A/N: Obviously, this story doesn't belong to the SSVA series, but you needn't worry; those are well underway. Thing is I'm trying to post according to a predetermined order, and the upcoming story is throwing a rather impressive temper tantrum at the moment; thus, I offer you this in the meantime, hoping (and maybe naively so) that it will appease you somewhat (that, and it's been sitting on my laptop since Christmas, so it's well beyond time I shared it with you). I had tons of fun researching for this story, and spent an embarrassing amount of time doing so but, man, did I enjoy myself (pretty sure the boys don't share my excitement though... *coughs).

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

~Chapter 1~

It had been snowing when they left the hotel this morning.

There was a layer of powder a few inches thick, covering the ground, the cars, and the bushes alongside the hotel entrance. The air was crisp, though more refreshing than biting, every sound subdued in the small-town valley. Flakes still fell lazily from a grey sky when they got into their car, giving the mountainous surroundings an almost unearthly feel.

A quick check on the temperature sign when they arrive at the course reveals it to be 26 F.

All in all, it's as close to ideal as it can get, Athos contemplates as he looks up the slope at the next skier taking the stand. The snow stopped falling some time ago and the ground will be more crud than powder now, but still, it's good conditions.

And d'Artagnan will undoubtedly enjoy the extra challenge, he thinks wryly.

There's the usual succession of beep-beep-beep-beeeep ringing out over the course.

And then he's off.

Athos forces out a slow, even breath. He's grateful for Porthos' steady presence at his side, fairly convinced that it's the major reason why he manages to obtain at least a semblance of normalcy.

This is it, he thinks, willing the tension in his shoulders to ease as d'Artagnan passes through the first gate. This is what they've been training for the entire season.

Sometimes, he forgets how raw d'Artagnan really is: that this is the boy's first season with them. True, he's been skiing in Junior Olympics and, like the rest of them, he spends more time on skis than off skis. But this is different. More media coverage. More pressure – especially for a young newcomer with a rising star label…

There's a spray of snow when he turns – not too crud, then – but not excessively so. He's angulating nicely, body close to horizontal against the ground when he passes between the poles.

He still has a tendency to take too wide turns, Athos thinks abstractedly, following the youngsters progress with trained eyes. Not much, but enough that he loses valuable hundreds.

They'll have to work on that.

This is the moment where Aramis would normally lean in and tell him to stop thinking so loudly and just enjoy the race, but he's only a ghost of a whisper at Athos' other side.

The downhiller had been the one to complain the loudest at missing d'Artagnan's first run, threatening to stalk down to the organizer's booth and demand they change the day of the downhill race.

Athos sometimes found his friend's exclamations bordering too much on the dramatic, but it had brought a smile to d'Artagnan's lips and erased some of the youngster's disappointment – which had indubitably been Aramis' objective.

Porthos had seemed torn but, from the look that passed between him and their downhill skier, there was never any doubt that the big man would be staying to support their newest addition.

Besides, they had done the math and there would be time to drive to the secondary location to see Aramis' race, and then return together for d'Artagnan's second run that he, by the looks of it, would qualify to.

He comes in as 22th in a flurry of white and the crowd disrupts in cheers.

Athos rarely allows himself outward displays of emotion, but it's near impossible not to smile at d'Artagnan's obvious jubilation when he crosses the finish line.

Porthos whoops loudly beside him and when d'Artagnan turns to them – the way he instinctively seeks them out kicking something back alive in Athos that he'd thought long dead – he gives a small nod of approval.

D'Artagnan positively beams.

It takes some time, between receiving congratulatory thumps from fellow skiers and maneuvering between reporters, but eventually d'Artagnan finds his way to them.

Porthos wastes no time before enveloping him in one of his patented bear-hugs.

"Nice run, whelp," he says, all grins and pride. "Keep this up, and you'll beat the old-timer here in no time."

D'Artagnan only grins, seemingly too happy and high on the aftermath of the race to speak.

He turns to Athos, hope shining in those brown orbs despite his best efforts to conceal it.

"We still need to work on the precision of your turns," Athos says, and watches as d'Artagnan's smile dims.

Aramis would no doubt have beheaded him.

"However," he adds, lips quirking when d'Artagnan immediately perks up, "that was some very fine skiing. You did good."

It's clear d'Artagnan doesn't know what to say to that, opening his mouth and then closing it before opening it again, so obviously, ridiculously pleased, and Porthos thumps him on the back.

"Wait 'til you get on the podium, kid. That'll tease an actual smile out of 'im."

Athos' raised eyebrow only serves to broaden the grin on Porthos' face.

His friend is right, of course.

But d'Artagnan doesn't need to know that.

The youth in question huffs a laugh.

"Yeah, one day, maybe," he says, glancing at the platform longingly.

"You will," Athos finds himself saying – because there is absolutely no doubt in his mind that, one day not far from now, they will find d'Artagnan on that podium. The kid is the most talented young slalom skier Athos has seen for some time and, had he been a betting man, he would have had no qualms giving a generous wager to support that claim.

Not that he'd ever tell any of the others that.

D'Artagnan's eyes go suspiciously wet and, ignoring Porthos' not-so-subtle grin, Athos clears his throat.

"Now, we should get going if we are to reach Aramis in time. Are you sure you do not wish to stay–"

D'Artagnan vehemently shakes his head.

"Oh no, I'm definitely going. If I don't, I'll never hear the end of it."

Athos nods, both in acceptance of his decision and in agreement of the argument supporting it.

"Then go to the waxing shed and hand in your skis. Treville will undoubtedly want to have a word with you. Meet us by the car when you're done."

Porthos chuckles as d'Artagnan scurries off, the aftermath of a good run visible in his every movement.

"Kid's got some real talent."

"He does," Athos agrees, a strange feeling of pride unfurling in his chest.

"So, whaddaya think: two years and he'll be in the top ten?"

"One," Athos says, the certainty of the statement almost surprising him. Almost, but not really.

Porthos hums, looking up at the time being broadcasted on the big screen as they start to walk towards the parking lot.

Athos follows his gaze.

"He's not up for another hour and a half," he points out, keeping his voice deliberately casual. "We will be there in time."

Porthos only hums again.

Athos suppresses a sigh.

He wants to call Porthos on it, to remind him of Aramis' propensity to almost always land on his feet, no matter how far – or hard – he falls, but since the scare they got in 08, he knows there's nothing short of seeing their friend cross the finish line in one piece that will calm the other man.

D'Artagnan joins them by the car ten minutes later with a promise from the team's manager that he will let them know when the starting time for the second run is announced.

Athos makes a mental note to thank the man later; most managers wouldn't be too pleased about letting their contestants leave the course site, but Treville had long ago learned that, other than locking them inside the waxing shed – something their staff had loudly objected against – there was no real way to keep them separated.

He might not approve, but he accepts it as the inevitability it is.

They are all very grateful for the fact.

Starting the car, Porthos drives them out of the parking lot.

D'Artagnan is allowed to choose the radio station, now that Aramis isn't here to "cultivate their severely outdated grasp on the world of modern music", and some to Athos unknown tune soon fills the car.

Normally, music only serves as a background noise against his three friends' constant chatter, but now, with one absent and the other two too engrossed in relieved satisfaction and carefully controlled worry respectively, not many words are spoken as they leave the race course behind them and make their way to their fourth.

A/N: Not much happening in this first chapter, I know, but if you bear with me to the next one... *dangles alluring promises of brotherly angst*