A/N: In addition to this chapter being the start of the anxiety and flashbacks, it also references the massacre Aramis was involved in. If you haven't read the previous stories, it deals with children and while there are no explicit descriptions of the scene, I do just want to give anyone reading a heads up about it.
In the immediate days after their conversation, Aramis does forget about the upcoming trip to the Christkindlmarket. He goes to his appointments, he meets with his therapist twice a week and keeps himself busy at home, baking and woodworking. He doesn't have many tools or much space, but there's a nice corner in the garage that Athos has cleared for him to use. The woodworking relaxes him and is something he started at the suggestion of his therapist to find a hobby that would keep him busy. The smell and sounds always remind him of working out in the garage with his dad as a child.
As Saturday gets closer, however, his anxiety grows. He's better after the second therapist meeting of the week, but by Friday morning he can focus on nothing but going to the Market. He tries to work on his current project, but when his hand slips and he jabs his hand with one of his tools, he stops. The rest of the day is spent trying not to pace around the entire house. He loses track of the laps he's made from the downstairs to the upstairs. When they get home in the evening, Porthos and Athos try to get him to calm down and while he does sit with them at dinner, he barely eats and he can't focus on the TV when they go to relax in the den.
Saturday morning, they are up early. For Aramis, he might as well have not gone to bed considering how little sleep he did get.
"Are you sure you want to do this, 'Mis," Porthos asks as they sit at the island for breakfast. He put together a light meal of fruit and oatmeal, hoping that Aramis would eat. The younger man's taken a few bites but is barely able to sit still.
"Yes, I have to." He tries to put as much confidence into his voice as possible.
"If you're going to go, then you need to eat more," Athos says. "A few bites of fruit won't get you through the day. We're not taking the bus once we get there. We'll be walking, a lot. So, eat, please."
Aramis sighs and tries to take a bite of his oatmeal. The taste of it in his mouth makes his churning stomach worse. He swallows the bite, but it sits heavily.
"Is there something that sounds good," Porthos asks. "You don't have to eat what's out. I can put together something different. You just need to eat something."
Aramis holds his stomach and leans an elbow against the table. "No, there's nothing. I just can't eat."
"Okay. Just keep snacking then. Eat what you can." It's not often lately that Aramis' anxiety gets so bad he can't eat but they're not surprised. As determined as Aramis is to go, they want to stop him, but they know him having a panic attack or flashback while on the field trip would be devastating for the man. They don't expect today to go well but they hope that it does. Either way, they'll be there to help Aramis.
"We'll take some snacks with us," Athos says.
Aramis nods. After a pause, he picks up another piece of fruit. Each piece sits heavily in his stomach, but he keeps eating at a steady but slow pace. He stares out the window, half paying attention to the fruit he eats. He knows that Porthos and Athos are sneaking glances at him, watching how much he eats. He does his best to ignore them, knowing that they mean well.
He eats half of his bowl before his stomach refuses to take any more and he forces himself to swallow the piece of pineapple he's started chewing as it turns his stomach.
"I can't eat anymore," he says, pushing the bowls away from him.
"Okay," Athos says. "Do you want to pick some snacks to take or should I grab some?"
"You probably should. I'm going to go up and finish getting ready."
"We'll be leaving in half an hour," Athos calls out as Aramis is leaving the kitchen.
"He's not going to make it today," Porthos says quietly once he's sure Aramis is upstairs.
"Food-wise, no. That won't keep him for a couple hours. He'll need something on the ride in."
"We're still letting him go forward with this?" Porthos ignores Athos' food comment.
"It's his choice, Porthos. We have to be here to support him, no matter what. If you can't do that, then I'll call Treville and he'll go in with me and Aramis."
"I am supporting him, but I also don't want to see him have a setback today because he thinks he needs to put himself through this nonsense. Tim will understand."
"This isn't about Tim, not completely, I don't think," Athos says. "It's about Aramis needing to prove to himself that he's capable of a simple outing."
"This isn't a simple outing. It's worse than sardines in a can at the Market. It even makes me think twice and I don't have any issues with crowds or anxiety," Porthos says.
"I know, but he needs us to be there for him. Helping him to stay calm."
Porthos eats the last couple bites of his oatmeal.
"Do you think he can do this," Porthos asks.
"I believe he believes he can and that's enough for me. I'll be there for him no matter what happens today," Athos says. "What about you? Do I need to call Treville?"
"No. I'm just worried about if it goes bad today. He's made so much progress."
"If it goes bad, then it's even more important that we support him. And it's better that we all find out today than in the middle of a field trip with a bunch of first-graders."
"Agreed," Porthos says with a sigh. It's not that he doesn't want things to go well today but he, like Athos, has been witness to the young man's progression. The last thing they want is a big setback and Porthos fears today could do it. But he hopes differently because Aramis could do with a great morale booster.
"We should get going so we can get out of here on time. I don't want us running late. That's only going to add to his anxiety."
Aramis is waiting for them, pacing, as they finish getting ready. On the walk to the station, Aramis is several steps ahead of them and on the train, he can't sit still. The crowds of holiday shoppers don't help and it only gets worse the closer to the city they get. Porthos pulls a puzzle toy from his jacket pocket and hands it to Aramis. Several months ago, he noticed a fidgeting Aramis playing with some string, seeing that it calmed him. So, Porthos started buying different puzzle toys that he could hand to Aramis when he was having problems with anxiety.
"Thanks," Aramis says quietly taking the toy and starting to try to solve it. His anxiety, which grows with each passing second and is worse than it's been in weeks, prevents him from giving full attention to the puzzle, but it's still nice to have something to do with his anxious fingers. When they pull into Oglivie he doesn't have it solved. He sticks the toy in his pocket and waits to get off the train. Traveling on the train isn't new to him, not to either version of himself, but this newer version forces him to wait until many of the people have already exited the train before he thinks about leaving. Being caught up in the crowds of people pushing to exit, just the thought, is enough to send a flare of panic through him. He doesn't like to wait, but Athos and Porthos make him listen to his body's desire to wait. He hates his new reality.
By the time they get off, there are mostly stragglers walking off the train, some loaded with bags, others with bleary eyes that indicate they dozed on the hour plus ride in. The lack of people allows them to leisurely walk up the stairs and Porthos and Athos to catch Aramis the couple times his nervous feet don't move the correct distance to take him up another step and he nearly hits the stairs face first. Together, they prevent their trip from ending prematurely.
It's when they get out onto the street, into the cold, windy Chicago air that Aramis starts slowing down. It's a thirteen-minute walk without foot traffic and stoplights, but with those it's double and with Aramis, it may be triple or more. He blinks quickly, trying to clear his quickly blurring vision. When he reaches up with his hands to wipe his eyes, they notice.
"You okay, 'Mis," Porthos asks. He gently pulls Aramis to the side and they stop alongside a brick wall.
"Yeah." Aramis nods and rubs his eyes good. "Just had something in my eye. Let's go." He pushes himself off the wall, thinking for a second when he actually did lean against the brick wall, and moves more confidently in the direction of the Christkindlmarket. It's a straight walk on Washington to the Market and with each passing block, Aramis feels it looming larger. The crowds that were thinned out in the station are back and they can barely manage walking two in a row, let alone three. Aramis tries to settle in behind Porthos and Athos, keeping a close eye on their jackets as he follows them in the crowd, but Porthos quickly switches places. He gently pushes Aramis up next to Athos and takes his place behind them. Aramis will respond better to Athos than to him.
"Just breathe, Aramis," Athos says quietly. Aramis tries to obey, to listen but breathing steadily is hard. He tries to keep them from rasping because he doesn't want to draw attention. He wants to be normal, like everyone else walking.
"Do you need to stop," Porthos asks. Several months ago, he would've asked if Aramis wanted to stop, but they've learned that Aramis doesn't want to listen to his body. He needs to and getting him used to listening to the new demands of his body is paramount to his recovery.
"No." Aramis shakes his head lightly, voice breathless. He tries to remember that Porthos and Athos are here, focus on their calming, safe presence inches from him.
And for a second it works. There's a calmness that comes over him and he thinks he can make it. He'll prove them and himself wrong by having a great time at the Market, then he'll make Tim happy by helping to take his class there.
In the blink of an eye, everything changes. He catches sight of the giant, decorated Christmas tree and that stops him for a moment. Then his eyes train down to the red and white striped tents of the wooden booths and then further to the throngs of people. He can't see a single stroke of light between bodies.
And then there's no air.
No sight.
His lungs ache for the air that's not there.
Blustery turns blistering; cold to heat; cloud to sun.
And he's gone.
He doesn't hear the curses and shouts from his friends, the angry gasps and cries from the people he knocks into, the cacophony of honks from the cars, buses, and trucks that nearly hit him. He feels the sand scrape his bare face as the hot wind rushes past his cheeks and ears, ruffling his hair that was always too unruly for regulations. He hears the bullets that tore into the night, he hears the surprised cries of children who'd placed too much faith in him, he hears their anguished gasps as they bled out underneath him. He feels their pain, with each slowing heartbeat, stopped heart, final breath, he feels their pain grow inside. And he runs.