I was listening to the song "Swim" by Jack's Mannequin, and it made me want to write something. To me, the middle of this fic seems a bit weak, but after revising it several times I'm a bit more comfortable with it than I was prior to this. I own none of the characters represented in this fanfic, although if you thought such a thing, then I'm flattered.

Sometimes it felt like he was sinking fast. He would open his mouth to breathe only to get a mouthful of water flowing into his lungs and he would hack and cough until he was dizzy and sick. Other times, he would keep his mouth shut despite the pressure, despite the voice in his head urging him to just open it.

Maybe if you open it this time, you'll be able to breathe.

The waters seemed particularly rough when he went home. It was not unusual for him to find himself being pushed ahead by the rapids, the waves washing over his head and pummeling him this way and that until he was no longer sure if he was going to reach the shore.

But when he reached the shore… oh, when he reached the shore…

When he reached the shore, he felt weightless. There was no water to drag him down; no weeds to force him back. Just sunshine and the warm, comforting breeze.

He was on shore when Ponyboy invited him to his house. When he was with Ponyboy and his family the laughter, the jokes, the comfortable atmosphere warmed his cold, wet skin. The sunshine was comforting, seemingly never-ending despite the disagreements that occasionally took place.

When he sat with Dallas in the lot, Dallas playing the part of storyteller, he could feel that warm wind. Despite the graphic quality the stories held, he loved them for the action, for the pride Dallas obviously took in them. When the stories ran out, they would sit in silence, only the crackling of the small, pitiful fire breaking the peace.

When he was on shore, he forgot the feeling of the water. He forgot everything; forgot what it was like to worry about whether or not you were going to live or die. If you would come up for air, or if your last breath would be the scummy, green water that inhabited the rivers in the cities.

The water never completely left. He would always be swimming, and he knew he would, but sometimes he liked to think that one day he'd make that final stroke, kick his legs, and come up on land once and for all.