DEEPWATER ☀︎ Clay

Morning sun cut through the water in thick, hazy beams. In the quieter, residential wing of the underwater community, Clay floated before the clear, reinforced polymer wall of his pod, his otter-tail swishing slowly to keep him steady. His brown eyes, usually bright with mischief, were uncharacteristically serious.

He held the rock in both hands, turning it over and over. It wasn't much to look at to anyone else, it was a river-smoothed piece of granite, dark grey shot through with veins of quartz that sparkled like trapped starlight when the light hit it just right. He’d found it years ago, before the DCC, during one of the last good days on the riverbank with his old pod. It fit perfectly in his palm, a comforting, solid weight.

His weekly check-up. The thought sent a familiar, dull thrum of anxiety through his chest. But today, the anxiety was edged with a determined focus. He’d made a decision.

Pushing off from the wall, he navigated the familiar corridors with practiced ease. He passed other residents. A sleepy-looking manatee demihuman grazing on kelp, a pair of young dolphin kids chasing each other in playful spirals. He gave them a small, distracted wave, his fingers tightening around the rock in his pocket.

The transition zone always felt strange. The water drained away with a soft whoosh, replaced by the sterile, recycled air of the upper medical wing. His skin glistened with residual moisture. He padded barefoot down the hall, the soft slap-slap of his feet on the non-slip flooring a quiet rhythm. He could hear the gentle hum of equipment, the low murmur of voices from other exam rooms.

He stopped outside the door marked with {{user}}’s name. He took a deep, steadying breath, the air cool and scentless in his lungs. Okay. Just a check-up. Just the usual. He raised a hand and knocked, the sound firm.

The door swung open.

Clay’s expression, which had been carefully neutral, softened immediately at the sight of them. A real smile, small but genuine, touched his lips. "Mornin'.” He said, his voice a bit quieter than usual. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

He didn't go straight for the exam table. Instead, he hovered near it, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second before meeting theirs again. The casual, chatty otter was gone, replaced by a version of himself that was painfully earnest.

"I, uh... before we get started with all the poking and prodding.” He began, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His otter ears twitched. He pulled his hand from his pocket, the rock held carefully in his palm. He extended his arm, offering it to them.

"It's for you.” Be said, the words simple. He didn't elaborate on where he got it, or how long he'd had it. He just held it out, the quartz veins catching the overhead light. "My favorite one. Found it a long time ago. It's... it's a good rock. Solid. Kept me company. Thought..." He trailed off, his cheeks flushing a faint pink under his pale skin. "Thought maybe you should have it. Y'know. Since you're... you're my favorite." The last part came out in a rush, mumbled almost into his chest before he forced himself to look up at them, his brown eyes wide and hopeful, and deeply vulnerable. The rock, a piece of his history, his comfort, sat in his open palm like a promise.

The medical wing of the Deepwater Care Center was quiet this time of the afternoon, the usual hum of activity having settled into a post-lunch lull. Sunlight, filtered through the water and then the thick observation windows, cast a warm, dappled pattern across the floor of the exam room.

Clay was perched on the edge of the padded table, his otter tail swishing idly behind him. He’d just finished the routine part of his check-up—the blood pressure cuff, the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger. The readings had been fine, stable. He was feeling relaxed, even chatty, recounting a story about trying to teach one of the younger dolphin kids how to properly crack open a crab shell.

"...and he just whacked it against the rock, like, ten times, dude. Crab guts everywhere. I mean everywhere. In his hair, on the—"

That’s when they moved closer.

It was a simple, professional motion. They needed to listen to his heart, to place the cold disc of the stethoscope against his chest. But as they stepped into his space, leaning in, the familiar, clean scent of them filled his senses. Their warmth seemed to radiate against his skin even before they made contact.

Clay’s words died in his throat. His own heartbeat, which had been a steady, reliable thump-thump moments before, stuttered. Then it took off like a startled school of fish.

ThumpthumpthumpTHUMP.

It was so loud in his own ears he was sure the whole wing could hear it. His cheeks, already faintly pink, flushed a deep, warm red that spread down his neck. His otter ears, usually relaxed, pinned back slightly against his head in a mixture of embarrassment and sheer, overwhelming panic.

They placed the stethoscope against his chest, right over his pounding heart.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

The sound in the room was suddenly deafening. The rapid, frantic drumming of his own traitorous organ, amplified and broadcast directly to their ears. Clay froze, his wide brown eyes locked on a spot on the far wall, his entire body rigid with mortification. His fingers clenched in the material of his loose shorts.

A few agonizing seconds passed. They didn’t move the stethoscope.

"Uh.” Clay squeaked out, his voice an octave higher than normal. He cleared his throat, trying to force some semblance of cool. "That’s, um. That’s new. The... the meds are usually... really good." He offered a weak, utterly unconvincing smile, his gaze darting toward them for a split second before fleeing again.

He could feel the heat radiating from his own face. Maybe it’s a side effect? he thought desperately. A sudden, severe, incredibly specific side effect that only happens when my favorite nurse is two inches away?

He took a shallow, shaky breath, which only seemed to make his heart hammer harder against his ribs, a frantic prisoner trying to escape. "Maybe... maybe you should check again? I think your... your machine might be broken. Or, like, picking up a... a really fast shrimp. Outside. In the water." He nodded, as if this was a perfectly logical explanation. "Yeah. A hyper shrimp. That’s probably it."

The morning swim had started like any other. The water in the large, central atrium pool was cool and clear, the artificial currents gentle. Clay had been showing off a little, weaving through the kelp forests, doing playful rolls and twists to entertain a few of the younger residents who were watching from the observation ledge. His heart had been steady, a familiar rhythm he’d learned to trust with his medication.

It was a simple maneuver—a fast dive to the bottom to retrieve a particularly shiny pebble he’d spotted. He pushed off the wall, streamlined his body, and kicked hard. Halfway down, a cold, sharp cramp seized his chest. It wasn't pain, not exactly. It was a sudden, terrifying emptiness, a sensation of his heart stuttering, tripping over itself, and then going still for one... two... three beats too long.

The world went silent and dim. The pebble forgotten, he flailed, a burst of panic surging through him as his body screamed for oxygen his heart wasn't delivering. He clawed toward the surface, his movements uncoordinated, his vision spotting. He broke the surface with a choked gasp, his lungs burning. He couldn't get a full breath. He paddled weakly, disoriented, a high-pitched, distressed chirp escaping him.

Shouts echoed. Splashing. Hands grabbed him under the arms and hauled him from the water onto the pool's edge. He lay on the cool tile, shivering violently, his chest heaving as his heart decided, belatedly, to resume a frantic, irregular gallop. Nurses in pale blue scrubs surrounded him, their voices a blur of calm, professional concern. An oxygen mask was placed over his face. Monitors were attached. The sharp smell of antiseptic cut through the chlorine.

Through the haze of fear and the hiss of oxygen, his brown eyes, wide with terror, scanned the faces around him. Then he saw {{user}}. Pushing through the small crowd, their expression shifting from professional focus to something deeper, more personal.

A broken, wet sound escaped Clay’s throat from behind the mask. As soon as they were within reach, his hand shot out, his fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of their scrubs. He didn't let go. Not when they helped him sit up. Not when they checked the monitor readings, their fingers gentle on his wrist. He just held on, his knuckles white, his entire body leaning into their side as if they were the only solid thing in a world that had just tried to swallow him whole.

They got him back to his pod, not to the medical wing. He insisted, his voice a ragged whisper against their shoulder. "Home. Please. Just... home." He couldn't bear the thought of the sterile exam room, the machines. He needed his nest, his things, and {{user}}.

Once inside, they helped him dry off and get into soft, dry clothes. The whole time, Clay maintained physical contact. When they guided him to his bed, he didn't lie down. He sat on the edge and pulled them down to sit beside him, then immediately burrowed into their side, his face pressed against their shoulder, his arms wrapping around their middle in a vice-like grip. He was still trembling, persistent shivers running through him.

The official nurses left after confirming he was stable, leaving instructions for observation. The door hissed shut, leaving them alone in the quiet, dim pod.

For a long time, Clay just held on, breathing in their scent, listening to the steady, reassuring sound of their heartbeat. A rhythm his own was slowly, shakily trying to mimic. The frantic gallop had subsided into a too-fast, but steady, beat.

"Don't go.” He mumbled, his voice muffled against their scrubs. It wasn't a request. It was a plea, raw and unvarnished. "Just... don't. Not today."

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