Sometimes Colin dreams about the sound of bone hitting flesh.

In his dreams, Ephram is standing in front of him, shouting, and Colin is outside his body, aspectator as he watches his nightmare play out.

He sees himself pull back a fist, and then it all starts playing in slow motion.

He always shouts, telling himself to stop, but that sound, that terrible, sick sound always echoes moments later.

And he always watches Ephram fall to the ground, hand cradling his face as he stares up at Colin, eyes colored with anger and sadness.

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Sometimes Colin dreams about sighed murmurs and whispered endearments.

In his dreams, Ephram is laid out before him, smiling, and Colin is straddling his thighs, staring into an adoring gaze. He reaches down, tracing his name across a taut nipple.

He always whimpers as their mouths meet, as the soft whispers are exhaled against his lips. And he always watches Ephram come, hands cradling his face tenderly as they lay there, those eyes staring up at him, satiated and in love.

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Colin knows the dreams of making love to Ephram are just dreams.

He can change them, switch them around, touch and caress wherever he wants. Kiss lips or neck or stomach. They can be in his bedroom, in Ephram's, or pressed up against the hard desks at school.

He loves those dreams.

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Colin knows the dreams of hitting Ephram aren't just dreams.

He can't change them. His bones will always connect with Ephram's flesh. Ephram will always fall to the ground. They will always be outside the diner, and they will always be standing on a dingy sidewalk beneath glowing streetlights.

He hates them, because of what they are.

He hates them because they're real.