A/N

Hey guys! Sorry that my updating has gotten a little less frequent recently! I've been a little busy, with these past four days alone including schoolwork, two volleyball games and a tournament that lasted all day, and having company over for the weekend. I hope you like this chapter! I wanted to dive (heh heh) a little more into Lance's past, and don't worry, more action is coming! I just have to write it.

Thank you so much for reading my story! It encourages me so much when I see I have a new follower! (And it also kinda makes my day)

I hope you all know that you're amazing!

Waves splashed against his skin, enveloping his body as he dove into the refreshing waters of the Cuban coast. With powerful strokes, strong kicks, and a tight core, Lance swam his regular morning route, from the pier by his house to the buoy roughly four miles down the shore. He had always loved to swim, to feel the rush the water instilled in his veins, the shock of the temperature, and the energy of each stroke. He found sanctuary in the solace of the depths, and the peace that the waters brought him allowed him to think. And clear his head. He was eleven when he first started to swim seriously every morning. He'd wanted to make his school's swim team, and there was no way that he'd let anyone be more impressive in their endurance and speed than him. The first time he'd tried out, the coach had actually laughed at him.

This is Cuba, he'd said. Anyone can swim at your pace.

After that, he'd swam twice a day, religiously. He'd often swim to the buoy three or more times before his mother would yell at him to get out and take a break. When he tried out again, the coach had to let him join. Of course, after he'd been accepted, he realized that making the team was only the first step. Each swim meet introduced a new competitor, and each defeat felt absolutely crushing.

You're not good enough!

You'll never beat me, loser.

Get faster or get off my team.

There are hundreds of kids who I can recruit at this minute, you think I'll keep you around if you fail?

The voices of his coaches, teammates, and competitors echoed in his head, their cadence pushing his legs to kick faster. Heart pumping, Lance cut through the water, trying to wash their biting words from his mind. All he'd ever wanted was acknowledgement. To amaze someone. To be good at something. In a family with five children, it was easy to be hidden under everyone else's accomplishments, to be ridden off and forgotten. That's why, at a very young age, he'd turned to being the loudest, most animated, and goofiest of them all. Because then, no one would forget him. Of course, that was also just the way he was. But that perspective, that mentality, he'd carried throughout his entire life. And maybe it would never leave him. Another great reason he loved the water was because it hid his tears. No one would ever know how badly you hurt behind a pair of goggles and the water you buried your head in. The first time he'd cried after a meet was when he was thirteen, after his biggest rival beat him by three seconds. It wasn't a massive amount of time, but in swim, it was a league away. A swimmer could practice their stroke for hours and they might not cut even a second from their time. He remembered the utter disappointment on his coach's face. And the pity on everyone else's. Lance hadn't left the locker room for forty minutes afterwards, determined to not leave with the telltale signs of blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes. Lance dove down, deep into the depths of the ocean, wanting to escape his memories. Switching his kick from freestyle to butterfly and shifting his hands into a streamlined position above his head, Lance pushed himself forward, counting the seconds for how long he could go without surfacing for air. After twenty seconds, his head started to feel light and his lungs began to ache. After thirty seconds his lungs stung. After forty they threatened to explode. Knowing that he needed to surface before he drowned, Lance switched his kick and began to use his arms again. But he hadn't realized just how deep underwater he'd dove. With each pull of his arms he felt a little more desperate, a little more panicked. His lungs begged him for air, and his instincts pulled at his lips, yelling at them to open. But Lance knew what would happen if he inhaled. And he wasn't about to let that happen. Exhaustion clawed at him as he fought to reach the top of the water, while the blue depths seemed to be dragging him down. Pushing harder, Lance battled the urge to breathe and the influence of the sluggish water around him. But without consent, Lance's mouth opened, asking for oxygen. All it received in answer was a mouthful of ocean water. His body swallowed without the consent of his mind, and a flood of water filled his lungs. Chest heaving, his body swallowed more and more liters of water, trying to find some air, any air. Sinking like the dummy they'd used for his test to be a lifeguard, Lance realized with a jolt of nausea that he was drowning. He'd never been afraid of the water, nor of the consequences of what could happen if he stayed under too long. But here he was, eyes bulging, chest allowing gallons of harmful water into his weak lungs, and body weighed down as if it were lead. As if Lance himself were made of metal. Groping for a hand that wasn't there, Lance flailed in hysterical desperation. His mind thought only of air, while his body fell further and further away from the vast supply above the ocean. Growing weaker, Lance stopped wriggling, accepting his fate. Accepting death. And when his vision finally abandoned him, he could only feel relief.

Lance woke gasping, filling his lungs with loads of precious, expensive air. He distantly noticed that his body was drenched in so much sweat he might have been able to swim in it, but the thought of swimming sickened him enough to block the observation from his mind. His chest shuddered and his mind, rattled and terrified, tried to make sense of his hallucination. Or maybe it was simply a nightmare. He couldn't be certain anymore. Illusion or dream, it still horrified him. He'd never feared water. The sea was his home. It was safety. It was a warm blanket of protection. The ocean was sacred to Lance, and the fact that he dreamt about it killing him shook him to his core. Gulping repeatedly, Lance tried to steady his breathing and not to dwell on his most recent terror. He still lay strapped to the operation table, which made Lance wonder what other plans that the Galra held for him. But at the same time, he knew it was better not to think about it. Lance's stomach roiled and frustratedly stabbed the inside of his skin, reminding him of the starvation that had settled on his body. They hadn't fed him in too long. If they dragged his fast out much longer, they'd lose their subject of experimentation. In between torture sessions, people who he could only assume were Galran scientists who wished to further the Galra Empire's knowledge of the human body conducted endless and awful tests. Some were rather painless, involving the inspection of his ears, taking swabs of salva and other, seemingly humane tests. Others left him scarred in more ways than one. He didn't expect his body to stay together much longer, and Lance could only hope that they'd test how long he could sleep next. The moments of consciousness that he had recently were rather brief, and often blurry around the edges. Like his eyes had already jumped ship. Lance couldn't really focus on anything anymore, and his thoughts were always ridiculous or complete nonsense. As Lance's mind slipped further from lucid thoughts, his expectations for death got higher and higher. If he didn't end up floating peacefully without pain or sorrow on a cloud somewhere, he was going to complain to God. Or maybe to the devil, with his luck. Lance closed his eyes with that thought still circling his head, hoping that this time he wouldn't wake up.