Breathing

Hot, Not Cold! Part I

Aramis was stunned as d'Artagnan collapsed unconscious across his bed—no one had any idea the boy was even sick. The medic had to fight dizziness and nausea washing over him as he threw his legs over the edge of the cot to stand, but stopped short as he nearly pitched forward to the floor.

"What do you think you are doing, eh?" Porthos cracked. The large Musketeer asked as he squatted beside the Gascon still slumped over the bed. "You can't get ou' of bed, you're not well enough yet."

"Porthos, d'Artagnan is sick, I can manage sitting in a chair so he can have the bed." Aramis argued. "We have to take care of d'Artagnan now, I'll be okay."

"Rubbish," Porthos protested. "I'll go get another cot so you can lie down. If you start wearin' yourself out by gettin' up too soon, you'll be sick again in no time. You are not well enough to take care of yourself—let alone the pup—I ca' handle this."

"Porthos. . ." Aramis stood to protest but a wave of dizziness toppled him sideways on the bed, landing near d'Artagnan.

"Stay put dammit, 'Mis!" Porthos growled. He looked around the room to see where he could place the extra cot.

"Porthos, just let him lie here on the bed with me," Aramis sighed. "There's plenty of room and I don't mind sharing."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea." Porthos shook his head against the suggestion. "What are you going to do when he starts vomiting," Porthos paused, "can you get sick again?"

"I don't think I can get sick again. . . catarrh already in me." Aramis countered. "Besides, I don't mind taking care of him—he took pretty good care of me when I was sick." The medic smoothed hair away from the Gascon's fevered brow.

"Alright, but if I see you startin' to get sick again, I'm gettin' another cot and you are moving!" Porthos ordered.

"Fine," Aramis said as Porthos laid the Gascon down on the bed beside his new bunk mate. The medic moved to the edge of the bunk as far as he could go up against the wall, and lay on his side, to give d'Artagnan plenty of room.

"Are you sure there's enou' room, 'Mis?" Porthos asked as he watched Aramis scrunch himself against the wall.

"Yes, there's plenty of room for the both of us." Aramis let his head drop back down on the pillow and closed his eyes. He reached an arm over the boy's chest and watched him sleep until he could no longer hold his eyes open. Only then did he allow himself to finally drift off to sleep.

*****

Aramis was awakened by the sound of coughing next to him on the bunk. The harsh coughs wracked the body of the Gascon as he tried to catch his breath—to no avail. The boy turned onto his side with dread as he felt the bile begin to rise.

d'Artagnan vomited over the edge of the bed, the contents sent splashing across the floor. He heaved up liquid and bile again and again—his stomach tormenting his body with furious savagery.

"God. . . it hurts!" d'Artagnan pounded the bed frame with his fist, fighting against the pain. His aching muscles twisted in agony as dry heaves tortured his body and robbed him of his breath. When the retching stopped, he was left depleted and weak. He spit the sourness from his mouth and fell back against the pillow, panting and soaked with sweat.

Porthos swabbed the boy's face with a cool cloth while tenderly moving the clumps of wet hair from his fevered skin. "Take it easy, pup. You're gonna be alright."

"I know it hurts, d'Artagnan, believe me." Aramis rubbed soothing circles on the boy's chest. "Don't fight the pain, flow with it," the medic advised. "Breathe through the pain—it seems to help. It sounds easier said than done, but I've been through this too. If I can beat catarrh, then so can you."