Originally written for an angst prompt ages ago, I'm publishing it as Day 7 of HQ Libero Week 2018 (November 10).
On a more personal level, one of my greatest fears was being trapped on a capsized boat. I channeled that into this fic, and I think directly because of writing it, I'm no longer afraid of that eventuality (no matter how remote it was).
Noya gasped another anxious breath in the musty, dark hull of the capsized ship. He'd bumped his head on something when the explosion happened and came to in 2-inch-deep water, the room upside-down. The ceiling light, mounted to what should logically be the floor, shorted out soon after, plunging Yuu into a frightful, dripping abyss. He didn't know from where the water was entering, but the room was slowly filling. In a matter of a half-hour, he was wading to walk; after an hour, he could only swim.
Unglued from the floor, he could swim to the door handle, but it wouldn't open. His occasional screams continued to go unanswered. It was nothing but silence outside.
Then after who knows how long, he heard a voice—not coming from the other side of the door but from above. From outside the ship's hull.
"Hello!" the faint call echoed. Noya didn't recognize the speaker. He shrieked back desperately, unsure if his lungs even at the loudest he could scream were penetrating the steel exterior.
Then, he heard a resonating moan of acknowledgement. He had been heard! Help was on the way!
So he assumed.
Hours passed. Afloat, he couldn't sense the water rising until his damp hair began to brush the ice-cold floor above. In the dark he didn't know which direction he was facing any more, where was north, where was south, where was the nearly submerged door. Floating objects continued to ricochet against him; he was probably covered in bruises. The water rhythmically sloshed up the walls and splashed back down after curling against the metal baseboard, creating a frightening melody in his skull. His breathing was increasingly strained. Soon, he couldn't tell which way was up as his mouth suddenly found itself licking saltwater. A ringing, tinny sound permeated what little of an air pocket remained, coming from the floor above. At first the noise—which started an hour ago and was almost incessant, restarting almost as soon as it stopped—was presumed to be his savior sawing through the hard shell of the ship's underbelly. Now, as his brain began to doubt everything, he thought he was imagining the noise altogether.
"No, I'll be fine," he told himself, yet despite knowing it'd do no good, he banged against the floor above. He was beyond exhausted and barely created any vibration in the metal floor at all.
"Hurry up," he tried to shriek, but it came out as a weak call. His face, now invariably pressed against the floor, chafed at the discomfort trying to keep his mouth above water. A migraine pulsed painfully in his forehead, one ear so close to the roof, it absorbed the incessant sawing like an IV.
"Is this it for me?" he wondered to himself. He was no longer self-aware enough to realize how weak his pleas for salvation were. He felt he had no energy, no impulse to live, as salty water impudently worked its way into his mouth, pooling beneath his tongue until he spat it out like drool.
"Am I dead?"
His waterlogged skin no longer could tell the difference between the floor over his head and the crest of water at his chin and lips. As his neck craned backward to maintain oxygen to his throat, at times he thought he was suddenly backstroking and felt like he could simply drift lifelessly. His lips kissed the metal above, though the moist surface tasted like the ocean itself. No longer were his thoughts rational. He couldn't even tell—with his eardrums submerged—if the droning tone was even still present. Despite the curl of liquid lapping at the corners of his mouth, Noya couldn't help but take deep gasps that didn't provide half the sustenance they once did.
"Take me somewhere sweet and warm and dry," he pleaded to some unknown force. And his eyes—which in the dark he could no longer tell were open or closed—decided to be closed and ceased any attempt to find light altogether.
"Come with me," a voice replied.
Noya awoke.
In a place that felt sweet.
And was warm.
And was dry.
He comprehended a hospital room, his body on an IV, his nose and mouth in a respirator.
He knew not who saved him. He knew not how.
But he remembered the voice.
And he knew he was never so grateful to be alive.
That's at least the second near-death fic I've written ending with someone so grateful to be alive. Because to be alive is something to be grateful for.