Under the Sea | Minsung

ψTwenty-Sixψ

The merman's grin fell, as if he could sense what the older would say next. There were only so many things that would slot into their criteria, their moments, Minho's questions, why he was always spending his time at the top of his exhibit, why he was always at the laptop, there couldn't have been that many solutions with so many extraneous variables to this situation. There was one solution to this problem, and the merman must have guessed it a long time ago. Yet, he still trusted Minho. Although he had no base, hint, clue, or reason for his conclusion, all the older could think was; Why do you still trust me if you know? Either that or, till this moment, Jisung believed full heatedly that Minho showing up was nothing but a good omen. He couldn't decide which reality hurt more.

"Hear me till the end," Minho fretted, Promise?"

"Of course, I promise I'll listen to whatever it is you have to say," The merman reassured. He balanced his hands on either end of the metal catwalk, a slight noise of surprise when it tilted ever so barely at his shifted posture. Jisung promptly straightened himself up, and pressed with a concerned gaze dancing on his features, "Now, what's wrong?"

Gathering the rest of his courage, every bit of it he could summon and bring to the forefront of this waged war, he snatched the laptop from the desk and stalked towards the younger waiting with worried eyes on the catwalk, their catwalk. This was it. There was a large, stark chance that he wouldn't be able to sit with the merman on that metal grating. Barring a miracle, that was the future he had to look forward to. But then, at least, at the very least he can be honest now. He wouldn't have to deal with the rotting feeling on his hands that kept him from connecting with the merman, he would be able to help him comfortably now.

He let out another sharp exhale, It's okay. It's going to be okay.

Truthfully, Minho should have paid more attention to the merman earlier. He should have noted the help he made when he shifted on the grating, he should have asked what happened, instead of focusing on the own interpersonal workings of his mind. As he stepped on the catwalk, he should have paid more attention.

As soon as the sole of his shoe connected to one side of the catwalk, it shifted down ever so slightly. Before he could even realize what happened, Minho lost his footing, his head slammed against the catwalk,

And he fell into the water below.

But by time the velvet curtain of a stark darkness lifted from his consciousness, he was already sinking in the exhibit.

He maybe heard his name, and a second splash, there might've been ripples at the top of the water as a shadow chased him down. But he could hardly process the sound through the ice surrounding him. It was cold, a lot colder then he first anticipated when felt the water slam into his body. Shock running through his body wasn't helping and the pain swelling in his head over clicked any sort of sense to move. It wasn't freezing, not enough to numb his fingers and nose, but the dramatic change was noticeable enough to make him shiver. There was no warmth, no life, no happiness in that aquarium water. It was the coldest thing he could have touched and let seep into his locked up muscles.

He was petrified. He couldn't move. He would've thrashed around and tried to grab or get himself out of it but he couldn't. Minho simply couldn't.

He was sinking, slowly, but he was sinking to the bottom of the tank centimeter by centimeter. He didn't need to have been watching from the outside to know that. It was that feeling he feared more than anything else the fear of dying, the pressure building around him and crushing down on him like a boulder.

His heart thundered in his chest, picking up speed with each rapid pulse as it boomed in his ears and head. Either from the panic or the lack of oxygen, blotches of black clouded his vision and his fingers gradually became numb. He needed to breathe. He needed to but it would burn. Minho knew it would feel like fire in his lungs if he even tried, he could imagine the burning of a thousand suns shoved into his body without warning yet everything in his being told him to take a breath. He was going to give up. There was no point. Even if he could somehow regain his breath, he couldn't swim.

His back gently thudded against the sandy floor.

Arms wrapped around his waist.

His lungs burned as he tried unsuccessfully to pull away and gasp for air. It stings, it hurts so bad.

Pressure built in his head, he couldn't focus anymore. Not on the blur in front of him. Not on the hands tangling in his hair. Not the body pressed against his own.

It was simply dark.

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