TWO MONTHS LATER
The instinct, he finds, not to breath underwater is so strong that for an amount of time it overcomes the agony of running out of air.
Instinct is the last thing he ever thought he'd rely on. It sounds manly and he wishes in that moment that he were manlier like Scorpius, the broad-shouldered idiot of an auror, who can't help but be a complete dickhole even at the best of times – or even Rose. Unspeakable Rosey Posey Rosey and the enviable charm she's always used to skate through life, he wagers, is more masculine than he. Rose Pose, smart and sly, who came along to protect her cousin – not to keep her boyfriend company like she told the papers – because, Merlin knows, Albus fucking Potter is a helpless squib who can't be trusted to do anything on his own. she smells like seawater, and Rose smells like—
If he were more masculine he could maybe swim fourteen or whatever miles there were left to shore. Shore. The word jabs against his chest, and he wonders it's a figment of fantasy, a mirage of all his time suffering aboard that goddamned ship or if maybe, just maybe, it is something that actually existed. Maybe the Ekrizdis was on course for something besides ruin after all. Unlikely. Dad and Uncle Ron warned him against taking this job, said that the Captain wasn't to be trusted and after all, hadn't everyone been reluctant to reveal the destination to him?
Shame seeps through his thoughts, because taking this job will be remembered as the last, greatest act of stupidity of his life, and something in his brain, the same stupid something that doesn't care that he's underwater, triggers an involuntary breath. A gasp. As salty sea-wash shoots through the crevices of his teeth, finally engulfs his lungs, he has an image of people shaking their heads over his senseless death. While he has always prided himself on his ability to maintain his composure no matter how horrible the situation, to capture any moment in crisp, clear resolution and commit it to memory, save for study and dissection later. this moment feels too hard to capture, it's too brutal, it—
Arms halt their frantic movements. His hips, sore from hysterical kicking, relax. And his memory. His memory is photographic, flawless, his skill with a Canon EOS 5D just as good but there's a sensation of darkness closing in from all sides now and his aperture is shutting down and the pain of drowning is, somehow, mixed with an odd incredulity that all of this is actually happening.
So this is drowning, he thinks, who would've figured?