come in.

“How was Paris?” Aramis asked as he lowered himself in a chair facing the one in which Athos sat.

“Dreadful,” replied Athos with a faint smirk.  “But necessary.  Is something the matter?  I hadn’t expected to see you this evening.”

Aramis fixed his eyes on the other man’s face as he answered, “It’s Philippe.”  Athos managed to keep his own expression neutral, although his insides crawled with apprehension as he wondered if Philippe had done something ridiculous—such as confess his feelings for Athos to Aramis.

“What about Philippe?” prompted Athos.

“Today, after breakfast,” Aramis said, “our young king informed Porthos and myself that he wishes to take a mistress.”

At Aramis’s response, Athos’s studied neutrality failed him, and he choked out, “He what?”

“Yes, that was my response too,” muttered Aramis.  “He was also strangely insistent that you not know about it.”

Having recovered a little of his aplomb, Athos observed, “So the first thing you do is come tell me?”

“Only because I’m rather concerned.  This is so unlike him, and so sudden.”  Aramis leaned forward in his chair and fixed his dark eyes on Athos, appraising him.  “You really didn’t know anything about it?”

“No, of course not.  Why should I?”  That last bit sounded defensive even to Athos’s own ears.

“Because he confides in you most often, of the three of us,” said Aramis, “and because he seemed so worried about your opinion of his request.  He said you wouldn’t understand.  Porthos tends to agree, but I do not.  You do understand, don’t you?  Men have needs, and a young man’s needs are particularly. . . urgent at times.  Philippe’s sexual maturity may have been a bit delayed, but it’s apparently coming to him now.”

“Certainly I understand,” snapped Athos.  “But why are you ‘rather concerned’ if you think this is such a normal turn of events?”

“Because, as I said, it has come on so suddenly.  Before the ball, he was our usual, dear Philippe—timid, shy, and unconcerned with the fairer sex.  And now, he suddenly craves female companionship, so much so that he asks Porthos to help him find it.”  Aramis sat back in his chair again, elbows on the arms and hands templed before him.  “Something happened.  Either at the ball, or after it.”  Aramis fell silent and kept watching Athos, openly and without judgment.  That was a priestly trick of Aramis’s, and a nasty one at that: not judging a man and so lulling him into a confession.

Athos resisted his friend’s gaze and asked as calmly as he could manage, “Well?  What do you expect me to do about it?  I don’t think it’s a good idea, until Philippe is a little more worldly and less likely to be hurt—but he is the king.  If he wants a mistress, we can’t stop him.”

As if he hadn’t heard any of it, Aramis said, “Philippe said you and he hadn’t quarreled.  Was he lying?”  Athos stared at him, and Aramis looked back, undeterred.

Finally, Athos sighed, “No, we haven’t quarreled.  I still don’t understand why you think this has something to do with me.”

“Call it a whim,” Aramis mused, “brought on by the fact that you have made yourself scarce today, and by the fact that when I spoke your name, Philippe looked as if I’d threatened to throw him back in the Bastille.  But never mind.”  The priest got to his feet, stretched, and yawned.  “You will talk to him about it, though?”

“What?  No!”  Athos stood as well and pursued Aramis as the other man ambled toward the door.  “He’d know you spoke to me, when he asked you not to.  And what am I supposed to say?  As I’ve already mentioned, we can’t stop him.  If anyone is to dissuade him, it would be you with your religion—or else some horror stories of Porthos’s less desirable encounters.  Not me.”

Aramis turned abruptly to face Athos and said, “Philippe loves you, Athos, and he respects you and your opinion.  You say we cannot stop him from taking a mistress.  That is true, but if you express your disappointment in the idea, I believe he will at least have second thoughts.”  He studied Athos another moment then asked, “And the idea does disappoint you, doesn’t it?  As skilled as you are at making that grizzled face of yours into a mask, your eyes speak volumes, my friend.”

Athos glowered at him and said nothing.  Aramis lifted his dark brows and gave his fellow musketeer a nod.

“Good night, Athos,” the priest murmured as he withdrew from Athos’s room.

Left alone, Athos heaved a sigh.  He did not want to see Philippe, and in particular, he didn’t want to talk to Philippe about the king taking a mistress.  However, Aramis was right about one thing: the idea disappointed Athos.  In fact, it made him nearly ill with jealousy.  Although Athos had spoken casually of finding a male companion for Philippe the night before, he now realized that he was loath to think of the young king being intimate with anyone else.

So soon after he begged for me to kiss him, as if I were the only one he could desire, Athos groused to himself, Philippe declares he wants a girl—any girl Porthos brings him.  Athos was tempted to leave the matter in Porthos’s all-too-capable hands, to ignore Aramis’s request (or, as it were, demand) and let Philippe reap whatever trouble he sewed.  But in his heart, Athos knew Philippe wasn’t really just after a sexual encounter, however he could get one.  Simply put, Philippe wasn’t like that.

If I do not do my best to dissuade him, I will be failing him as an advisor, and as a friend, Athos admitted to himself.  And I’ll be failing Aramis and Porthos as well, because they trust me to handle the matter—all because of my own inappropriate feelings.  He sighed again, straightened his clothing, and trudged out of his room to go to Philippe’s.

Using the public, outer hallways instead of the secret passageway to the king’s chambers made Athos’s visit feel less clandestine, and when he rapped on Philippe’s door, he was certain he could handle the conversation unemotionally.  But then, when he heard the king’s soft voice asking who was there, a thread of nervousness worked its way back into Athos’s chest.  He answered, and the door opened to a narrow gap, through which Philippe peered.

“Athos!” he breathed, and for a moment, the older man saw sheer joy on Philippe’s face.  Too soon, that joy faded to apprehension which pained Athos.  Philippe had never before been frightened to see him.

“If I’m not interrupting anything, may I speak with you for a moment?” Athos asked the king in as formal a tone as he could manage.  Philippe nodded and opened the door wider to allow the musketeer inside.  As he entered, Athos glanced at Philippe, saw he wore that accursed robe once more, and held back a groan of frustration.

“Please, take a seat,” Philippe murmured.  Athos did so, and the king sat in a chair several feet away, his cornflower-blue eyes staring down at his own lap instead of at his friend.  “Did you have a good trip today?”

“It was tolerable,” muttered Athos.  “I was able to attend to my business in the city, at least.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”  Philippe glanced up at Athos then back down at the golden patterns embroidered on his robe.  That single glance made Athos’s heart race, for Philippe’s eyes were full of longing.  Athos looked aside himself and made to get the task at hand over with.

“I understand that you’ve expressed a desire to take a mistress,” he told Philippe.  When he looked at the king again, Philippe’s pale face was flushed, but he kept his eyes turned down.

“I asked Aramis not to tell you,” he mumbled.

“Why?”  Athos continued to watch the young man.  “Are you ashamed?”

“No.  Just. . . embarrassed, a little.”

Athos persisted, “Why?  It’s normal for a young man to feel desire for women—and it’s normal for a king to have a mistress.”  He paused, and when Philippe said nothing more, Athos continued, “You weren’t too embarrassed to speak to Aramis and Porthos about it.”

“That’s different!” Philippe finally responded.  He lifted his eyes to Athos’s face, faltered, then stammered, “They’re different, different from you.  I didn’t want you to know because I was afraid you. . . might think poorly of me, or be offended.”

Athos pressed his lips together to hold back the impassioned response he wanted to give: he certainly was offended, offended and hurt. But I have no right to be, he reminded himself.  He isn’t just Philippe anymore, he is the king—and I had my chance.  I refused him.

But Athos didn’t even need to speak; Philippe seemed to know his very thoughts.

“You are offended,” the young man murmured.  “You’re angry.”  The sorrow in his lovely eyes made Athos all the more resentful, and he could no longer refrain from lashing out.

“Are you doing this for revenge?” Athos snapped.  “To punish me for rebuffing your advances?”  Philippe’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.

“No!” he cried, even before a wounded look set in on his face.  “I told you, I didn’t even want you to know!  Athos, how could you think that?”

“Because I have no other explanation for such childish behavior,” the musketeer retorted.  “But you are the king, and you shall have your way.  Aramis asked me to dissuade you of your idea, but I see no reason to do so.  All I ask is that you let Porthos choose the girl—he at least has the common sense to find a clean one who won’t try to manipulate you.”

As the night before, tears flooded Philippe’s eyes.  He clamped his mouth shut and looked away, grimacing as he tried to swallow them; then he got to his feet and went to the window where he stood with his back to Athos.  The older man could see Philippe’s shoulders heaving as he wept silently, but the heat of his anger burnt away the pity he would otherwise feel.

“You want to know why I asked this of Aramis and Porthos?” Philippe asked after a moment of silence.  His voice was rough and husky with tears.  “I thought that if I had a girl for a lover, it would cure me.”

When Philippe didn’t elaborate, Athos asked, grudgingly, “‘Cure’ you?  Of what?”

“Of my desire for men,” whispered the king.  “Of my desire for you.”  A shudder moved through his slender form, and he hunched over the windowsill and groaned, “You’re all I want, all I can think about.  I love you, and I want you—but I thought. . . I thought that maybe it’s only because I’ve never been with a woman.  When you told me you didn’t want me—when I knew I could never have that kind of love from you—my last hope became that a woman could distract me.  I’ll never be able to forget my love for you, Athos, but perhaps I can at least direct my desires elsewhere.”

“My God, Philippe,” Athos breathed.  The confusion of emotions washing over him left him numb.  Anger, hatred, and bitterness were the easy things to feel, and he couldn’t feel those toward Philippe after hearing the pain and adoration in the king’s voice.  What Athos did feel was too difficult to handle, too enormous to comprehend, and so he tried to feel nothing, and to offer nothing but the counsel Aramis had asked him to give.

“You can’t do that,” he told Philippe after a moment.  “Your brother used women that way—not for the same reasons, I’m sure, but in that same way, for pleasure without love.  As your counselor, I cannot let you do such a thing. . . and as your friend, I know that you are not capable of it.”

Philippe turned his head to cast an oblique glance back at Athos, who went on, “Your heart is too kind and pure to use another person for your own gain.”  The older man sighed, and his voice dropped to a mutter.  “I know that, and I’m sorry for what I accused you of.  I know you wouldn’t deliberately try to hurt me.”

“Of course I wouldn’t, Athos.  You. . . you mean more to me than anyone else in the world.”  Philippe looked back out at the night sky, but the pleading tone in his voice continued to tug at the older man.  “Athos, please, tell me what to do.  I can’t go on like this.  If taking a different lover isn’t the right thing to do, what is?  Tell me how to stop wanting you!”

Athos sighed and stood up.  “I can’t, Philippe.  Believe me, if I knew how one could stop wanting the person one shouldn’t, I would have to be the wisest man ever to live.”  He looked at the king, at Philippe’s golden hair trailing down his back, and moved a few steps closer to stand just behind him.  “All I can tell you is that you can’t lie to yourself about the person you love.  It doesn’t work.  Let yourself think of him sometimes, or you’ll go mad,” Athos whispered.  “When you’re alone, those nights you can’t sleep—instead of praying, as Aramis would have you do, think of your beloved.  Imagine if you could have him with you, even for just one night.  Give yourself that release.  And then, when you have to face him and pretend you feel nothing, when you have to deny the way he makes your heart ache and your body burn for him. . . you’ll be able to bear it.”

“Whom do you love, Athos?” Philippe whispered.  More tears splashed down onto the backs of his hands, still resting on the sill below his bent head.  “You do understand how I feel.  Is that why you don’t want me, because you love someone else?”

“I can’t tell you, Philippe,” said Athos.  He lifted his hands, hesitated, then closed them over the young man’s hunched shoulders.  It was the only form of comfort he trusted himself to give, but still Philippe trembled at his touch.

“Is it Aramis?” the king persisted.  “Or. . . was it my father?  Surely—surely not Porthos.”  Philippe laughed, a weak, wavering laugh.  “God pity you if it’s Porthos, more than I beg Him to pity me.”

“No.”  Athos closed his eyes and tilted his head forward, until he could feel the softness of Philippe’s hair on his lips.  He repeated, “I can’t tell you.  But Philippe, know that I love him with all my heart and all my soul, if I still have one.  Know that I’m suffering with you, if that brings you any comfort.”

“It doesn’t, I don’t want you to suffer!” Philippe protested.  He spun around and threw his arms around Athos’s chest, hugging the older man to him and hiding his face in Athos’s shoulder.  “Oh but Athos, why couldn’t you have loved me that way?  You wouldn’t have to suffer, I’d—I’d have given you all the love you could stand!”

Athos reached up to push Philippe away from him but found he could not; the anguish in the young man’s voice was too great for even Athos to refuse to comfort him.  He put his arms around Philippe instead and clenched one hand in the wavy locks of hair trailing down his back.

“That’s exactly why, Philippe,” Athos murmured.  “I would corrupt you, and one day you would hate me for it.  You said you want a cure, as if loving me is a poison—and you cannot find the antidote to that poison by taking a fatal dose of it.”

“I didn’t mean it in that way.”  Philippe shook his head on Athos’s shoulder.  “And you’re wrong, Athos.  In all your wisdom about everything else, you’re wrong about this—your love wouldn’t corrupt me.  It would complete me, make me whole.”

His words, spoken in all innocence, were insidious, and they made Athos waver in his decision.  I have to let him go, to get away from him, the musketeer told himself, before I give in. . . .  But his hand on Philippe’s back slipped not away but downward to the king’s waist, stroking the satin fabric of his robe.  Philippe gave a soft whimper and pressed closer against him.

“Tomorrow,” Philippe said more calmly after they had held one another in silence for a moment, “I’ll tell Aramis and Porthos that I’ve changed my mind.  You’re right, I could not make love to some poor girl without having any feelings for her.  Thank you for showing me that, Athos—I know you didn’t want to see me, but you came anyway.”

“No, I’m glad to see you, as always,” Athos sighed.  “And glad to hear of your decision.  I will speak to Aramis and Porthos for you, if you want.”

“No.  No, I need to do it.  I have to take some responsibility—I am the king, after all.”  Philippe lifted his head and drew it back enough to look into Athos’s eyes with a faint, though pained, smile.  “Thank you for your honesty, as well.  I know you will always tell me the truth, even if the truth is painful.”

At that, Athos could no longer meet the king’s gaze, and his eyes flicked aside as if he had flinched.  Philippe’s smile disappeared; they were so attuned to one another’s moods and expressions, he recognized Athos’s distress.

“What is it?” the king whispered.  “Have you told me the truth, Athos?  Is there something you aren’t saying?”

“Dammit, Philippe,” Athos hissed, still looking away.  He tried to release the younger man from his hold, but Philippe clung to him, drawing him back against the window sill so that Athos’s arm was trapped against Philippe’s waist.

“Athos, what is it?” Philippe persisted.  “Tell me, please.  Whatever you’re trying to hide from me, tell me—I am strong enough to cope with it.”  His voice was soft, pliant, and almost manipulative.  Athos gritted his teeth then made himself look the king in the eyes.

“Maybe so,” the older man whispered, “but I am not.  You have to let me go, Philippe, before I lose myself entirely.”

“Lose yourself?”  Philippe’s dark blond brows furrowed, then lifted.  “Athos. . . do you mean. . . .”  His lips parted, closed as he swallowed, parted again.  “Were you lying when you said you didn’t want me?”

“Let me go, Philippe,” Athos repeated.  He thought Philippe was about to comply; the young man’s arms loosened their hold on Athos.  However, Philippe leaned forward to put his mouth to Athos’s ear and whisper to him.

“Does your heart ache for me?  Does your body burn for me?”  Philippe’s voice was thick with joy and at the same time held a tone of wonder.

“Philippe. . . .”  Athos tried to make the word a warning, but it sounded like an entreaty instead.  Philippe overwhelmed all of his senses: the sound of his soft voice and the scent of his hair, the warmth of his body.  And his taste, Athos thought, oh God, how sweet he must taste. . . .

Again as if he could read the musketeer’s thoughts, Philippe murmured, “Please, Athos, kiss me.  If you want me, then kiss me, even if you do no more than that.”  The king turned his head so that his mouth was close to Athos’s, as it had been the night before.  “I’ve never been kissed, and I want you to be the first. . . the only.”

Athos knew that this time, Philippe would not initiate the kiss.  Athos would have no defense, no way to lie to himself that the younger man had taken what the elder did not wish to give.  Yet even so, Athos had no resistance left in him, and he closed his eyes and kissed the mouth of his king.  Philippe drew in a quick breath, surprised in spite of his own urging; then he pressed his lips against Athos’s.  He tasted as sweet as Athos could have hoped for, and when the older man drew Philippe closer into his arms and coaxed his lips apart with his tongue, the king moaned.  Sparks of desire like little flames danced through Athos’s nerves, but he kissed Philippe as gently as he could.

It had been so long since he’d kissed anyone, Athos almost feared he might have forgotten how.  But Philippe’s mouth felt so right on his, and the king responded so eagerly to the slow exploratory motions of Athos’s tongue, that their kisses didn’t feel clumsy at all.  Athos guided him just as Philippe had wanted, until the younger man was flicking his tongue expertly into the elder’s mouth, temping Athos, teasing him.  Athos groaned himself and pushed Philippe back against the windowsill, his arms around the king’s torso just above it, to kiss him harder.  Philippe began to rub against him, flicking his hips up with small, involuntary thrusts that hinted at the desires Athos had somehow awakened in him.

“Oh God, Philippe,” Athos gasped when he finally tore his mouth away from the younger man’s.  He stared at the king’s flushed lips and dilated eyes, and at the beautiful smile that had spread over Philippe’s face.

“You do want me,” Philippe whispered, “the way I want you.”  He was still rubbing his body against Athos, and he gripped the older man’s waist in both hands.

“You said a kiss,” Athos hissed, “one kiss.  I’ve given you your first.  That was all you asked for.”

“I want more.”  Philippe’s eyes sparkled with the same playfulness Athos had seen when they danced together the previous night.  “More kisses, and more of you.  Please, Athos, tell me you want me!  You haven’t said it—I want to hear it!”

“I want you.”  Athos’s voice was little more than a growl.  “I want you, Philippe, I want to kiss you and take you to bed and slake my lust for you.  But I shouldn’t, and you know I shouldn’t.  You are the king, and I am a man—an old man, and if—”  He drew in a deep, shaky breath and finished, “And if your love and desire for me abate, my heart will break.  As many times as it’s been broken in the past, I don’t think it can survive another fracture.”

“Athos. . . .” Philippe shook his head then leaned it forward to press his cheek against the older man’s.  The king whispered, “My feelings for you will never lessen, I swear it.  And I will guard your heart with my life.”