Endless solo of solitude | Lookism various x reader

A memory resembling that of a running stream.

"Water is the source of all life."

Choking on water, you're struggling to keep your head up, eyes shut forcibly as you try concentrating on swallowing the least amount possible. Your legs are tied and so are your arms. Now it wouldn't be so bad, if you weren't quite literally drowning. The others are doing fine, because they're fucking tall enough to stay up straight. Alexander is a different story... More so on the same boat as you, he's underwater, his hair being the only reminder of his existence. At least Jason has the nerve to look somewhat guilty for dragging you into this mess, but you don't spare him a second glance. When you're mad, you never do. No matter how much of an optimist you may be, when you're mad, you get really pissed off.

You try to stare up at Jake, hoping your curses are able to reach him. I'll never forgive you, if I die here. Fuck you, asshole. Not to forget Jason and Brad too. And that pretentious, smoking-hot bastard Samuel (his white shirt is now see-through... and you can't help but notice how nice his muscles are). His blank gaze is staring right at you, finding your distressed state funny for whatever twisted reason. He seriously has a staring problem. Whereas Alexander groans against your shoulder as best he can. Poor guy; he's barely afloat. Then there's Jerry, poor, stupid, innocent Jerry, who just beams innocently once you deadpan at him. He's too happy, honestly.

Jake averts his eyes, as if he knows exactly what you're trying to communicate. The others do the same. Except, Samuel, being closest to your position, uses what strength he can to nudge your leg—hopefully, letting your head come up every once in a while to breathe and snort out the water. Thanks, muscle-man, you cry out, dramatic tears falling to stain your dulling cheeks. They're slowly losing colour and soon you'll really collapse with the rate you're going at.

(If this is your last day, then you're not sure what to think about your life. Have you really lived the best you can? Have you really lived it, like really, really?You can't help but realise there's so much you've yet to achieve, yet to complete. You haven't ever fallen in love. Never understood what having a love like the ones in the movies is like. Haven't had a boyfriend. Haven't ever scored your first good grade in school, nor passed stupid social studies. You've never found the true meaning of what it means to be alive. You've never felt the kind of joy that makes people say, this is it—this is living. Even if it sounds stupid, you're scared to die. You don't want to, don't want to, don't want to die).

There's still so much you haven't done.

So much you haven't felt.

And now, now you're here, tied up and soaked and half-conscious, and all you can think is:

I don't want to die.

You're scared.

Stupidly, selfishly, desperately scared.

"[Name]," Jake says quietly, trying to soothe your panicking form. It's barely a whisper. A rough, frayed edge of sound, scraped from the back of his sore throat and shaped into something that still manages to hold you. You can tell he means it in a good way but it's not helping. The sound of your sweet name coming from his battered, bruised lips, is what you used to believe could save you whenever you'd feel down.

You flinch, eyes darting toward him.

He's a mess. His shirt clings to his frame, torn and heavy with water. He says your name like a promise. Like if he says it enough, maybe none of this will matter. Maybe you won't drown. Maybe you'll live. And you want to believe him. Because it used to be that hearing your name from him—bored, teasing, half-laughing—was enough to brighten a shit day.

But now it sounds different.

Now it sounds like please. Just hold on. I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess. You know he means well, and you wish him saying your name was enough. Because it's him. It's your Jake, who's probably scared shitless like you and still trying to comfort you.