The cross above the chapel hadn't changed.
Neither had the brick steps leading up to it, or the way the stained glass bled color across the front pews when the sun hit it just right.
But I had.
Ten years away had a way of doing that to a man.
I stood on the church's front walk with my hands clenched in my jacket pockets, staring up at the steeple like it might fall on me. Like maybe I deserved it.
"Ralph," my mother had said on the phone, "just come home for Easter. One Sunday. You don't even have to go inside."
But I had. And now I was standing here, back in his shadow. My father's. Reverend Stephen Whittaker. Shepherd of the flock. Condemner of the queers.
And still the man who never once said my name after I came out.
I was twenty-nine now. Leaner. Harder. A little colder around the edges. But I still felt twelve when I stepped into this town--like the walls could talk, and they remembered every shameful thing I'd ever done.
I stepped inside the church. The smell hit me first--candles, wood polish, old Bibles, and lilies. Easter lilies. They lined the aisle in white and gold, like purity had a scent.
And then I saw him.
At the front of the sanctuary, adjusting a mic stand, hair the color of sand and honey, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he didn't know how much forearms could undo a man.
Danny.
Choir boy turned choir director. My first kiss behind the baptismal curtain. My last kiss before I ran.
My chest ached.
He turned. Saw me. Froze.
For a long second, neither of us moved.
Then--"Well, well," he said, voice softer than I remembered, but deeper. "If it isn't the prodigal son."
I laughed, but it came out like a cough. "Guess the pigs got tired of me."
Danny set the mic down. Walked forward. Every step a heartbeat.
"You came back."
"Just for the weekend."
"Your father know?"
"He will soon enough."
Danny raised an eyebrow. "Still got that fire in you, huh?"
I shrugged. "Still got that mouth on you?"
A flicker of heat passed between us.
He looked down. Then up. "You staying for rehearsal?"
"You always make a habit of flirting with apostates in God's house?"
Danny stepped closer, close enough to smell like cinnamon and coffee. "Only the hot ones."
-----------
The choir left around 8:30. Danny didn't.
Neither did I.
The sanctuary was empty but still warm, voices echoing off the rafters like ghosts. He sat on the piano bench, fingers idly pressing keys, humming something half-sacred, half-sinful.
I leaned against the pulpit. "You always this casual with sinners?"
Danny glanced up. "Ralph, you think too highly of yourself. I flirt with lots of broken boys."
"You think I'm broken?"
"I know you are."
I walked down the aisle, slow. "And what about you?"
"I stayed," he said. "What do you think that did to me?"
We stared at each other. Two boys grown into men, each holding the other's unfinished sentence.
"I used to think about you," I said.
Danny's voice dropped. "I used to dream about you."
I stopped in front of him. The tension crackled like thunder before a storm.
He reached out and touched my wrist. "Still feel the same?"
"No," I said honestly. "I feel worse. Because now I know what I missed."
Danny pulled me into him.
The kiss wasn't gentle.
It was ten years of rage, grief, and heat poured into a single mouth.
His fingers curled into my jacket. Mine fisted in his shirt. Our teeth clashed. Our tongues fought. And then--
He shoved me back, breathing hard. "Not here."
"Why not?" I whispered.
"Because if I take you here, I won't stop."
I pressed my forehead to his. "Then don't stop."
-------------- The back room of the church wasn't holy anymore.
He locked the door.
I dropped to my knees.
He didn't say a word as I unbuckled his belt, pushed his pants down, and took his cock in my mouth. But his fingers trembled as they dug into my hair.
"Jesus, Ralph," he whispered.
I smiled around him.
He tasted like lust and control undone.
I went slow at first--just enough to make him squirm. Then faster, wetter, filthier. The sounds he made were a hymn of their own.
"Fuck, you still know what you're doing," he groaned.
