Curse Porthos. The man's perceptiveness would be the death of him. Aramis knew that his lover would take his burdens upon himself with no complaint, but that didn't mean that he wanted to trouble him. This was his past and his mistakes and Aramis didn't want anyone, particularly Porthos, to have to share in that suffering. Porthos, he knew, had been through more than his share of difficulties in his life. It seemed selfish to expect him to take on this as well. Savoy was his cross to bear. He could manage it well enough on his own. Now, if only he could get him to drop the matter.
"Nothing is wrong," he insisted, though he hardly believed his own words. Usually, he thought bitterly, he was better at this. His hands were fisted in the the sheets, knuckles white as he tried to maintain his composure, and he couldn't look at Porthos for fear that the other man would see everything in his face. "You needn't worry yourself over me. You should sleep. You're a terror in the morning when you don't get enough rest." He doubted that Porthos would believe it, that he would let the matter lie, but he couldn't bring himself to talk about the mess in his head.