They always said Francisco was a dreamer. Just a pretty boy with his head in the clouds.

He never saw anything wrong with that. The fact that they never took him seriously just meant he was able to get away with things they would never suspect him of. His charming, somewhat dazed smile confused them.

Well, most of them anyway.

And even then, he wasn't sure his lover understood him most of the time. How could anyone understand that his dreams of what the future could be, of a place that could exist without all of this anger and hate that they spent so much of their lives raging against? How could anyone understand that sometimes his dreams were the only thing worth waking up for, because when he woke up he could still remember them, remember how much he wanted to change things?

Those dreams that one day reality would become a better place than the dreamland he was so fond of.