Drifting Off.

Everything was blue. And salty. Frank was not quite sure if he even wanted to ask any questions right now. He tapped around, finding metal under his fingers. And what was that sound? Sea gulls?

He lifted himself sitting, and examined his environment. It suddenly hit him back. The plane, the alert, the screams. Hazy memories of blood and tremors flooded back to him.

Flight 343 must have crashed in open water, and now he was stuck on this... this plane door?

Frank streaked his hair back at the same time a wave splashed on his back. Signing a contract to play gigs over seas did not include drifting off on a plane door to his death.

However, he was glad of his physical state, ignoring if the other passengers had even survived.

As desperation replaced panic, a beige and green line at the horizon caught his eye. An island.

If the flow of the waves didn't change, he'd get there before the sun set.

While attempting to snap out of this nightmare, Frank's head started buzzing. He was now hearing voices.

With the palm of his hand, he rubbed his blurry eyes.

The echo of voices still rang. It was real.

Spinning around, he took notice of the landmine of torned plane parts floating behind his door. On one of them was a familliar silhouette waving a weak arm toward his dirrection.

Pete.

Frank swallowed. Not water. It had to be water.

Using his arms as paddles to move his improvised boat to his friend, he took hold of Pete's arm without knowing if it was a rescue act or a need to know that someone was with him in this huge mess.

"What... what the fuck happened?"

Don't. Don't sink. Don't fucking sink.

It was too much to deal with. He shove his hand under water, grasping uselessly at Pete's slippy hands. Pete couldn't drown. But that possibility was well happening, and it was happening now.

Swim up!

With his jaw shaking and his eyes threatening to let tears slip at any moment, he swung his body into open water, enlacing an arm around Pete's waist.

Don't panic.

Frank pulled Pete out first, adrenaline-fuelled force giving him the strengh to push Pete onto the floating door.

He barely had enough will power to stick his face at the surface, gasping loudly, and feeling his heart tighten.

I have to get out of the water.

"Pete!" a wave. "...Pete! I don't..."

Don't swallow water.

"I can't deal with water!" he screamed hysterically, the salty water hiding his own tears.

Frank wildly clenched Pete's right arm, half-aware that the other wasn't in the right condition to support his weight.

With dilated irises, he managed to grab a part of the door and clumsily pulled his shaking body out of the terrifying water.

Never again. Never. No more water.

For a brief moment, Frank was completely unaware of Pete's presence as he hugged his knees and looked at nothing, forcing his mind to focus on anything but water. Open water.

"Yes!" Frank blurped out of surprise.

He choked harshly, tasting salt.

"I just don't... I don't swim. It's a childhood phobia," he explained shortly.

He breathed.

Up front was the expanding form of a tropical island, smoke rising from the trees. Parts of the plane must have landed in the thick jungle.

"Are you ok?"

((listen, tomorrow i'm heading out to a cottage in the middle of nowhere. middle of nowhere = having to make a long distance call to get a shitty internet connection = lotsa $. so i won't be there until thursday or something. i'll get back to you as soon as i can, though. sorry for the trouble.))

Frank didn't know what made him feel the most awkward: the fact that Pete was hugging for more than five minutes or the sand that was visible under the blue layer of water, indicating they were closer to the shore.

Above all the things that could be on his mind, he cherished the thought of sleeping most. He gave a loud yawn, eyes half closed, and he rested his head on an improvised pillow he usually spelled "Pete".

((i'm making a new thread in "beach"))