Thanks for the AWESOME reviews guys! I'd like to mention I'm truly sorry about the wait!…Real life took a chunk out of my ass and I was busy trying to find it again. It took a while, but I got it together eventually. So now I'm back!
Here's the next chapter! Enjoy!
Aramis hadn't seen it coming…well, that was kind of a lie. He had seen the knuckles coming -up close and personal in his periphery- but he hadn't been able to do anything about it, not with such little time.
And so, one minute he was winning, the next minute he was losing. Exactly when the dramatic turn of events had been allowed, Aramis had no idea.
Honestly, Aramis didn't seem to be having any good ideas lately -especially now that his brain was short circuiting. Why did this rotten luck always come back to bite him!?
Looking around blurrily, the poet in Aramis began trying to decipher his surroundings -the pelting of the rain seeming to leech from the canvas of his world, mixing the surrounding colours into one large swirling blob of fuzzy grey shapes.
And to makes matters worse, his hearing was impaired too -sounds now reduced to muffles, as if someone was talking to him with a blanket wrapped around their head while his own ears filled with cotton wool.
Aramis couldn't make any sense of it.
The last thing he could remember was sharing a grin with D'artagnan and slapping Porthos. In the next instant, there had been a blinding pain in his jaw, a tug in his neck and suddenly, he was staring up at the sky -his back soaking into the mud underneath him.
At some point that mud had transformed into a sturdy, warm sack of potatoes but Aramis didn't give it much thought. His tired mind was having enough trouble trying to piece together where he was, how he had ended up like this…and why the rain looked so mesmerizingly beautiful.
Aramis' mind began to wander.
Rain fell all around him -transparent pellets of water swirling in the air until they landed on his forehead and cheeks. He could see the underside of a rooftop from here, see the rain dripping off to pool on the ground.
The noises had all strung together now too, those sweet nothings of strange rumbling voices accompanied by the heavy shush of the rain and his own steady heartbeat.
Time was rolling by miraculously slowly.
Suddenly, a dark figure came into his sight; bending in half to peer into his face.
Aramis couldn't make out who it was exactly -but judging by the mop of short, tangled hair, blue piercing flecks and pale features, it must be Athos.
That man was always sticking his nose in places it didn't belong. Aramis chuckled absently as he imagined Athos sticking his curious nose in a door and getting it jammed as someone closed it. That'd be a story for the ages.
"The time that Athos broke his nose in a door hinge"Aramis mused on the title, thoughts swirling.
All of a sudden, the deep guttural voice behind him stopped its incessant mumbling. Had he said that out loud?
A beat was all it took for the hazy conversation to continue and Aramis relaxed once more.
He was ninety nine percent sure that it was Porthos grumbling to him...either that or he had a twin...maybe he did, you would never know until Porthos' twin walked up and shook your hand.
From here it was just a matter of Aramis' brain conjuring all sorts of deluded notions as to Porthos' family -the addled marksman beginning to drift off into his own reality, now seriously contemplating the name of Porthos' twin.
Perhaps the twins' name started with p also? Hmmmm…
For a moment Aramis was stuck on finding a name while the elusive letter taunted the tip of his tongue, just out of reach.
Alarmed for the health of his memory -and the fact that he could not remember a single name starting with P- Aramis began to squirm about, the firm hands that came to hold him down, agonizing the man even more.
Did this mean he was losing his memory?! Was he finally getting too old!? What if he couldn't remember his own name next!
Eyes widening in fright, Aramis grasped at the jacket of the stranger leaning above him,
"Quick! Tell me what names start with p" he asked urgently, desperate for answers.
Blue beads of confusion was Aramis' only response. Perhaps that was due to the fact Aramis hadn't actually spoken in full sentences and instead rested somewhere along the lines of, "wick telma-wht-nams-strt-wih-pay!"
Athos looked to his dazed brother in concern, his eyes conferring with Porthos' to see if the man had any better luck deciphering his brothers' gibberish. The glum shake of his head told him, no.
It was then that Aramis raised a trembling hand and coiled it into the leather of Porthos' doublet; fingers tightening in urgency while his brows knitted together and his glazed, brown orbs went slightly cross-eyed.
"Do you think he's got a concussion?" D'artagnan asked over to Athos worriedly, stooping to inspect his brothers' face.
He wasn't used to playing the part of medic. Aramis was the one who did these sort of things -and although D'artagnan had been secretly glad that he hadn't had to involve himself in gory injuries or confusing head wounds, he was regretting not knowing enough to aid his brother when he needed him most.
"I cant be sure… I reckon Porthos knocked him senseless instead" Athos commented, suppressing the urge to look disapprovingly to Porthos. He could lecture him later.
Instead, Athos took to shaking his head at Aramis as his brother tried to raise himself up -head lolling about futilely on his shoulders.
It concerned him that the usually chatty musketeer was silent. Athos could see it bothered his brothers too, Porthos in particular.
The awful sense of guilt was so thick on Porthos by this point, that it was practically dripping from his frame and pooling at his feet. The man couldn't look more sorry if he'd tried.
The fact that he'd properly hurt his brothers for once left a sick feeling in his gut. He hadn't meant to do it, not really, but that didn't matter now. The deed was done.
"Come on, we can't stay here" Athos instructed in a low tone, accepting the sad fact that he wasn't going to get anywhere sane with Aramis.
Pushing himself up from his knees and into a stand -his boots cautiously working their way through the mud around Aramis' form- Athos paused by Porthos' shoulder and bent to place his hands against Aramis' shoulder blades, the motion effectively holding his brother in a sitting position while Porthos shimmied out from beneath.
Now on his knees, free from the comforting wall of flesh, Porthos guided Aramis' limp arm over the back of his neck and forced his brothers weight onto his shoulders -then holding out a hand so Athos could pull him up.
Or at least he had tried to pull the duo up. The mud at present was being a rather tricky fellow and so as Athos' wet hand slipped free and flung the aid away, Porthos and Aramis crashed back to the ground.
It was like watching a demented, newborn foal trying to find its legs D'artagnan mused. Clumsy and hilarious…bar the mud which was now splattered everywhere.
"Wanna gimme an 'and?" Porthos growled at the smiling lad.
D'artagnan quickly dropped the smirk from his lips and moved over to Aramis' opposite side -stooping low so he could sling his brothers free arm around own neck, just as Athos began helping Porthos back to his feet.
Thankfully, this time, the 'manoeuvre' worked.
Aramis' knees buckled as soon as he was upright; his head lolling forwards onto his chest to subsequently allow the rain to leak through the gap in his collar and trickle down his spine- a shiver from the 'absent' musketeer being his only response.
Porthos shifted his brothers' limp weight about across his shoulders before looking to Athos, pleadingly, for direction.
Their comrade was now whispering something incoherent and it bothered him greatly. The sooner they get help, the better.
As the three brothers struggled forwards in the slick mud -their feet became cautious and decisive while their hands tightened around their friend.
They didn't want to slip and land on their fallen brother. There was no telling what kind of trouble it was invoke from the muddled man -let alone the further damage it could do his injuries.
"We can bring him back to my place" Athos offered, squinting through the rain as he lead them on slowly.
It as hard to maintain their slower pace. His mind was screaming for him to do something more other than wallow in the mud. He wanted, needed to get help, fast…but that would be foolish. He would only accomplish breaking his neck and burdening his brothers further if he tried to run.
And so, Athos was limited to this pitifully, lethargic stumble. It was frustrating to say the least.
The drinks he'd consumed previously probably weren't making matters any easier Athos speculated glumly.
A few seconds passed in silence, the sleet driving down on the musketeers, encouraging to make them all the more miserable.
But then, Aramis' frame tensed in his brothers' arms, his head shooting up to look about wildly with large, glossy eyes, "Phillipe!" he shouted in a slur.
Athos turned back slightly to see to his friend -and almost fell to the ground. The lead the musketeer to swear colourfully and lean a palm against a wall to steady himself -well aware of the light snicker behind his back. He would not fall dammit.
Porthos looked to Aramis in question, coming to a stop as their rambling friend looked between them expectantly -glazed eyes now wild with enthusiasm.
Aramis couldn't understand why they weren't applauding him on his efforts of retrieving his memory. Personally, he was immensly proud of himself for accomplishing such a feat.
"Philippe?" Porthos asked, tentatively, not sure why Aramis was talking about the town butcher. He shot D'artagnan a questioning glance but his brother merely shrugged.
Aramis' unfocused, brown orbs shone back at Porthos, an eyebrow raised along with a smirk, "Aye, don' think tha' I don' know 'bout 'im" he stated vaguely, his heavily slurred voice only worrying his brothers all the more.
Despite their gloominess, Aramis was on edge with glee. And why wouldn't he be? He had solved the puzzle!
Porthos' twin brother was called Philippe! The fact that Porthos had pretended not to know what he was talking about and deny the statement outright, spoke volumes.
Aramis would just have to uncover the truth to expose his lies... His brothers must know of this!
He always did like a good challenge.
Porthos looked over to Athos for help -only to see the man gazing intently at the trio; his stiff frame and dark frown telling them of his impatience.
Porthos felt rather than saw D'artagnan hold back a chuckle. Athos looked like a drowned rat. A grumpy, drowned rat.
Turning his mind back to more important matters, Porthos' only logical answer was that Aramis was going bonkers. It was a grim conclusion indeed.
"Know who?" Porthos humoured; shuffling forwards as Athos' flickering gestures and glares demanded they follow. Best not to keep the man waiting.
"Philippe" Aramis repeated again -this time with a mad grin as his head lolled back and he waggled his eyebrows.
D'artagnan suppressed a snicker. Now was not the time to laugh…but Aramis was so damn funny looking! Especially in this undignified state of his.
Aramis would probably have his head if he knew D'artagnan was laughing at him, but since he'd already lost his own head, the medic would probably just laugh with him.
D'artagnan snickered.
"Wha's so funny?" Porthos demanded seriously, eyes flickering between the guiding form of Athos and his two crazy brothers.
"He knooooows" Aramis assumed, craning his neck forth to look into D'artagnans' face; the lopsided grin, wild hair, unfocused, glinting eyes and muddied face putting the youngest close to hysterics.
"Knows what!?" Porthos barked, prodding at his limp noodle of a brother before hoisting him up against his frame with a grunt -now that his brothers' full weight had abruptly been loaded on his shoulders, alone.
This was because D'artagnan had been reduced to a cackling mess -his strength failing the lad as throws of laughter sought to consume him -the crazy expression of his dazed brother burning into the back of his eyelids.
"I'll show ya soon 'nough!" Aramis promised Porthos as they started forwards once more; his dragging heels doing nothing to lessen his weight on his brother, " I'll prove t' you's lot tha' Phillipe can't hide 'ny morrr" Aramis slurred, chin falling to rest against his chest now that his eyes had began to droop.
"I don' understa-" Porthos began.
"Don't bother" Athos advised over the dying down of chuckles, dropping back into pace as the trio made it to his door. "Aramis is -not with us" he speculated, "…besides, he never made much sense when he was with us" he jested, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Porthos attempted a smile of sorts but it fell flat -his gut twisting guiltily as he acknowledged that it was his fault they couldn't understand Aramis.
Porthos ducked into the dry indoors and shuffled towards the stairs, brothers in tow -his back hunching in both strain and sorrow. All of this over a lousy shirt.
After awkwardly making it up the stairs with his brother, the men pushed their way into Athos' room and deposited their wet friend on the bed -of whom flopped back limply with a light smile on his dirty face.
"At least someone's happy" Athos comforted, heading over to the window for the bucket hanging outside. It was no doubt of rain water by now. Good, at least they could use it to their advantage and clean Aramis up.
"I'll go fetch the wine" Porthos stated, storming towards the door -a deep frown to his face as anger tried to override his feelings. If he was being honest, the anger was internally directed, not that he needed to tell them that. They knew him well enough already.
"Do you really think he needs wine right now?" D'artagnan asked seriously, he wasn't sure head wounds would do well with wine…or was it better to dull the pain? D'artagnan couldn't remember what Aramis had instructed.
"It couldn't hurt" Athos replied simply, leaning back with a grunt as he battled with Aramis boots -of which were practically suctioned onto his feet.
D'artagnan gave his brother a skeptical look but decided to leave it there. They didn't need any more arguments tonight -and certainly ot after the way the last one had turned out.
He wasn't entirely sure this would be the proper treatment -but since their medic was currently out of commission, he couldn't argue.
"Fair enough" D'artagnan answered, shucking his own wet jacket onto a nearby table and moving to Aramis second boot and yanking it off without any trouble- much to the annoyance of Athos.
Pushing aside his temper, Athos moved over to the top of his bed, D'artagnan following his mentor and copying his actions to arrange their friend comfortably before gently shrugging him out of his wet, muddied garments and beginning the cleansing cycle of scrubbing down a half lucid, giggly Aramis.
It took roughly ten minutes for the two brothers to catch, secure and hold down Aramis' face to remove the thick, slimy layers of mud from his thickly matted hair. From here it was a simpler task of dragging a wet cloth across the thin smudge of mud and dirt on his upper torso -buffing the ticklish medic until his skin was almost gleaming.
Leaning back with a sigh, Athos allowed D'artagnan to take on the trouble of pinning a flailing Aramis under his bed sheets, pinching his nose in annoyance as a rudimentary game of tickling fights sprung up.
Five minutes later and Porthos returned to find Athos lounging in a chair, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose while D'artagnan sat on Aramis bed and giggled madly with the man himself.
Despite his glum mood, Porthos couldn't help but smile at his brothers' antics -especially when Athos let out another annoyed huff and aimed to slap D'artagnan. That was until he noticed his brother had entered with arms full of bottles.
Suddenly, Athos was up and out of his chair, standing beside Porthos eagerly and empting him of his load. If ever there was a time Porthos would have imagined Athos licking his lips comically, it would be now.
Porthos chuckled, "Thirsty are we?" he teased.
Athos rolled his eyes but continued to lay out the bottles among some spare cups he'd found lying around.
It didn't matter if they were dirty, this strong drink would kill whatever threats that may be lurking within them he reasoned, beginning to pour generous amounts.
He would need to drink at least one of these before he went back out into that downpour to fetch a physician for Aramis. At present, the man seemed lively enough that there would be no rush.
"Here" Athos informed, handing out the wine -holding Aramis hand around the cup so he could drink it without dropping it.
"Why, thank you, 'thos, you're too kind" Aramis giggled, half of the liquid dribbling down his chin as his thick tongue momentarily revived itself from the strong concoction.
Athos let out a sigh and a tut, moving over to sit on his brothers bed so he could wipe up the mess, "I wouldn't thank me just yet, I'm off to find you a doctor soon" Athos informed.
He mentally slapped his forehead at the slip of words as Aramis tried to squirm out of bed. How could he forget Aramis hated physicians.
"Woah, settle down" D'artagnan soothed, stepping forwards to help Athos press Aramis back into the bed.
" 'm fine" Aramis ground out, happy gaze retreating to be replaced with a moody one.
"No yer not" Porthos broke in, "Else, Philippe wouldn't have 'joined us' tonight" he jested lightly. The joke fell flat and Porthos cast his eyes to the floor.
"-really, 'm fine" Aramis noted seriously, words still slurred but eyes now pleading with a level of recognition shining in them.
He must be desperate to dredge up his wits Athos mused. He knew how hard a task it was.
"…jus' need some sleep 's-all…" Aramis trailed off, blinking tired eyes even as the medic in him tried to take over, "…not bleedin'….ain't dying…be f'ne by mornin'" Aramis informed, sagging in the pillows as his strength deserted him.
Porthos gave his brothers a look of concern at Aramis sudden decline in energy -he had been trying to wobble upright for the longest time now… to see him give in now, was unnerving.
Moving forwards as if to help his ailing brother back up, Athos held out a hand, "Just let him sleep, Porthos. We'll deal with him in the morning" the eldest instructed, mind roving over Aramis logic.
It seemed sound enough…physicians could never help with head wounds anyways -in his opinion, leeching didn't count.
Perhaps rest would be best…
Porthos reluctantly stopped pressing against his brothers' arm and slunk back towards the reserved chair, plopping down in it heavily with another glass of wine in an attempt to bow his dying spirits.
He didn't deserve the ignorance but he needed some reprieve from the torturous guilt. He could resume it easily enough tomorrow…and the day after that…and the day after that…
Athos shook his head at his brothers, one man down, the other one falling in every sense of the word.
Hopefully this night would remain peaceful -or as peaceful as it could get.
Athos scooted over to the wall by his bed and sat against the floor, eyes flickering to Aramis, D'artagnan and Porthos over the next hour as the trio slowly drifted off to sleep.
As his own eyes began to close, Athos' mind took to happier thoughts -smiles emitting from his tired face once in a while at the idea of waking to find Aramis back to his normal self and exacting his revenge on a snoring Porthos.
He could only hope.
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