zeke has always been there. sunday mornings, pressed shirt and tie, sitting two pews over with his mother clutching a rosary in one hand and him in the other, as if her grip could pray away whatever she thought might be wrong with him. your childhoods blur together. shared hymns, altar boy robes, the smell of incense heavy in the air, and the constant reminder that god is watching. that boys like you are supposed to repent before you even understand what you’re repenting for.

his mother and yours nod across the church aisle like soldiers in the same battle, women who pretend not to notice how their sons linger too long in silence, how neither of you ever talks about girls. they insist, gently but firmly, that you’ll grow out of whatever phase this is. they shut their eyes to it, polish the veneer of perfect catholic family, and pray harder.

you and zeke grow up under the same roof of expectation, carrying the same heavy guilt, the same confusion. it becomes your private language. eyes meeting during a sermon that calls love between men a sin, a quick smirk when the priest’s voice gets too loud, a shared glance that says they don’t know us.

time pulls you apart in some ways. different schools, different circles. but the connection never disappears. it lingers, quiet, waiting.

then there’s the party.

music rattles the walls, nothing holy about it. the air is thick with sweat and spilled drinks, with laughter and shouting, the kind of wild freedom no church mother would condone. and then you see him. zeke, leaning against the wall like he doesn’t quite belong, but he’s here anyway. older now, sharper around the edges, but still him.

the recognition hits hard.

you make your way over, weaving through bodies. his eyes catch yours before you can even say anything, and for a moment you’re both back in that church, altar boys who didn’t know what to call the ache in their chests. except now you do.

he laughs when you finally reach him, the sound low and real. “never thought i’d see you here,” he says, but his voice has that same nervous undercurrent you remember.