A/N: This first chapter was written to fill the 'drowning' square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card. The next two will fill the 'hypothermia' square.
...Somehow, I just keep putting Nashuu into perilous situations...

We had our first snow and driveway-shoveling of the season here last night, and so. I thought I'd post this as a love letter to the elements. :')

Depths

Shoot stands at the water's edge, eyes fixed on its dark blue wind-rippled surface and breath fogging in the chilled air. He's stuck frozen, can't bring himself to move. All he can do is stare. Waiting and hoping against hope for any sign of movement below the water –

It's been…he doesn't know how long he's been standing here. The only thing he knows is that he's spent too long hesitating. Ran to the bank of this saltwater lake the second Knuckle jumped in, and he's been standing here since.

Seconds stretched into minutes and there's still no Knuckle.

Shoot's breath is starting to catch in his tightening throat. Dread is squeezing his heart, rising cold in his stomach the longer he just waits here.

Knuckle is capable. He didn't hesitate, when a life needed to be saved.

Knuckle is rash and Shoot is supposed to keep him from doing these things –

Although. Shoot can't be sure that this is danger. There's a chance things are fine. Knuckle might not need him, under there. If Shoot bothered to keep track of the time, he'd have a better idea, but he doesn't know how long Knuckle's been under, and the water is icy-dark, weather unforgiving, chilled air whipping his ponytail against his cheeks. His nose is numb. Fingers stiff in his glove.

It's undoubtedly colder, in the water. Too cold to survive. Deep, too. Too dark to see into, snowflakes landing on the water's surface and melting slowly.

Oh – how long has it been? Why wasn't Shoot paying more attention? His feet shift forward. Boots crunching dirt-and-snow along the bank, until their toes hover above churning water that laps at the soles of his shoes.

He needs to – needs to do something. If Knuckle doesn't surface soon. The cold will claim him. He'll –

Something splashes free of the surface, and Shoot's eyes go wide, body lurching. For a half-second he expects a dark head of hair followed by a white snowsuit but this figure is too small, writhing through the water in a more animalistic way, so frantic that Shoot's crouching before he realizes, hand outstretched for wet cream-colored fur.

The giant arctic capybara rises as if to meet him and he grabs a handful of scruff, helping to haul the poor thing ashore. It's semi-aquatic but this one wasn't cleared for swimming yet – was still recovering, he and Knuckle were meant to keep an eye on it post-release to be sure it rehabilitated well but it bolted…fled its enclosure…

Much like it's doing now, but at least it's running for the woods, not back into the water. Doesn't look too hurt by the ordeal, either. Is hopefully unscathed.

Knuckle would go after it. Ensure that it really is okay. Shoot should go after it, and do the same.

Knuckle will be mad if he gets to the surface and they have to track down their charge all over again.

Despite that, Shoot stays crouched in the snow. Eyes already off of the tree line where the capybara disappeared and again staring hard at the water. His hand hovers outstretched. He shivers, but he isn't cold, exactly, unless the horrible tightening ball of fear in his gut is slowly freezing him over from the inside.

Because there's no sign of movement from the water, still. No sign of anything else. A fish here or there. A snowflake water skimmer skirts past in its fluttering pattern, blending in with the bluster of the weather.

But no Knuckle.

Years of being Morel's disciples made them both strong swimmers, and Knuckle can hold his breath for five minutes at least – but has it been longer than that? Does it matter? The water temperature alone is –

Shoot shouldn't be hesitating like this, heart climbing up his throat. There isn't a single sign of human life beneath the waves, no bubbles preceding an ascent, no familiar face breaking the water – and if Knuckle were okay he'd have been right on the heels of their capybara –

But he's not showing up – and – shit…

Lurching to his feet, Shoot yanks the hat off of his head, tossing it behind him into the snow. Next comes his glove, middle finger snagged between his teeth to remove it, left hands conjured to unfasten his coat. He undoes his snow pants and toes off his boots and strips away another soft layer of clothes, hooded sweatshirt and thick wool socks and baggy borrowed-from-Knuckle sweatpants.

Everything is piled with minimal care behind him, until he's left in his bottommost layer. Soft rayon close to his skin is all he has left, but he barely feels the weather. He only shivers on automatic as his socks dampen in the snow, feet carrying him to the water's edge.

Even now, he's not moving with as much haste as Knuckle did earlier. Worries and what-ifs tug at Shoot's mind and slow his pace. He hates it. Now is no time to hesitate.

The extra insulation against the cold water would have been better than stripping down, his head argues with itself. Redress, half of it says. The other half is intent on arguing that less weight bogging him down will be better, he needs something dry to change into when he surfaces, but what if he doesn't last long enough for that in these clothes –

What is wrong with him?

Knuckle could be…

Shoot shivers, clutching at the front of his shirt. No more hesitation. He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and jumps in.

The icy water hits him instantly, seizes his insides so badly it might as well be flowing right through him, and despite himself he lurches back to the surface. Lifts his head out and gasps, shivering. Saltwater running into his eyes, stinging them as they fix on his warm, dry clothes on shore.

This is nothing. He's fine. Treading water, and he can still feel his extremities. As long as he finds Knuckle quick, everything will be just fine.

If he can find Knuckle.

Hell. Shoot better get a move on, already. Steadying himself, he sucks in bigger lungfuls of air. As close to his natural rhythm as he can manage. Trying to force his body to calm (something that never did come easy to him, but in the face of adversity – and for Knuckle's sake – he can try).

Holding his breath, Shoot plunges back underwater. The lake is murky cold, but he can see decently. Focuses on scouring for hints of white against the pitch dark of everything else.

At least it isn't nighttime. The sun overhead is filtered by gray snow clouds, but it's there.

Shoot conjures all three left hands to send out. Searching the nearby area for the familiar shape of Knuckle. Rocks and fish and seaweed – the lake gets deeper the further out Shoot goes, and he knows thanks to the topographic maps he and Knuckle have back at the cabin that there's a steep drop-off. Rocky ledges that plunge so far down that a monster is said to live in their depths. That's the other reason they're here…Shoot's curiosity…

Back to the surface for more air. Shoot treads water as he breathes. Leaves his hands to their searching and tries to stop shivering.

If Knuckle sank into that ravine – Shoot might never find him – and then – he'll have to –

No. No time for that.

Deep breath, and Shoot submerges again. Swims hard along the edge of that massive underwater canyon, eyes peeled and scanning the sloped lakebed. Icy water rakes through his hair like frozen fingers on his scalp and slices through his soaked clothes while his brain runs a loop of where is he where is he please be okay please.

His extra hands skim the lip of the ravine, feeling for anything out of place. Shoot glances their way now and then – and it's when his eyes are fixed in that direction, caught on the shimmer of a fish, that he spots it out of the corner of his eye.

A span of white. Vaguely humanoid in shape. A color that Shoot poked fun at Knuckle for picking. Said he'd lose him in the snow but he is not at all laughing now, propelling himself toward that familiar shape.

The three left hands race ahead of him, grasping at Knuckle's arms.

Because it is Knuckle, and Shoot is so relieved he could cry, even underwater. He has to waste more time resurfacing. Gulp down thick sobs of air. Then duck back under as fast as he can because Knuckle is there, but he's not moving –

All the while Shoot's left hands have been tugging at Knuckle, largely unsuccessful at hauling his upright frame toward the surface. Something that doesn't make sense until Shoot is right up next to Knuckle's waterlogged form – no bubbles escape from his cracked-open mouth, which is worrying – terrifying – but first and foremost Shoot needs to get him out of the water.

So he dives lower, steady as he goes, all four hands traversing the length of Knuckle's body, down his limbs, searching for an obstruction. He finds tendrils of sturdy seaweed tangled around one ankle. Can't get it loose with tugging, so he reaches for the laces of Knuckle's boot. Stiff fingers take unnervingly long to untie it.

Shoot fumbles. Bares his teeth and forces his cold numb hand to work, get the knot undone and loosen the upper laces as best he can.

Now he has more success at hauling Knuckle upward. Pulling his foot free of that stuck boot, grasping him around the waist, and swimming for the surface, for the shore.

The water's penetrated the waterproof-to-a-point outer layer of Knuckle's snowsuit, leaving him soaked to the bone and heavier than usual. Shoot doesn't have time to fix this right now, under here. He kicks hard to fight against the extra weight, arm curling tighter around the cold shape of his boyfriend. Usually so full of life but now Knuckle is dangling limp and Shoot's legs bump a nonresponsive pair as he swims.

Shit. He never should've hesitated. Grabs at the shoulders of Knuckles clothes with his extra left hands and pulls with all their might.

It helps. Shoot breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, cold air sucked into his lungs and forcing a shiver through him. A series of wet coughs. His fingers and toes are starting to go numb but he keeps a tight hold of Knuckle, who isn't breathing –

The icy wind dropping snowflakes in thicker clumps than before is nothing compared to the dread that curls frozen in Shoot's gut as he hauls Knuckle toward shore. They aren't far out but they are a good way's away from where he dumped his extra clothes and, oh, Knuckle is so cold – not breathing – Shoot could swim better if his arm were free but he can't let go of Knuckle. Lets his left hands haul them to the water's edge; they do their job just fine, Shoot can keep Knuckle held close.

What if he's – he could be –

Dammit –

Shoot won't think of it. Something like this couldn't take Knuckle down. There's too much life in him. Too much intensity to be snuffed out by a little cold water, no matter what Shoot's frantically beating heart and whirring mind have to say about it.

This snow-covered bank isn't exactly ideal for warming up, but Shoot doesn't have any time.

He has Knuckle clear of the water. Dragged onto shore to lie flat on his back, and Shoot presses numb fingertips to the skin of Knuckle's throat. Frantically searches around when he feels nothing.

Their skin temperatures are the same. Knuckle is freezing, not breathing, Shoot can't tell if he has a pulse because of this stupid uncooperative hand that's already started succumbing to the cold – and – wait – there. Shoot takes a deep breath, air burning his lungs, but it almost feels good. Sharp wind and whipping snow give him clarity, even as they freeze the ends of his hair.

It came out of its ponytail, at some point, his hair. That's not important. Doesn't matter.

What matters is that Knuckle has a pulse.

That soft, kind heart of his is beating steady, if not as strong as it should be. Breath rushes out of Shoot on a sob, and only now does he realize he's crying. Tears like liquid fire on his raw cheeks.

A pulse is good, but Knuckle still isn't breathing. Water dribbles from the corner of his mouth, as Shoot carefully tips him on his side to let it all spill, then resettles him on his back. Knuckle lost his earmuffs in the water somewhere, Shoot notes dully. Shouldn't be focusing on that of all things, right now.

Shit, Shoot's whole body is shaking. Shivers working up his spine and down his arm, through his knees that soak wetter and wetter in the snow. His stomach is roiling with fright and his heart is pounding and he can't even feel the cold right now. Stares hard at the blue tint to Knuckle's lips. He rests his fingertips on the underside of Knuckle's chin, tilting his face up. Opening the airway, some distant corner of his mind supplies –

His left hands swoop in to help. One at Knuckle's forehead, pushing back the sopping mop of dark curly hair, tangled and limp, the other at Knuckle's nose. Pinching it shut so Shoot can seal his mouth over Knuckle's and breathe for him.

As cold as Shoot is, Knuckle's lips are even colder. Frigid at Shoot's touch, and when he backs off they don't move. None of Knuckle does. And Shoot forgot to watch his chest on that breath. Didn't see if it moved.

He sits tight. Forces himself to wait a handful of seconds no matter how his heart crawls up his throat. Strangling him and reaching for Knuckle, demanding Shoot do more than is in his power.

And he will. Leans over Knuckle again on the sixth second, breathes more air into those lungs, and this time he spots the twitching of Knuckle's chest. Shared oxygen making it where it's needed. Fingers on Knuckle's pulse point find a heartbeat still going but he isn't breathing on his own yet and Shoot's stomach hurts. Ties itself in knots.

There's blood on Knuckle's forehead. A gash, and Shoot's nen hand is careful around as it strokes more wet hair out of those stubbornly shut eyes with snowflakes caught in their lashes. He's so pale. Too pale.

Shoot can't lose him. Mutters out, "Please, Knuckle," as he ducks forward. Mouth pressed back to Knuckle's, another gentle breath passed along.

He can't die. He can't he can't he can't – fuck, sobbing isn't going to help Shoot keep his breaths even –

"Knuckle," he calls again, because maybe he can pull Knuckle back from this edge, too. Can't always keep him out of trouble, but talking him down works some of the time, reasoning with him. "Please don't –" Shoot won't say it. He'll breathe again, because that pulse is too steady to give up.

His lips tremble against Knuckle's but this has to work, he won't accept any other scenario.

The seconds that tick between breaths are torture. Agonizingly slow but Shoot has to let them pass. Whispers, "Please stay with me," with his lips pressed to a too-cold cheek and then it's back to that mouth. Icy and limp beneath his own as he exhales –

And then Knuckle lurches. His chest heaves, and he coughs deep, and Shoot sits up out of his way to shove him onto his side.

Shoot's entire body sags in relief, slumping into the snow, his knees splaying to the sides. He can't take his hand off of Knuckle's arm, fingers curled around him so tight every joint is white. That horrible coughing continues, water spilling out of Knuckle's mouth on each one, staining the snow a faint pink. It sets Shoot's heart fluttering sick. His stomach still hurts but it has nothing on what Knuckle's must feel like, as he rolls forward. Props himself on an arm, choking and gagging and vomiting lake water.

At least he's breathing, Shoot tells himself. Thumb rubbing the drenched, heavy fabric of Knuckle's snowsuit. At least he's alive.

"Oh man…" Knuckle groans, and it's the most soothing sound Shoot has ever heard. Hoarse and interrupted by retching though it may be. Followed by Knuckle spitting out a mouthful of blood-bile-water before he flops down. Back onto his back. Half-buried in snow.

That strong chest is rising and falling, grey eyes squinting open from where they were squeezed shut.

Still, Shoot can't let go of him. His hand migrates from Knuckle's arm to his shoulder. Then his cheek. Cold and wet under Shoot's equally cold and wet palm – and Shoot's crying again – or maybe he never stopped – heart too-light after being too-heavy – he'll choke –

Pale blue lips twitch apart, then press together. Knuckle clears his throat, brows furrowing. One of his hands struggles to lift, weakly reaching for Shoot's shoulder. "Shoot," is what Knuckle says next. Quiet.

"Shh," Shoot manages. It comes out all shaky, and is followed up by a sniffle, but at least it comes out. He needs to get ahold of himself. "You're okay." For now.

Fuck, it's so cold.

"You –"

"I'm fine." These words come easier, falling smooth and sure from Shoot's mouth. He blinks hard against tears, all too aware of those eyes watching him. There's a bit of pink-tinted saliva at the corner of Knuckle's mouth, so Shoot yanks at wet sleeve over his hand and wipes at it. Notably, Knuckle doesn't even twitch at the touch – probably too numb to feel it. Colder than Shoot's dripping clothes. "Don't scare me like that."

Knuckle makes a short humming sound that might be meant as a laugh. His eyes slip shut, and his head tips toward Shoot's hand (a touch that Shoot wouldn't dream of retracting). "S'cold," he says.

That's all it takes to get Shoot swallowing his heart again, insides frantic. "I know." A deep, bracing breath, and Shoot is starting to feel it, too. It hasn't stopped snowing, the weather digging icy tendrils into his muscles, blowing right through his flimsy wet outfit. They're not out of danger yet, but first thing's first: "Let's get you into some dry clothes."

A/N: Thanks for reading! (The rest is fully written and will be posted within the next several days.)