A/N: Not too long a chapter this time around, I'm afraid - though, to be fair, this was never supposed to be its own chapter, initially.
Thank you all for your continued support!
~Chapter 4~
For a moment, the whole world goes quiet.
Quiet, except for the earsplitting horror flooding the entire cabin.
Aramis gives a broken laugh.
"I can't feel'em at all."
The words are barely more than a whisper, and still they seem to echo in the space around them.
Athos stares at him, lungs screaming for air but unable to draw breath, but instead of apprehensive browns, all he sees is terrified blues.
Terrified blues, twisted limbs on a brown and green forest floor, and guilt, heavy in his throat.
Olivier…
Olivier, I can't feel anything…
Porthos drags a hand down his face and curses.
"Shit, Aramis…"
"Neither of them?" d'Artagnan asks, and promptly winces at the words and the dark look Porthos throws his way.
Aramis exhales slowly through his nose, lips pressed tightly together, and doesn't answer, carefully not meeting any of their gazes.
Porthos sighs, cards his fingers through Aramis' hair.
"There really is no 'halfway' with you, is there?" he says, lips twisting sadly. "Always gotta be such a fuckin' drama queen."
"I know," Aramis murmurs, voice beyond weary. He swallows. "I know. God, I know, I'm sorry. Serves me right, though, doesn't it? So fucking stupid, Christ, I'm sorry…"
"Hey," Porthos chides, voice a gentle rumble. "You've got nothing to apologize for, you ninny, so stop it."
I'm sorry! Olivier, please, I can't feel- I'm sorry…
Olivier…
"Athos."
Athos blinks himself back to the present, memories he'd much rather forget like a lurid horror movie on his retina, and meets Porthos' you-better-start-being-useful-or-I'll-break-your-entire-fucking-face -look.
He can feel d'Artagnan hovering anxiously at his side, and clears his throat.
"We don't know the extent of the damage yet," he says, and inwardly congratulates himself on how steady he sounds. "Before a doctor has had the opportunity to examine you, we shouldn't jump to any conclusions."
It's empty words, really, but it still manages to ease some of the tension in the room.
"Athos's right," Porthos agrees with conviction. "You're the luckiest bastard I know. You'll be fine."
He gives Aramis' shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"We'll get through this together, yeah?"
When the downhiller doesn't respond, Porthos leans in, willing their friend to meet his gaze.
"Hey, look at me. You'll. Be. Fine," he repeats, as if mere words could make it so. "You're too damn stubborn not to be. We'll deal with whatever comes, together, you hear me?"
Aramis looks up through bleary eyes and gives a tremulous smile.
When the paramedics arrive some time later to load their injured friend onto the ambulance, Athos isn't the least bit surprised at the small argument that ensues.
"I'm comin' with you."
"Porthos-"
"You can turn them doe eyes on someone else, I'm comin'," Porthos says, immovable. "I'm not dumping your sorry ass onto some poor, unexpectant nurse. You're stuck with me, whether you like it or not."
Aramis heaves a dramatic sigh, but the gratitude in his eyes is the first real emotion aside from fear they've seen since they entered the infirmary.
Still, he's a stubborn idiot who never knows when to quit.
"You really should watch d'Artagnan-" he tries but is, again, interrupted.
"He really should not," the youngster in question disagrees, voice firm. "It's just a race, Aramis. And we both know he'd only be worrying anyway."
He throws a tentative look Porthos' way but the big man accepts it for the truth it is, his hand a steady weight on Aramis' shoulder when the paramedics shift their friend onto their own stretcher.
Aramis, for his part, tuts his displeasure, even as he squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden change of altitude.
"'Just a race,' he says. What happen'd to the young Gascon who wan'ed nothing more than t'make the team an' get to the podium?"
The words are an obvious attempt at deflection but d'Artagnan doesn't budge, instead evenly meeting his gaze.
"He did make the team, and realized that there are more important things than competing."
Porthos' eyes shine with silent approval.
And it's quite possible Athos has never been more proud of his young protégé.
He steps up to the gurney before the EMTs have a chance to leave and lays a hand on Aramis' arm, doesn't say anything but hopes that his eyes convey what mere words cannot.
The downhiller offers a tentative smirk, understanding and gratitude visible alongside the apprehension.
The paramedics carry him off soon after.
Porthos turns on his way out after them, all of the emotions he'd taken care to hide from their friend now coming to the forefront with the force of an avalanche.
Athos steadily meets his gaze.
"I'll meet you at the hospital," he promises, as if there was ever any doubt, and his friend nods.
Giving d'Artagnan an encouraging smile, the big man says, "Give'em your best, yeah?"
D'Artagnan cocks an eyebrow.
"What else is there?"
He drops it as soon as Porthos disappears out of sight, and his voice is low and hesitant when he speaks.
"He'll be alright… right?"
But he'll recover, won't he? It's only temporary, isn't it?
What on Earth were you thinking, letting him up there!
Olivier?
Athos doesn't answer, only turns and starts walking out of the cabin.
"Come on. You need to get back to the course, and I need to call Treville."