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Always - Synacky One-ShotZachary Baker sat quietly on the soft sand of the beach, digging his feet into the shifting grains underneath him. He watched the waves roll in lazily and crash into the shoreline, sometimes leaving seaweed remains in its trail. Zack sighed as he gazed out over the ocean, the beautiful sunset reflecting brightly over the clear blue water.
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He always came to the beach after school. It helped him relax and forget, only for a little while, how much his classmates made fun of him. Words like, “emo,” “faggot,” and “freak,” floated through his memory, reminding him of how much he hated high school.
It didn’t stop there, though. While normal teenagers could go home in the hopes of meeting the proud, smiling faces of their parents, Zacky had to deal with even more hate. The minute he would walk in the door, his parents would act like they didn’t even know him. It had been like that ever since he told them he was gay. After the church and bible lec
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"Again?" Brian asks quietly, standing over the younger boy.
Zacky sniffs and doesn't remove his gaze from the river. He repositions himself on the boulder and hugs his knees to his chest.
Brian sits down next to him, crossing his legs and playing with the hem of his jeans.
"How did you know?" Zacky asks softly, his voice shaking slightly.
Brian looks up at him, taking in his slightly chubby, pale face and never wandering emerald eyes.
"You always come here when you're upset. And your Mom rang me to say you didn't come home."
Zacky smiles slightly, "She worries too much."
"Zack, it's like, half past nine, you didn't call her or anything, are you surprised?"
"It's only half past nine, though."
"Shut up, you can see the reason she's worried."
Zacky doesn't say anything, he knows Brian's right. He's the family outcast, the rebellious teenager, the one who listens to heavy music, wears black, has piercings, wants to litter his body in colourful tattoos, the one who gets picked on for no rea
Synacky - All Around MeThe club lights were dim. Music pulsated from the speakers in low, rhythmic waves. Hips swayed, hands roamed, eyes burned.
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Zacky sipped his Jack as his gaze wandered around the club. A sea of bodies crowded around his booth, teenagers clad in scraps of leather and lace too small to be called outfits. Bare flesh gleamed with sweat as toned hips ground against each other to the beat of the pulsing music.
It was a noisy Saturday night, roughly around two o' clock, and swarm after swarm of eager party-goers continued to flood into the club, an infamous Californian joint affectionately dubbed The Hangover. They danced, caught up in the adrenaline and lust filling the musky air, hips together and hands pressed to heated flesh.
Zacky sighed and licked the excess foam from his snakebites, two elegant rings in his plush bottom lip. His tongue flicked out in a distracted, kittenish swipe to scoop the frothy liquid into his mouth. This earned him a rather heated look from a woman dancing beside h