There certainly isn't enough room for all four of them, not on a single bed in the Queen's private chateau.
They'll make it work. They always do.
Constance and Anne stroll hand-in-hand through the garden, in comfortable, amiable silence and in rosy sunlight. They gaze plain admiration and at each other.
Anne's soft, loosened curls pile gently on her bared shoulders, nearly illuminated brown-golden, much like a precious lavaliere. She's so captivating that morning, with her gentle voice, with her delicate, regal features, and Constance wonders how Aramis holds against the urge to kiss every inch of her, every single moment of the day.
It must be difficult. Constance doesn't understand how she holds against it either, clasping their fingers tighter and hurrying their pace a little.
No one knows of this place. This is theirs, and only theirs.
This is the grand-room where D'Artagnan stumbles into Aramis' chest when they pretend to waltz, and for the first time ever, he kisses another man. It's not a kiss born of harshness and violence and fire, but curiosity and equal thoughts of reverence. This is the foyer where whispers and promises between the four of them are met.
This is where she's sure the rest of her days would be spent happily, smiling and drowsy against the Queen's warmed shoulder, with D'Artagnan's presence hovering nearby, with Aramis' lips slowly pressing against Constance's face and the tops of Anne's breasts.
Except it can't last.
She knows because Constance is a woman of realistic expectations and wisdom beyond her age, even if her heart soars and her body and soul desires.
The touch of spring's light fades, and both women cloak themselves away, retreating indoors. Not afraid of the shadows and the clouds building dark on the horizon. Constance never truly been afraid with either Aramis or D'Artagnan watching over her, and she expects the Queen feels the same.
She listens to Spanish, and clearly affectionate, murmurs during the night, to Anne crying out and gasping in pleasure when she and Aramis make love, feeling her reach for Constance and shakily clenching her wrist.
How tempting it is, to think of joining them, to lean in and press her lips to her beloved Queen's skin, all of her.
But, D'Artagnan bids her to follow. Even if they are in a state of undress, and leaving their other halves for their privacy. His mouth is hot, his grin sweet-tempered. She feels like a silly little girl, combing his bangs out of his eyes, in love, in love with its thickness and dark colour. In love with how bravely D'Artagnan faces the evils of this world and how he looks at her.
It can't last, but Constance wishes it could. Forever.
BBC The Musketeers isn't mine. I haven't done an OT4 in... idk how long, ahaha. Any thoughts or comments on this is most appreciated. Bday dedication to Sonia!