He chokes and chokes until he feels scrubbed out, bringing up water so cold it burns, nails digging into whatever's keeping him afloat. Wet charred wood peels away in streaks under his handholds, comes up like nothing. He claws at the debris with hands hooked and blunted with stiffness, buzzing with pain. Something works, keeps him from slipping and it’s a gift.
It feels like too much to keep in his head at once. Keep hold of this, keep your head above water, keep breathing, keep moving. Aching lungs can’t take in enough air to keep everything from lurching around him, to keep the dark from creeping in at the corners. The current pulls at his legs, wreckage flows around him, constant, dizzying motion.
He needs something to focus on, a fixed point.
Scanning for Tim makes his eyes ache, but it’s not hard to pick out the splashes of water kicking up around him as he cuts a jagged path through the floating debris. He follows, big messy kicks that move him forward in short jerks and leave his trembling legs numb. He counts kicks, it helps until he loses track, but he hasn’t lost sight of Tim. Just ahead of him now, the spray from his strokes stinging his face.
He’s so fucking tired. Tim looks tired too, shoulders shaking with coughs. He wonders if what he’s hanging on to would hold them both. It’d be easier for both of them if it would. Or he could end up drowning both of them. Deadweight. All this for nothing. He keeps kicking. Chickenshit. There’s no winning like this.
emetophobia warn, hand trauma, self-loathing
It feels like too much to keep in his head at once. Keep hold of this, keep your head above water, keep breathing, keep moving. Aching lungs can’t take in enough air to keep everything from lurching around him, to keep the dark from creeping in at the corners. The current pulls at his legs, wreckage flows around him, constant, dizzying motion.
He needs something to focus on, a fixed point.
Scanning for Tim makes his eyes ache, but it’s not hard to pick out the splashes of water kicking up around him as he cuts a jagged path through the floating debris. He follows, big messy kicks that move him forward in short jerks and leave his trembling legs numb. He counts kicks, it helps until he loses track, but he hasn’t lost sight of Tim. Just ahead of him now, the spray from his strokes stinging his face.
He’s so fucking tired. Tim looks tired too, shoulders shaking with coughs. He wonders if what he’s hanging on to would hold them both. It’d be easier for both of them if it would. Or he could end up drowning both of them. Deadweight. All this for nothing. He keeps kicking. Chickenshit. There’s no winning like this.