"Fuuuck," Deacon idly hears himself hiss, barely audible, but still out loud when he doesn't mean it to be. There is too much happening at once; the water, the breathing, the invisibility, and now this. The mask is slipping and Deacon feels exposed, extremely fucking exposed, because Danse, of all people, he's certain won't understand.

"Was hoping you knew," he attempts, confident enough in tone that it could be true, and continues down the path, not waiting for Danse to dry his fins this time. Not listening to his suggestion, either. He needs to get away from him before his entire life is played over the water like it's the screen of the drive-in movie theater.

There's one problem, of course. There's water goddamn everywhere, and so those reflections flicker in and out almost just like Deacon's silhouette does. More glimpses of the gang, this time turning on the redhead Danse had noticed before, leaving him half-dead and bleeding from his bodily wounds. A farm, someplace he's found to recover and rebuild. A girl, dark eyes that seem to capture his full attention at every glance.

The images light up the water in Deacon's wake. Even if Danse can't see him, he can tell where he's stepping.