It's very fucking hard not to make fun of you; he shrugs, waves a hand away absently like don't bother, go nuts. It's not like most of the people he knows hold back anyway, it rolls off of him. He's almost immune at this point. Far be it from him to try and teach her social restraint, considering how he lacks it himself.

"No promises," he says of his terrible fucking alliteration, but it's an absent, off-hand comment as he strides purposefully toward the lapping water, pulling his snorkeling gear on.

He takes a moment to survey it distastefully, an unhappy little frown on his lips as memories flash by quickly.

The current, dragging him in seasick unhappy lurches... salt water in his eyes, stinging. Salt in his mouth. Salt in his throat. Salt in his lungs, gasping for air that isn't there. A mile below the surface, too dark to see anything but deep blue, the abyss below him, above him, around him. Black eyes. A pearly, spear-sharp jutting tooth protruding through his chest, the gaping wound. Drowning, and waking up, and clutching at his throat, his chest, drowning, waking up, drowning, waking up, drowning, waking up, drowning, waking up-

"Screw it," he says, bites the snorkel mouthpiece, and dives in.