Author: I'm raising the rating to M for this chapter, because Jim just can't catch a break. Warnings for language and non-con. Also, I've mucked around with Jim and Carl's respective ages for this bit. Terribly sorry. I felt yucky leaving it any other way.

Jim had always been good at swimming. Always. Jim loved swimming long before he loved anything else. He loved how he could sink until the world was condensed into writhing blurs of color and thick echoes of sounds. Loved how he could shut himself away in a liquid cage, trapping himself outside of the rest of the world. He loved how he could slowly drown himself, only coming up for air when his cells were threatening to burst, pulsing with desperate energy beneath his skin.

"We need to get him back on the oxygen. His breathing's too shallow."

There was a creek not far from his house, too shallow to swim in, but deep enough that he could submerge his head into the stream and peer at the life teeming beneath the surface. Eyes wide open, he would sift through mud and rocks to expose the fragile invertebrates burrowed in the silt. They would wriggle away from his prying fingers, but he would eventually capture them in his curious hands to be mentally cataloged and questioned. Contrary to the other kids' accusations, he never killed them. He would set them on rocks and gently prod at them with twigs to watch how they moved, how they bent and twisted and slithered away from the stimulus. Then he would carefully place them back into the stream, allowing them to bury themselves away from sight in the muck.

Over the years, he learned to do the same. Grade school was the first time he realized that he wasn't like the other children, and that his peers didn't much appreciate him for it. He came to school having learned to read years ahead of the others, and his hand was well-practiced in the art of coloring. At first, the teachers praised his accomplishments; after all, not many children could finger paint with such skill and finesse. But slowly the reprimands began to outnumber the accolades.

"Jim, you mustn't hit others."

"Jim, you mustn't lie to your teachers."

"You can't take things that aren't yours, Jim."

"You need to learn to play with the other kids, Jim."

"You need to open your eyes, Jim. Can you do that for me? Jim..."

So he buried himself. He hid away from their prying eyes by dissolving into the background. It was easier this way. He could watch quietly from the back of the classroom, slowly learning how he was supposed to act from his observations of the other kids. He learned that he wasn't supposed to know about Shakespeare or geometry. He was supposed to know simple maths and Dr. Seuss. He found that he wasn't supposed to be able to build scale models of sail boats; he was supposed to be building chunky cars whose wheels could barely turn. He watched with barely concealed disdain as the other children played with one another, choosing instead to sit with a dictionary propped in his lap, slowly memorizing each page.

He didn't dumb himself down; to do so would have been worse than living with their questions and scorn. He simply melted into the background, never raising his hand when the teacher asked questions, and always keeping to the corners during recess periods. He faded from sight, content to pass unnoticed for the time being. He slowly adopted their mannerisms and affectations, memorizing the appropriate response to every social situation in which he may be required to engage.

"My puppy was hit by a car today."

"I'm sorry; I'm sure he's in puppy heaven now." (Bullshit. The mutt was decomposing in the earth; just another link in the food chain.)

"My music teacher says I could be a soloist in a symphony one day."

"I'm sure you could. You're really good at playing the piano." (You're bloody awful. You can't even play in time. Your notes are hard and your form is sloppy.)

"You're going to be fine, Jim. We're looking after you now. Everything's going to be okay."

"Thank you. I'm already feeling better." (If I could control my mouth, I'd be screaming. I'm dying and you can't stop it. Just another link in the food chain. Fuck, I hope there's not an afterlife.)

So he passed through the years, living through an oppressive boredom only alleviated by the little indulgences he allowed himself. He quietly entertained himself, hiding the evidence as well as he hid himself. Only Mother suspected. At first, at least. They grew suspicious over time. He was a little too well-crafted, a little too robotic in his responses to truly hide his genius. But they could never pin anything on him. Not unless he wanted credit. There were times when he left his signature, times when the game was too well-played not to take credit for it. But these instances were few and far in between, and most of the time he went unpunished.

Well, unpunished by people other than Mother. She had also perfected the art of hiding. Of striking him only in places where no one could see. Of leaving only shallow marks that would fade with time. Of cutting deeper into his psyche than in his flesh. Her genius was in knowing that Jim would never admit to how broken she left him. She was never caught because Jim was never willing to concede defeat.

"He's strong; he'll make it if we can just get him through tonight."

So he stayed away from home as often as he could. At first he could only find weak excuses to stay out of the house, but as he grew older he found that it was quite simple to fill his schedule so full that he was only home to sleep, if even that. Sometimes he would just break into someone's car and huddle in the backseat, sleeping until the pre-dawn light forced him awake. She didn't seem to care. It simply allowed her an evening of not having to see her teenage fuck up of a son.

It was through this passion for hiding that he found his passion for swimming. He originally just tried out for the team in an effort to find an activity that would keep him out of the house during the summer months. He hadn't expected to be good at it. He hadn't expected to enjoy the long hours spent at the pool, always training for the next swim meet. It was such a random happenstance that he couldn't believe his luck. Good things never just happened for Jim; he had to force them to happen, had to find what he wanted and take it for his own. Because of this, he didn't much trust this tenuous bit of joy in his life; he fully expect to pay in spades for every minute of pleasure.

He was, as always, correct.

He met Carl Powers and Anthony White at try outs. Anthony was a seasoned swimmer, whereas Carl was just trying out like Jim. Like in every other activity Jim participated in, he never planned to excel. He just needed to be good enough to hide in the background for the hours during which he didn't want to be at home. Anthony, however, immediately zeroed in on Jim for whatever reason. Maybe it was the fact that, while swimming across the pool over and over again, Jim rarely breached the surface for air, his lungs having long since learned to make full use of their capacity through his creek-scavenging experiences. Maybe it was the way his body was clearly built for swimming, so slim and streamlined as to be almost reptilian. No matter what the reason, Anthony honed his attentions on Jim, forcing him to repeat exercises over and over again, each time shaving some additional seconds off his records.

Carl, meanwhile, was just the opposite of Jim. He was a good swimmer, very good in fact, but it was largely due to his muscles being able to haul his body through the water faster than most under-developed teens. He struck the water with little grace, merely dragging himself across the pool as quickly as he was capable. He, unlike Jim, had been deeply involved in many other sports, and was therefore extremely competitive. For this reason, he took an instant disliking to his main competition, Jim.

Jim was quite willing to tolerate Carl's barbs and pointed laughter in exchange for swimming. He thought that, if this was his due for happiness, he was more than content to pay the price. Anthony, however, took exception to Carl's jeers. Having taken Jim so thoroughly under his wing, he viewed Carl's insults as personal offenses to himself. Jim tried to convince him otherwise, to tell Anthony that it didn't bother him, but Anthony wouldn't listen.

"Don't be stupid, Jim. Of course it bothers you. It would make anyone upset, and you're no different. You're just too dense to admit it."

"No, really, Anthony. It's fine. I'm used to it. I've heard it all before, and there's no point in getting upset about it. He's not the first to say those things, and I doubt he'll be the last."

Anthony stared at him, his jaw set tight. "You shouldn't have to put up with this bullshit. You're better than him; hell, you're better than almost everyone at everything."

"Almost?" Jim scoffed and raised an eyebrow. "Now you're the one being insulting."

"Shut up. You know what I mean. Don't worry, Jim, I'll take care of it."

"No. No you won't! I can take care of myself. I don't need you hovering around like an older brother."

"Is that how you think of me?" Anthony stared down at Jim, his eyes betraying some deeper emotion than Jim hadn't seen directed at himself before. "Like an older brother?"

Looking back, Jim should've known then and there. It should've raised bells and alarms in his head. But it didn't. Not at that moment, at least. "No, not at all. But you're kind of acting like one right now. Seriously, don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

So during the next swim practice, Carl was abnormally silent. He merely shoved past Jim in the locker room, nearly slamming him into the door frame as they entered the pool. This went on for weeks, these subtle little jabs, but Jim didn't honestly mind. Really, it just made lying about the bruises his mother left all the more easy. Now he could place all the blame on Carl and his infatuation with pushing Jim into large, non-moving objects. Everything worked out for the better for them all, really.

And so another year passed. Jim was spending more time with Anthony, preferring to sleep at his house rather than in the backseats of cars now. They were practically inseparable outside of school. Yes, Anthony was a couple of years older, but it didn't seem to matter to either one of them. It helped that Jim was more intelligent than even the most senior of students, and was therefore placed in many of the advanced courses with his older peers. More often than not, he could lie and say that he was eighteen and never be caught. He doubted that anyone would care that he was only sixteen, but it was a point of pride that he could get away with it.

The swim team finally rejoined after their seasonal hiatus, and Jim couldn't have been more happy. Yes, he and Anthony had kept themselves preoccupied by training at the pool or occasionally a lake, but it wasn't the same as having practices and meets. The competitive edge was lost, and the adrenaline and sense of accomplishment along with it. Jim was now one of the top swimmers on their team, good enough to be considered a threat, but not so good that he warranted undue attention. This was often a point of contention between Jim and Anthony; Anthony had seen how well Jim swam when he didn't hold back, when he wasn't determined to remain under the radar, and he was angry that Jim held back during competitions. He said that he was letting the team down, that Jim was being selfish. Jim just wanted to keep his anonymity. As long as he placed high enough to receive a trophy or medal, he was happy.

"Jesus, Jim, I don't understand you! You're a freaking genius, but you just quietly sit in class and pretend you're not. You're one of the best actors I've seen, but you refuse to perform in the school plays. And you're like a fucking fish, but you don't even try to win at competitions. It's ridiculous, Jim. Absolutely and truly ridiculous."

"It's what I like, Anthony. I don't need or want all that attention." (He craved it, wanted it so badly it burnt, but he couldn't. Not if he wanted to keep people from looking too far under his surface.)

"A little attention won't kill you, Jim. You deserve it. You're fucking amazing, but you just let people ignore you. Let them trample all over you like you're just another study in mediocrity."

"I'm not mediocre. As long as I know it, it's enough."

"Bullshit." Anthony was just centimeters from Jim's face now, hovering so close that Jim could taste the mint on his breath. "You want the attention. You want everyone to look at you and know that you're fucking fantastic. You want everyone to know your name, to say it the kind of awe that it deserves. You're just too big of a coward to take what you want."

"I'm not a coward, and I don't want any of that."

"You're lying. I'll prove it to you eventually, you'll see." He moved away with a slight smirk, settling down next to Jim with his hand stretched over the smaller boy's thigh. They sat like that in silence for a long moment, just huddled next to one another on Anthony's bed. It was nice, and Jim slowly let himself relax into the touch, easing his head onto Anthony's shoulder as he fell into a peaceful slumber.

"He's stable for the time being. I'm still waiting on some more test results before I make a diagnosis."

Their team did exceptionally well that season, between Anthony and Carl winning top prizes at each meet and Jim always placing in his chosen event. So well, in fact, that they made it to the championships. Jim was both happy and nervous about this; he hadn't ever intended to compete in such a big event, but he found himself forced to swim at the meet. He could be relied upon to swim well, if not wonderfully, so their coach insisted that he be on the roster. He regretted not faking an illness for years following the swim meet.

They were doing well, exceptionally well in fact, at the beginning of the competition. Each team member performed well in their respective events, leaving the team as a whole in a strong second place with a chance of making first. These chances were heightened by Carl, whom placed first in his event. Next, however, was Anthony's turn. Jim supposed that things turned sour a long time before Anthony bombed the competition, but he refused to condemn their entire friendship and therefore placed all the blame on Anthony's poor performance at the championships. It was easier that way.

Anyway, following Anthony's abysmal performance, their team had dropped pretty far in the rankings. They weren't quite in third place, but it was close enough to make their coach nervous. Especially since only Jim had yet to compete. Good old Jim, guaranteed to place third or second, but never first. Good old Jim, with his solid but less-than-spectacular record. Before Jim's event began, Anthony pulled him aside, quietly navigating him over to a corner of the pool to talk.

"Anthony, what's wrong? I can't be long, I've got to-"

"I know, just listen for a minute, okay? Jim, I need you to take first."

"Anthony, I can't-"

"No. Just listen! I need you to do it. I know you can; I've watched you before. I just...You have to do it, for me, right?"

"For you?"

"Yes, for me! Listen, this is my last year; I'm graduating and going to uni now. This was my last shot at having the team win championships, and I mucked it up. I just...I can't graduate with everyone blaming me for us losing. I can't leave with fucking this up as my legacy, you know?"

Jim blinked up at his desperate eyes, wondering for a moment why he cared. Why it bothered him that Anthony might be hurt. It never bothered him with anyone else. "Yeah, sure. I can do that. How fast do I need to be?"

Anthony gave a little smirk, his lips twisting in a pleased smile. "Blow them out of the water, kid. Make them wonder where in the hell you came from."

"Right."

And that's exactly what Jim did. He set a new record and sent their team's ranking rocketing up to first. The cheers were deafening as he clambered out of the pool, stumbling slightly from the strain he had just put his body through. He only had eyes, however, for Anthony, whom was standing off to the side, smiling broadly and cheering with the rest of them. There was a certain air of victory about him, then. Something like pride was emanating from the way he grinned triumphantly back at Jim. Jim just smiled back and allowed himself to be swept up in the celebration. He even accepted the first place trophy for their team when the time came.

Jim waited until things had died down before returning to the showers. This was his habit, as it was easier to hide his mother's markings when there were fewer prying eyes to watch him strip and question him. He collected his street clothes and made his way into the shower area, ready to let the heat of the water pound away the ache deeply embedded in his muscles. He briefly considered that maybe he had overdone his victory, but he couldn't bring himself to be ashamed of his record. It would be years before anyone was good enough to erase his name off that placard, if anyone ever did.

"Jim."

Jim yelped and spun around, shocked at the deep voice that was suddenly behind him, sharing in his shower space. "An-Anthony. What are you doing in here?"

"I just thought I would thank you. You were bloody brilliant, you know." He leaned down and nipped at Jim's ear, tugging it between his teeth. "Amazing, in fact. I always knew you were something wonderful." He was trailing kisses up and down Jim's neck, causing Jim to shiver under the shower spray.

"Thanks, Anthony. But, um, don't you think this could wait?"

"Oh, god no. I've waited long enough." He pushed Jim against the tile of the shower, grinding his hips against Jim's body. "It's been so frustrating, dancing around this. Waiting for you to show a sign that you wanted it as badly as I did. You really did show your hand today, didn't you, Jimmy?"

"I...I don't think so. Anthony, I don't...This isn't..." He gave a little gasp as Anthony's hands began stroking up and down his sides, then sliding behind to cup Jim's arse and pull Jim more firmly against Anthony's closed his eyes as Anthony began rocking his hips, building a steady friction between the two.

"Oh, fuck, Jim. Yes..."

Jim's breath hitched as he was spun around and slammed against the cold tile. He couldn't move because of the arm pressed firmly against his shoulder blades. The other hand was reaching down, stroking and probing and...

"Anthony, no! Stop...Please don't..." He gasped as he felt the first digit sliding in, tearing him open. He began thrashing against the restraining arm, trying to throw his weight back to break free from Anthony.

"Fuck! He's having another seizure. Seb, hold his arm still while I give him this..."

"Come on, Jim. What's wrong with you? You've been asking for it for months now. I'm just giving you what you want."

"I don't want this...Never asked..." He cried out as another finger slid in with the first, both now pushing into him in a steady rhythm. He groaned as his knees buckled, the only thing now holding him up being Anthony's weight behind him.

"What? Sharing a bed with me every goddamn night isn't asking for it? Jim, I hate to tell you, but we've been a couple for more than a year now. No use in acting all surprised about it."

"Just wanted...Couldn't go home..." He bit his lip to repress a scream as a third finger worked its way in. He could taste blood oozing into his mouth, but at least the pain was distracting him from the violation of his body below.

"Oh, shit, he's bit through his tongue. Here, Seb, see if you can get this in his mouth."

"Kiss me." His head was jerked around to the side, and Anthony's tongue forced its way into his mouth. It danced over Jim's lips, lapping up the blood from the cut in his lower lip. "God, Jim, you taste so good. Want to taste more of you..."

The fingers pulled out, but they were quickly replaced by something slick and warm as Anthony knelt between Jim's legs. Jim bit into his knuckles to prevent a cry of humiliation as Anthony sucked at his hole. He was thankful for the water that quickly washed his tears away from his face. Eventually, Anthony stood back up and pressed a kiss to the back of Jim's neck and behind his ear, his tongue darting out to brush against the shell of Jim's ear.

"I think you're ready now. Just try to hold still. It'll make things easier."

Jim gasped as he felt a pressure at his entrance, followed by the sensation of being ripped open as Anthony forced himself in. He screamed as Anthony slammed into him, but Jim quickly silenced his cries out of shame. From then on, he held his breath so he wouldn't have enough oxygen to scream again.

"His breathing's dropped again. Get the oxygen mask back on him."

"Oh, Jim, you're so tight. So good...God, you're a virgin, aren't you? I can tell...Fuck, yes, Jim, yes..."

Jim closed his eyes, trying to black out the sensations of the present. He began thinking about a math journal he had recently picked up, thinking about string theory and derivatives and the homotopy theorem and constructive mathematics and...

And it was over. With a shout and a moan, Anthony emptied himself into Jim's body. They stood together for a moment, Anthony gasping and trailing kisses up Jim's spin while Jim quivered against the shower. He pulled out of Jim and stepped back, allowing the smaller boy to slide to the floor, just a puddle of deadened limbs and trembling insides.

"Thank god it's over. Roll him onto his side. Gently now..."

Jim collapsed to the side, his face pressed to the cold ground while Anthony's hands stroked over his arms. "God, Jim. You were perfect. Absolutely beautiful." A soft kiss pressed against his temple, coaxing his eyes to look up. "You're wonderful, you know that? Not just now, but always. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." Fingers running through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. "I'll just let you get cleaned up then. The first time's always the worst. It'll be better next time, I promise."

He exited the shower, leaving Jim huddled under the now freezing cold spray. His mind was a blank, a stark contrast to the screaming signals he was receiving from his body. He simply laid there for a few long minutes, allowing himself to melt into the tiles. Finally, he hauled himself up, scrubbed himself down, and wrapped his towel securely around his waist. He still felt too exposed, so he hurried out into the changing area, anxious to don as many layers as he had available. He was even considering raiding the lost and found for more clothing when he stumbled into Carl. Carl stepped back, a smirk playing at his lips as he took in the sight of a bruised and bleeding Jim standing before him.

"On the rag now, are you Jim?" he sneered as his eyes looked significantly at the puddle of blood and water that was growing beneath Jim's legs. Jim simply stared, utterly horrified as Carl continued to laugh, shoving past Jim and heading towards his own locker.

The humiliation slowly mutated. Twisting around itself and giving birth to simmering loathing. But not for Anthony, never for Anthony. For Carl. The laughing bastard, the arse hole who started it all. If not for Carl, Jim would never have grown so attached to Anthony and his quiet protection. If not for Carl, Jim could have hid what happened away, ignore the fact that he was damaged. It was all Carl's fault.

When he went to the doctor, Jim insisted that it had been consensual. That they just didn't know what they were doing and things got a little too rough.

When he came home, he drank his mother's entire supply of vodka.

When he went back to school, he switched all his classes so that he was in the most advanced program. He even forged signatures to get the proper papers passed through the red tape.

When he next went to the pool, he killed Carl. He never went to that pool again. Well, at least for a very long time. And he certainly didn't swim there again.

When he next saw Anthony, he ignored him. He continued to ignore him for years, until he had some sway in the criminal world. Then he started slowly tearing Anthony apart. He was mugged multiple times a year, lost every job he managed to obtain within a month of being hired, and his flat caught fire. Five times.

Jim had always been good at swimming. Always. But he was even better at making things burn.

Author: Yep. I'm going straight to Author Hell for writing this. You see, it's like regular hell, but you either always have writer's block or never have paper when you have a great idea. Ghastly place, really.