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Who said anything was wrong with it?

You're the only one who can appreciate a good cake, Aramis. Anyone else would call it a frivolity.

Clapping him on the shoulder, Aramis smiles. "Good women, good wine, good weapons, good cake. The finer things in life."

"You're forgetting a good stitch. If the seamstresses of Paris knew of your needlework, they'd be green with envy," Porthos chuckled. "And not all of us could spend hours on end cleaning weapons."

"Good needlework." Aramis tipped his hat to that. "A good, clean weapon will not betray us. It never hurts to be ready."

"Oi, I'm always ready as anythin' could be a weapon," he replied, mock hurt on his face. He led their horses to the stables of the garrison. "What do you think? Cause a bit of mayhem in town? Bit of cake and stayin' in?"

"Hmmm. Out means eventually there will be a melon shot off my head. In means cake."

This wasn't as easy a decision as it seemed.

"Less you've got other company. You know where to find me and my melons," he called out as he led the horses away to the stable hands. This routine they've fallen into, reaching for each other when one feels too much loneliness, too much playfulness, this was fun. But what happened at the lake, well that's somethin' else completely.

There are no other plans. After all, the Musketeers are Aramis's family. The only one he's got.

Aramis followed behind a few steps, found to be leaning against the door as Porthos reappeared. "I did notice the baker is still seeing cakes," he said, tone deceptively light.

Porthos gave a shrug.

"Best of all of Paris, I'd wager. Haven't had any that are much better than that."

Granted, not like he had livre to spare for such indulgences. Not often, at least.

They don't need a big cake. A little one will do just fine. Aramis bumped his shoulder against Porthos's as they started to walk.

He bumped his shoulder back, grinning. Yeah, a small cake between the two of them on occasion was more than enough.

The quiet, unassuming little blonde looks up then, abandoning washing a table that's seen better days, offering the hint of a smile. "Nothing at all, in my opinion. If you're enjoying that one in particular, that's my handiwork. Old family recipe, you know."

The baker liked Musketeers - some Parisians did, anyway - and was happy to sell them a small cake for only a couple of coins (which was good considering how few they shared between them), and Aramis held the the wrapped sweet up to their noses outside the shop with a wry smile.

"Careful, I might get jealous of that cake," Porthos teased as they walked.

"Smell," Aramis urged, grinning. "Spice cake. Fresh, too."

He leaned and took a deep whiff and a groan at the spice cake.

"That's got to be heaven right there, no one can tell me different."

"You are a simple man, my friend, Porthos," Aramis said, squeezing his shoulder. That is clearly not an insult. The simple things were the best.

"Sometimes the simplest things could be the most pleasurable, Aramis," he chuckled. "Now come on, before someone decides to ruin it."

"A smart man, too."

Too often small opportunities could be lost.

"First back to the garrison wins?"

"With the cake in tact, you remember the last time you took that shortcut?"

The shortcake never was recovered but they had their own sweet ending anyway.

"Touche," Aramis noted. And he handed Porthos the cake.

He nestled his hat onto his head, waggled his brows at Porthos and started to run.

Their heeled boots on the cobbles. It was anyone's guess who'd win.

And it was like they were just boys again, running off to see who would be home first for tea. That was what he liked of Aramis. He treated him like a person, no one that is from the bottom most part of Paris.

Why would Aramis do that? Porthos was the finest man he'd met. The only man he'd let be so close to him.

They come skidding to a halt in the courtyard and Aramis was breathing hard, laughing.

Porthos had already been there for a few minutes. He hefted the cake in victory.

"Look at that: still in one piece."

He laughed and took off for his room.