He was calm.
His arms were stuck in a downward pull, like the water around him was trying to swallow him whole.
The liquid in his little lungs burned, but he didn't struggle. His mind was fixated on breathing, nothing else.
But where he should have tasted the chlorine tainted air, he tasted chlorine tainted water instead.
It felt easy, all too easy, more like falling asleep than it felt like drowning.
There was fear somewhere in his stomach, raw and passionate and innocent all at the same time, but it was covered with overwhelming numbness, his senses fading, vision tunnelling.
He barely felt the strong hands close around his small arms, didn't understand the sensation of his back scraping against the poolside.
Palms brushed his pale cheeks, voices tumbled together in his head, one and the same, whispering and screaming and calling his name. Luck. Luck. Luck. Over and over and over again, the tone strong and gentle and boyish in comparison with the pressure on his chest.
Water flooded from his nose and mouth, vision clearing, flashes of well known red and hazel and olive and-
Black.
His feet were suddenly on cool wooden flooring, hands outstretched in front of him, blind in the darkness that impaired his vision like a felt sheet.
His face was sticky and wet, the sound of his own quiet, fitful sobs echoing around him. Fresh terror curled around his stomach, holding it, squeezing it in a painful iron grip, each new squeeze bringing out another soft, high pitched and childish cry.
His tiny hands collided with the bed across from his own first, before he brought his head to it, barely tall enough to peek over the edge.
He spoke, his voice both hopeful and desperate, and salvation was granted in the form of a shifting on the bed, a pair of hands gently lifting him from the ground, arms coiling around him, lips whispering words of nonchalant comfort. Vibrant, familiar scents drifted in and out of his nostrils, and equally as familiar breathing patterns and heartbeats filled his head. He rose his hands, tiny palms and fingers curling around even smaller handfuls of ginger hair. He settled, eyes closing...
Only to find them open, staring at the clock on his living room wall, a tie uncomfortably tight around his neck, newly pressed suit as grey and somber as the day itself.
It whispered of death, speaking coyly into his young ears.
He scratched a salty, tight streak from his cheek, not paying attention to the quiet, bleak, older men around him.
He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, when all his body really wanted to do was shake and run.
He felt the urge on a cellular level, hard to deny, the force of the weight on his shoulders crippling despite his appearance. The shoes rhythmically scraping the floor were driving him mad, the gravity of the situation made him want to scream and cry.
He was bubbling over, tears gathering on his lashes again, when a hand gently slipped into his.
It offered a comforting squeeze. An understanding squeeze. Loving and polite and grounding all the same.
He turned his gaze, finding solace and calm and carefree softness within those hazel orbs.
The voice that spoke to him, however, was strangely out of sync with the lips they came from.
"Luck.
Luck, wake up, you fell asleep. Let's go up to bed," they said.
He felt hands shaking his shoulders, and the visions around him began to crumble outward, making way for another, vivid and warm and current.
The television was droning faintly, the light piercing his eyelids before he even opened them, groaning just slightly.
Fingers tunnelled through his hair, warm body shifting under his with each rhythmic breath, the embrace gentle and caressing and welcoming like summer rain.
His eyes slowly crept open, and he turned his head, looking into the eyes of his beholder, the face that graced his dreams.
"Mm... Five more minutes, Claire."