Make Something Of Me, a drake & josh fanfic

The rituals are always the same. It's a comfort to Josh, knowing that. There's safety in the knowledge that he never has to wonder what to say, or what to do with his hands, or even how to dress. He says and does and wears the same things every time, in the same order, the same way it has been done by millions of others for nearly two thousand years before he was born.

"The Body of Christ."

The bride murmurs an "Amen" and opens her mouth. Josh represses a shiver as he deposits the host on her tongue, careful not to brush his fingers against her bright red, overly-painted lips. At the rehearsal the night before she and her mother-in-law to-be had had a screaming match in the church narthex, and Josh had narrowly avoided an elbow to the jaw when he tried to pull them apart. As he straightens, Josh glances quickly at the front pew. The mother-in-law's expression is stony, her lips pressed together into a hard, thin slash of pink. Josh takes a step to his left as the deacon bends to offer the chalice. This bride certainly has an interesting life ahead of her.

"The Body of Christ."

The groom's face is pale, his upper lip shiny with sweat. He's been none too steady on his feet, and he's not so much leaning against the altar railing as slumped across it. When he opens his mouth to receive the host, Josh can smell beer on his breath. He and his buddies had spent most of the morning in the church parking lot, keeping their previous night's hangovers at bay by getting drunk all over again. All of the groomsmen look like they could use a hot cup of coffee and a bottle or two of aspirin. The only male member of the wedding party who doesn't look like death warmed over is the guitarist. He might even be enjoying himself, if the emotion coming through in his voice is any indication.

"The Body of Christ."

Josh says it a hundred times as the wedding guests shuffle past. Each says "Amen," each receives the host, each walks away with the same blank expression on his or her face. The annoyances of the day before eventually blur and fade into the numbing pleasure of repetition, and by the time the ceremony is over Josh has forgotten the bride's and groom's names.

The guitarist is one of the last to leave after the photographer is finished. He's just snapping the latches on his guitar case closed as Josh crosses the nave on his way to the sacristy. "Father," he says, nodding politely and hoisting the case up off the pew. Josh stops, changes direction as the guitarist approaches him with a hand outstretched. He passes through a patch of sunlight spilling through the stained-glass window, and for a moment his hair glows bright auburn. "I'm Drake Parker."

Josh grasps the offered hand and shakes it. The other man's grip is surprisingly firm. "Nice to meet you," he says. "I enjoyed your music."

Drake smiles. "Thanks. I'm glad to hear you say that." He shifts the guitar case to his other hand and digs around in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "I was hoping," he says, withdrawing a creased white business card in the shape of a guitar pick and offering it to Josh, "you would keep me in mind if any other couples getting married here ever want a guitar player?"

There's already a long line snaking down the hallway when Josh approaches the confessional. The penitents are silent as he walks by, counting them off in his head as he passes, and he gives a weary sigh when he reaches the head of the line. It's going to be a long morning.

Inside the confessional, he leans his head against the wall beside the screen and closes his eyes as the parade of penitents begins. Their sins are always the same. "I lied to my husband." "I was unkind to my neighbor." "I stole from my job." Josh gives them all penance and sends them on their way, ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that wonders how much God really cares about Mrs. Housewife telling her husband his awful tie looks good or Mr. Accountant slipping a box of paperclips into his pocket on his way out of the office.

It goes on for ages. Josh's ass is sore from the hard wooden bench by the time the flood eventually slows to a trickle, then completely numb by the time it stops altogether. He glances at his watch. He'll give it another five minutes, just to be sure, but he hopes that will be it for today. His stomach is starting to growl, and by now lunch will be on the table at the rectory. A rustle of sound on the other side of the wall squashes his dreams of eating his soup while it's still hot just as the second hand sweeps past the twelve for the fifth time.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been three weeks since my last confession."

Josh sits up. He recognizes the voice at once; it's the Mystery Boy. He's been here three or four times before, but Josh has never seen his face. He's not even sure the Boy is a member of his congregation. As far as he knows, their only interaction has been here, behind the closed doors of the confessional.

The sudden tension in the small space becomes a palatable thing. Josh can almost smell it.

"It happened again, Father," the Boy says without preamble. His voice is trembling. "With a guy from my school."

Josh says nothing. He can hear the Boy's uneven breathing through the screen that separates them, and the desperation driving it makes his chest feel hollow.

"We stayed after last week to help one of our teachers with something, and when we were finished we walked home together. We were over by the baseball fields in the park and we..." He breaks off with a hiccup-y sob, but masters it with his next breath.

"Go on," Josh says quietly. He dreads what's to come, not because he fears what the Boy will say, but because he hates what he knows he must say in response.

"We stopped. In the dugout."

"To rest?" Josh says with feigned innocence.

"No," the Boy replies. "To... you know what I mean, Father. Don't make me say it. Please."

"You're here to confess. You haven't confessed anything yet. It's not a sin to walk through the park."

The Boy sniffs wetly. "To... we touched each other," the Boy whispers. "We kissed and we... got each other off."

Josh squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, silently raging against the helplessness coiling in his gut. This is wrong. So wrong. This poor, confused kid has come seeking help, and Josh is powerless to offer it; must, in fact, offer censure instead. "You know it's an affront to God," he says, amazed at his own ability to keep his voice steady.

"Yes."

The knife in Josh's belly twists again. "This isn't the first time you've come to me with this. Why do you keep doing it if you know it's a sin?"

"I don't know. I - I can't help it."

"You're not trying hard enough," Josh says, clenching his hand into a fist so tight it hurts. He's glad the screen is between them so the Boy can't see his face. "The next time you get the urge, I want you to pray instead. Pray to God, and to Jesus, and to our Holy Mother, and to all the saints for as long as it takes for it to gain the strength to resist. God will answer you. And once He does, I want you to keep praying to show your gratitude for His help. Do you understand?"

The Boy does not speak, but Josh can tell from the moving shadows on the wall he's nodding his head in response. Josh wipes his clammy palms on his leg as he assigns the Boy penance, but he can't shake the feeling that his hands are still unclean. He sits in the confessional for a long time after the Boy bolts, whispering a prayer of his own that brings him no comfort. When he finally returns to the rectory lunch is already over, but by then it doesn't matter anymore. His appetite is long gone.

Brent and Liza are adorable together. They're sitting next to one another on the other side of Josh's desk, their chairs pulled so close they're practically in each other's laps, their hands clasped and resting lightly on Liza's thigh. They've been meeting with Josh for over an hour now, and Josh doesn't think Brent has stopped looking at Liza for longer than a minute the entire time. He hasn't seen a man look at a woman with that kind of adoration in his eyes since he was a kid watching his father look at his mother.

He smiles. "I think you're going to be very happy together," he says, flipping open the church's calendar book.

They exchange soppy looks. "Yeah," they say in unison. "We will," Brent adds.

"So, let's see here." Josh slides his finger back and forth across the page a few times before coming to a rest. "You're getting married on the 15th." He glances up for confirmation, and Liza nods happily. "Okay, let's talk about what kind of ceremony you want."

They have all the details decided already, of course. Josh is willing to bet they've been planning it since their first date. "One thing though, Father," Liza says. "We were kind of hoping we could have a guitar mass." Brent nods and they both turn to Josh with identical anxious expressions on their faces, right down to the number of furrows in their wrinkled brows. They're starting to freak him out a little, actually.

"I have no objection to that," Josh replies.

"That's great," Brent says, giving Liza's hand a squeeze. "So, how do we go about arranging it?"

Josh stares at Brent with his mouth hanging slightly open. "Um." He hasn't the foggiest. "The church's music director would usually handle those kinds of details," he says, "but she's just left us to have a baby. The diocese has been sending in temps to help us out until we get somebody new in here." He thinks hard for a moment. To his knowledge, there's never been a guitar mass at St. Jude's, not since he's been there, at least. The only time he can remember there ever being a guitarist in the place was --

"Ah!" He snaps his fingers and pulls open his desk drawer. "Just a second here..." He riffles through the drawer's contents, shuffling boxes of pens and staples until he finds what he's looking for. "Here we go." He offers Brent the business card he's pulled out of the drawer, then thinks better of it and snatches it back before Brent can grab hold of it. "This guy played here at a wedding a few months ago and he's very good," Josh says, grinning at the slogan he's just noticed on the card: Drake Parker, World Class Guitarist. 'Pick' me and you'll never 'fret.'

He jots Drake's name and phone number down on a piece of paper and hands that to Brent instead.

"Father Nichols!"

The hem of Josh's alb swirls around his legs as he turns. Drake is striding up the hallway toward him, his guitar case strapped to his back. A warm smile lights his entire face. He's an exceptionally good-looking man, Josh realizes with a jolt, and he clutches the Bible he's holding a bit closer to his chest.

Drake grabs Josh's hand and pumps it in another of his powerful handshakes. Their palms slide smoothly across one another when he lets go, sending little shocks skittering along Josh's skin. "Good to see you," Drake says. "I just wanted to thank you for setting me up with this gig." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the other end of the hallway where Brent and Liza stand next to their parents in the receiving line. "They hired my band to play their reception too, so that'll cover the rent this month." His grin grows impossibly brighter at the prospect.

"Oh, sure, yeah, no problem," Josh replies with a laugh that sounds uncomfortably close to a giggle. He wants to cringe when he hears it. He's not sure why he's suddenly talking and feeling like a nervous teenager on his first date. "Glad to help," he says, pulling it back together. "You were very good."

"Yeah," Drake says, and Josh can tell by the easy way he accepts the compliment he's no stranger to praise. "Hey, I was thinking. I'd like to say thanks in a better way, and maybe get you to think about recommending me again. How about I buy you a beer some time?"

"Oh, that's not necessary," Josh says quickly, waving the idea away with his free hand, and to his horror he can feel his cheeks starting to heat.

"Yeah, I know. I want to. Unless, oh --" Drake scratches the back of his neck and lowers his voice. "Are you guys allowed to drink? You know, when you're out of uniform or whatever?"

Josh can't help but smile. "Sure."

"Great, then what do you say? Maybe one night next week?"

Josh is tempted. He hasn't been out for a beer with a friend since he was in seminary, and something tells him Drake would be an interesting companion. He'd probably be fun to talk to, and he's certainly easy on the eyes. He remembers the warmth of Drake's hand and shifts uneasily on his feet. "I -- I have committee meetings every night next week."

"So how about the week after?"

"I don't think so. It's really not necessary."

"You sure?"

Josh isn't, but he nods anyway. "But thank you."

"Okay." Drake shrugs and flashes another of those award-winning smiles. "I gotta get going, then." He takes a few steps backwards as he speaks. "Thanks again, Father, and keep me in mind for other weddings, all right?"

Josh signals that he will, and Drake gives him a thumbs up before turning around and walking off. Josh watches him move through the crowd, head held high, guitar case bobbing up and down on his back with each step. He punches his way through the double glass doors, climbs into his car and drives off, and when Josh finally turns away he feels a bit like a kid whose ice cream cone just fell onto the sidewalk.

The baby sleeps peacefully through the entire ceremony until Josh pours the water on her forehead. Then she spits the pacifier out and starts to scream like he's pouring acid on her face instead. The pacifier bounces off Josh's shoe and rolls across the floor, and one of Helen's countless nieces rushes forward to collect it. Helen and her husband both come from huge Catholic families, and half the church is filled with her relatives.

"...in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

The baby continues to cry until the ceremony is over and someone finally plugs her mouth with a clean pacifier. Afterwards, Helen passes the baby to one of her sisters and gives Josh a hug while the rest of her family mills around and the children chase one another through the narthex.

"How's everything going?" she asks.

Josh knows she's hoping he'll say things are falling apart without her. "Fine," he says instead.

"How long has this one been here?" She jerks her head toward the replacement organist, who is still seated on the organ bench, gathering sheets of music into a neat little stack.

"About a month now, I think."

"Hmm." Helen purses her lips. "I'm sure you noticed she screwed up the ending of 'Little Child The Savior Came.'"

"Did she?" Josh replies. "I didn't notice." In fact, the hymn had sounded exactly the same to him as it always had when Helen played it.

She nods. "Oh, yes. I don't know how you missed it. It was so obvious."

Josh clears his throat over Helen's words as the replacement organist slips past, hoping against hope she hadn't heard. There are two spots of pink high on her cheekbones, and Josh feels the tips of his ears growing warm. This isn't the first time Helen's big mouth has caused a problem for him.

"So, have you had any luck getting a new music director in here?" Helen asks.

The baby starts to cry again, and Helen's sister calls out to her for help. She holds up one index finger in response and gives Josh an expectant look.

"No," he says. "Not yet."

"C'mon, Sammy!" Sammy's foster father claps his hands as the boy runs past, dribbling the basketball furiously, then cups them around his mouth again to amplify his voice. "Get past 'em, kiddo, that's the way! You can do it!" A moment later he's groaning his disappointment as the center for the opposing team snatches the ball away and runs up court. Sammy starts to cry and stomps away to the sidelines, and the coach has to call a time out.

"That kid sucks!" an angry voice in the crowd bellows, and a chorus of voices around him echo their agreement. "Put him on the bench!"

Sammy's foster father turns to the crowd and flips them off, screaming obscenities at the man who started the ruckus. The group of mothers seated around Josh makes scandalized noises as the man rises to his feet and starts shouting back, and Josh realizes it won't take much more of a catalyst to set this powder keg off in a big way. Pee wee basketball is serious business.

"Gerald," he says, climbing out of the bleachers and taking Gerald by the arm. "Come on, calm down."

"I want my kid to get a chance to play!" Gerald yells, wrenching his arm out of Josh's grasp, but he allows Josh to steer him to a quiet corner of the gym while the coach finishes dealing with Sammy. The red-faced man in the crowd sits back down, glaring at them as they go, and the tension in the crowd dissipates.

"Don't worry, he'll get to play," Josh says in his most soothing voice. Privately, he agrees with the loudmouth in the crowd. St. Jude's can't afford to lose this game if they want to go to the playoffs, and Sammy is the worst player on the team. But the church league rules say all of the kids should have an equal chance to play, and Gerald is notorious for his short fuse. Josh keeps his thoughts to himself.

The whistle blows for play to continue. A cheer goes up from the crowd and Gerald races back to the sidelines, shouting and clapping his hands. When the final buzzer sounds St. Jude's has lost by a single point, scored when a forward from Our Lady of Grace hits a free throw after Sammy tries to trip him.

Father Schneider's smile is teetering just on this side of being an obnoxious smirk when he and Josh meet mid-court to shake hands. "Good game, Father," he says. "Your boys played well." There's an undercurrent of malicious glee in his voice, and Josh has to struggle not to react to it.

He forces a smile of his own in case anyone is watching. "Yours, too."

"Sorry we won't be seeing your team at the playoffs this year."

No, you aren't, you miserable son of a -- Josh cuts the thought off before it crosses the line into something he'd have to confess. He takes a deep breath. "Yes. Well," he says, trying not to grit his teeth. "There's always next year."

Schneider releases Josh's hand and leans in close. "Too bad about number fourteen," he says, nodding in Sammy's direction. "Doesn't quite have what it takes, does he."

Josh glances at the sidelines where Sammy is standing with Gerald. They're talking to the forward Sammy fouled in the last seconds of the game, and Josh feels his eyes widen in surprise. Standing behind the boy, with one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, is Drake.

"Would you excuse me?" he says to Father Schneider, and walks away without waiting for a reply.

It seems to take a very long time to cross the twenty or so feet that separates them. Josh uses the time to compare the boy's profile to Drake's, and a knot of apprehension tightens in his chest. Their jaw lines and noses are exactly the same shape, their eyes and mouths set at identical angles. With a sinking heart, Josh realizes this must be Drake's son. He looks at the hand Drake is resting on the boy's shoulder. There's no wedding band on it, but Josh knows better than anyone that means absolutely nothing. It never occurred to him before to wonder if Drake is married and has kids, but the thought of it now feels like expecting a new car for Christmas and getting a pair of old socks instead.

"Hello," he croaks when he reaches the group, and Drake looks up sharply in surprise.

"Hi, Father." His face comes alive with one of his thousand-watt grins as he reaches for Josh's hand. "I didn't know you were here."

"Oh sure, I try to never miss a game when my kids are playing." Drake's hand feels deliciously familiar in his own. He glances at Sammy and smiles, trying to put off the moment when he has to face Drake again and let go. When the time comes, he reluctantly pulls back and looks down at the boy with Drake's eyes. "You played very well," he says, trying for warmth and failing. His smile feels more like a grimace.

Sammy and his foster father wander away as the boy peeks up at Josh from under his bangs. "This is my nephew, Alex," Drake says, ruffling the boy's hair, and Josh feels a rush of relief like the one he'd felt in college when a huge mid-term he'd forgotten about was postponed for a week.

"Hey, Alex," Josh says, and this time the warmth isn't feigned. "Nice to meet you." He studies the boy's beautiful face for a moment and then looks up at Drake. "He looks just like you."

Drake snorts. "He looks more like my sister."

"My mom had to work tonight, so Uncle Drake came to watch me play," Alex says proudly. He reaches up to grope for Drake's hand, but Drake responds with a gentle push between his shoulder blades.

"Yeah, and you were awesome," Drake says, and the look on his face leaves Josh in no doubt as to his feelings for the boy. "Why don't you go get your stuff? I'll wait for you here." He turns to watch as the boy runs off toward the locker room, and Josh notices one of the back pockets on Drake's jeans has a white spiral bullseye pattern on it. The jeans ride low on Drake's hips, secured in place by a white belt that has caught up part of his shirttail, and are so tight Josh can almost read the date on a dime in Drake's pocket. He clears his throat and forces his eyes back to Drake's face when Drake turns around.

"He seems like a great kid," Josh says.

"Yeah. He is," Drake says, crossing his arms. "Hey listen, is kids' basketball always this insane? I mean, wow. For a minute there, I thought there was going to be a riot."

Josh shrugs. "It can get a little crazy sometimes. Folks around here take this stuff pretty seriously."

"My sister told me it can get kind of intense," Drake says. "But Jesus Christ, these people are --" He stops in mid-sentence and shoots Josh a guilty look. "Sorry about that, Father."

Josh ignores it. A bead of sweat is trickling down the side of his throat, tracing an itchy line on his skin as it slips under his collar, but he resists the urge to scratch it. For reasons he doesn't want to think about too deeply just then, it feels vitally important not to draw Drake's attention to his neck. "So, uh, how have you been?"

"Pretty good, I guess. I can't complain."

"Played any weddings lately?"

"Nah. But my band did pick up a steady gig over at Slim's on Magnolia."

A pretty woman walks by, flashing a flirtatious smile in Drake's direction. Josh steps to the side to block her from Drake's view; a moment later he realizes what he's done and takes half a step back. "Sounds great."

"Yeah. The money's okay, and the crowd over there loves us. Hey, you should come by and see us some time."

"Oh, I don't --"

"C'mon, don't turn me down again. You'll love it, I promise." Drake's voice is animated with a sudden excitement. "We're really good. And I can buy you that beer I promised you."

"Well --"

"We're there every Thursday night. First set starts at eight."

He makes it sound like the decision's already been made, and Josh can't think of any legitimate reason to refuse. He nods and says, "Okay, Thursday night," and Drake grins and pats him on the arm.

"Great, I'll see you then," he says happily as Alex darts back into view.

But Josh doesn't go to Slim's that Thursday night. Or the next. Or the next. He can't go, he decides, because little emergencies keep popping up that must be dealt with right away. Like the peeling paint in the church stairwell, for example. For all he knows it might be lead-based, and it would be irresponsible not to take care of it immediately. The following Thursday the rectory cat starts throwing up, and Josh can't let the poor creature suffer alone. The Thursday after that, there's a documentary on the history of avocado farming he doesn't want to miss. The excuses are easy to make, and once they start piling on top of another it becomes harder and harder to find his way out from under them.

It scares him how easily he can lie to himself. But it scares him even more how often he finds himself thinking about Drake. He sneaks up on Josh when Josh isn't expecting it. He might be eating breakfast, or jogging down the bike path, or putting on his vestments in preparation for mass, and when he blinks he realizes Drake is there in his head with him, and has been for hours. Just sitting there quietly, a small smile curving his full lips, a constant, silent companion. If Josh closes his eyes, he can almost reach out and touch him. It's a comfort, in a way; Josh never realized how lonely he's been all these years. But in another way, it's a torture. It makes him feel even more alone.

He always forces himself to stop when he realizes it's happening. He tells himself to quit being ridiculous, he hardly knows the man, and even if he did Drake is a man and Josh is a priest...

He wonders if Drake has noticed he hasn't shown up as he promised. He wonders if Drake is disappointed.

One Sunday morning, he looks up at the congregation and thinks he catches a glimpse of Drake sitting in the back of the church. He fumbles over the familiar words and focuses on his prayer book to anchor himself, and when he looks up again Drake is gone. Halfway through the Nicene Creed, Josh decides it's time to put an end to this. Now. This week.

Enough is enough.

The lights in Slim's parking lot aren't nearly bright enough for comfort in this part of town, but Josh welcomes the shadows. It's harder than he thought it would be to go inside. The music is loud enough to hear in the parking lot, even through the closed windows. He can feel the vibrations through the floor of the car, and it makes his legs feel wobbly. He smoothes his hand down the front of his T-shirt with a nervous swallow, wondering for the fifth time in five minutes if it was a mistake not to wear his collar. It's a handy shield, sometimes. It answers questions before they can be asked.

He glances at the dashboard clock. It's only a few minutes after eight. He doesn't want Drake to think he's too eager. Maybe he could go get a burger, or browse that little bookstore a few blocks over for a while. It's got a great religion section, and they have a coffee shop inside, too. He could come back in about an hour. It's been over a month since he promised to come see Drake perform. Another hour won't make any difference.

"Chicken," he says to himself, tapping his fist on the steering wheel. "Get a grip." Enough stalling. He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. A group of giggling girls is walking by, and Josh slides through the door behind them.

He hears Drake before he sees him. His voice fills the whole club. Josh's fingers tremble as he pushes a folded five-dollar bill into the bouncer's hand. The air in the place is thick with the smell of sweat and beer, making Josh's stomach churn unpleasantly as he rounds the corner into the main room.

Drake is standing on stage in the center of a blaze of light from above. The moment he comes into view, his right arm pumping aggressively and fingers flying across the strings, the spotlight reflects off the guitar's tuning keys and flashes into Josh's eyes. Josh stops short. Drake's mouth is obscured by the microphone, his eyes hidden behind the damp curtain of his bangs, but even this obstructed glimpse of his face calms Josh's stomach and sets his heart to racing, instead.

There are still a few empty tables down in front by the stage, but Josh heads for the bar. The bartender is busy and Drake finishes two songs before Josh can get anyone's attention, but he resists the temptation to turn back toward the stage until he's got a drink in his hand. Eventually he orders a beer and settles down on a barstool with his back to the rail, feet looped through the bottom rungs. The music vibrates through the seat, through his whole body, the rhythm of the bass stirring something primitive in his belly. Drake's voice is rougher than Josh has heard it before; fuller, somehow, than it ever sounded at St. Jude's. He wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs and reaches over his shoulder to grab the beer the barmaid is pressing against his back.

"Hi."

A very pretty blonde in a low-cut blue shirt bounces onto the next stool and gives Josh a coy smile. "Hello," he says, sitting up a bit straighter and drawing his knees together.

"I don't remember seeing you here before." She cocks her head so her hair falls across her eyes, then sweeps it away with a laugh.

"I've never been here before."

"That's probably why I haven't seen you, then." With an accompanying upper body undulation Josh is sure the bishop would condemn, she crosses her legs so the tip of one pointed shoe is dangerously close to his calf. He pulls his leg in even further. "Did you just move here or something?"

"No."

"Ohh." She nods as though he's said something very insightful. "Yeah, me neither." Twirling a few strands of hair around her index finger, she leans in far too close. "I'm Terri," she says. "You're really cute. Wanna buy me a drink?"

The crowd erupts into applause and Josh looks up, startled. Damn. He missed the end of the song thanks to this vapid --

"I don't think so," he says, bracing the elbow farthest from her on the bar railing and leaning back against it. "I'm just here for the music." He gestures toward the stage with his beer bottle. "But it was nice to meet you."

It's a dismissal, and she knows it. "Okay," she replies, and with a slight shrug of the shoulders that says your loss more clearly than words ever could, she hops off the stool and disappears into the crowd. Josh sighs his relief against the lip of his beer bottle and takes a sip, eyes wandering back to the stage.

Drake is just setting a glass of water back into place on a little stool near the curtain. "All right," he says, his moistened lips gleaming in the light. "This next song is for someone very special to me." He grabs the guitar and steps back from the microphone to count off the beat to rest of the band, and they launch into a ballad. A few people in the crowd start to clap as they recognize the opening chords.

Josh feels himself snap to attention the moment the music starts. Drake's eyes drift slowly shut as he starts to sing, his posture relaxing as the lyrics unfold until it seems like the muscles in his arms are the only ones in his body with any tension left in them. His fingers caress the guitar strings with an effortless grace that seems almost unbearably intimate. It's like watching him with a lover, someone he's touched a thousand times before and knows exactly how to please. Josh feels his mouth going dry. He wants to look away. He feels like he's intruding on something private, but he can't stop staring.

The chorus is a cappella, which is something of a relief when Drake's hand falls away from the body of the guitar. But then he wraps his free hand around the microphone and eases his hips forward, tapping one foot in time so the guitar bounces gently against his groin with each beat. Josh gives his lower lip a nervous swipe of the tongue, eyes locked on the guitar, trying desperately not to let his imagination drift to the spot just out of sight behind it that is surely benefiting from the friction. By the time Drake's hand returns to begin strumming again, Josh is pressing the icy beer bottle against the V of his jeans to keep himself under control.

He turns his head. Watching Drake play like this makes the empty places in Josh's chest burn around the edges with a cold fire that takes his breath away. He hasn't felt this way since the night of his high school graduation when he and Mindy had been making out in the backseat of his dad's car. She'd scrambled on top of him and straddled his open fly, tits pushed painfully over the top of her bra, and leaned forward to kiss him while he fumbled between their bodies to get himself into position. They'd been working toward that moment for two long years, and Josh had felt like some kind of mindless animal that understood nothing but hungry and want and now and hurry. But just as she was finally poised to sink down on his cock, the trembling in her thighs was stilled by a sharp knock on the window and the blinding beam of a cop's flashlight playing over their faces. He'd driven her home in silence, feeling like he'd left all his insides back there in the parking lot behind B.F. Wang's. Years later he convinced himself that emptiness had had nothing to do with Mindy and everything to do with himself, because being in the presence of Someone Else had made him whole and he'd never feel that way again.

Or so he'd thought.

The song ends and Drake tosses the hair out of his eyes with a smile. "Thanks," he says, tilting his head slightly in response to the applause. "I want to introduce the person who inspired that song and who means more to me than just about anyone in the world. Where are you?" Drake shades his eyes with his hand and squints in to the crowd, and Josh freezes, his heart pounding. Drake couldn't possibly be talking about --

"Ah!" Drake's face splits into one his brilliant grins as he points to someone near the stage. "There you are! Come on up." A dark-haired woman with deep dimples on either side of her smile climbs up on stage, and Drake enfolds her in a huge hug. "Love you," he says as he releases her, and even from this far across the room Josh can see the warmth in Drake's eyes as he looks at her. He feels like a load of bricks has been dropped on his head.

He's gone before the next song begins.

It's a relief, in a way.

That's what Josh keeps telling himself. It's over. He kept his word, even if Drake has no idea he was there, and now he can close the book on the craziness and get back to his work. If he lets himself think about it, he realizes he was getting pretty, well, stupid about the whole thing. He let himself get in way over his head. It's actually kind of funny, the way he's been acting, and he tries to laugh it off later, but the laughter keeps getting stuck in his throat.

He spends most of the weekend on his knees, praying for... something. He's not sure what. Forgiveness, maybe, for letting his mind wander in directions it had no business going. Or perhaps strength, because he'll need it to keep the promise he now makes to himself : he's never going back to Slim's. In fact, he decides, grinding his teeth, he's never going to contact Drake in any way, shape, or form again. Ever.

First thing Monday morning, he tosses Drake's business card in the trash can next to his desk. He can see it out of the corner of his eye all day, and when he swivels his chair in the other direction to take a phone call he can feel the damn thing's presence. Later on, when he has other stuff to throw away, he walks out to his secretary's office and casually drops it in his garbage can.

The card is still there on Tuesday. Apparently, the janitor didn't think it was worth it to empty a waste basket with only one small item at the bottom, or maybe he didn't see it was in there. In any case, it doesn't really matter. Josh retrieves it, smoothes out the wrinkles, and shoves it into the back of the drawer.

Wednesday night is the worst. He snaps at a few of the regulars at the bingo game and drops a tray of brownies Ms. Hunter brought for the bake sale, and by the time he gets back to the rectory he feels as itchy as a junkie jonesing for a hit. He just doesn't know -- or won't admit to himself -- exactly what he wants a hit of.

The bed is a sticky mess when he wakes up on Thursday, and he can still feel the ghostly touch of callused fingers stroking his skin. Stupid dream. He rolls the sheets into a ball and lobs them into the corner, then pulls the blankets up over his head to block out the light. When the housekeeper knocks on his door, he shouts he's not feeling well and Father Gilbert will have to take over for him today. He spends the day in hell, struggling with a decision that should be easy but feels more like life or death. It's not until much later, when he's smearing shaving cream across his face, that he realizes it never once occurred to him to pray for help with his dilemma.

In the end, it's really not a choice at all. As hard as it was last week to stop making excuses and go see Drake in the first place, it's even harder now to stay away.

"Thank you." Drake leans closer to the microphone so his amplified voice booms out over the applause. He lifts his hands from the keyboard with a flourish as the sound of the final chord fades away. "And right now I need a drink," he says, "so we're gonna take a quick break. But don't go anywhere. You know you don't want to miss the rest of the show."

Josh's stomach swoops with butterflies as Drake jumps down off the stage. He sits up a little straighter on the barstool and runs his fingers nervously through his hair. A small knot of people forms around Drake the moment his feet touch the ground, and he stops to talk and laugh and exchange high fives with several of them for what seems like forever, all the while taking purposeful baby steps towards the bar. Josh swipes at the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and stills the leg he's been bouncing non-stop since he first saw Drake sit down in front of the keyboard. Drake is closer now, not quite close enough to try to get his attention, but near enough so Josh can hear his voice. He takes a deep breath.

"Hi again."

Josh nearly drops his beer. The blonde who approached him last week bops into view in yet another cleavage-revealing blouse in a different shade of blue, her lips stretched into a wide smile. "Remember me?" she says.

Josh peers over her shoulder to check on Drake's progress. "Sure," he says, darting his eyes back to her face. "You're the girl who didn't just move here, right?"

"Terri," she says with a laugh. "Hey, I like your necklace." She grabs for it and pulls it forward to study it closer, and Josh gives a small squeak of pain as the chain cuts into the back of his neck. "What's this, a lowercase T? Is that your initial? 'Cause it's mine, too, wouldn't that be a wild coincidence?"

"It's a cross," Josh says quietly, taking it back from her and tucking it into the collar of his T-shirt.

"Ohh. Okay, I didn't --"

"Hey, you finally made it!"

This time Josh starts so violently his beer splashes onto his jeans, and he plops the bottle down on the bar behind him before he ends up hurting someone. He feels the heat rushing in to light up his face as Drake sidles up beside Terri, and sends up a silent prayer that the club is dark enough that neither of them will notice.

"Hi, Drake," Terri sings, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the lips.

"Hey, Terri," he replies, but his eyes are on Josh as he offers his hand. "Good to see you, Father."

Terri's perfectly plucked brows draw together in confusion. "This is your father?"

"No," Drake and Josh say together. "He's the religious kind of Father," Drake explains.

"You mean like a rabbi?" Terri says, and Josh starts to wonder how she ever managed to drive herself to the club that night.

"No, a priest," Drake replies, rolling his eyes. He gives Josh a cockeyed half-smile that's impossible not to return. "This is Father Nichols."

"Call me Josh."

"Ohh, I get it. You're a priest." Terri looks Josh up and down and then slowly shakes her head. "Wow, too bad. What a waste."

Josh is never sure how to respond when women say things like that to him. It's happened several times before, and he's yet to decide if it's meant to be a compliment or an insult. Luckily, Drake rescues him before he has to figure out what to say. "Why don't you get lost for a while, Terri? I want to talk to Father -- to Josh -- in private."

"Okay," she says brightly. "See you later." She gives each of them a cheery little wave and sashays away.

"So, you finally decided to show up," Drake says with a grin. "I thought you forgot all about me."

"No, I --" I thought about you constantly. "I've been really busy." Josh picks up his beer again just to have something to do with his hands. "I was here last week," he says, regretting it immediately, and he raises the bottle to his lips in the vain hope it will capture the words before Drake can hear them.

It doesn't work, of course. "Really?" Drake's eyes widen with surprise. "Why didn't you say hi?"

Josh shrugs. "I couldn't stay long," he says, trying not to think of the dark-haired woman in Drake's arms and failing miserably. "Something came up, and, well. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I guess. So, what do you think of the show?"

"I think you're amazing," Josh says, his voice inexplicably rough.

"Hey, Drake," the bartender says, cutting off any reply Drake might have made, and Josh quickly clears his throat. "What'll it be, man?"

"The usual," Drake replies, working two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans, which is a feat of awesome proportions given how tight they are. "And his next one is on me," he says, jerking a thumb in Josh's direction.

"You got it," the bartender says.

"There's really no need --"

"Relax," Drake says, leaning against the bar railing. "I get a discount, so it's not like it's all that much to begin with."

"Oh. Okay." Josh feels a strange wave of disappointment at this news as he takes a sip of his beer. "I didn't know you played keyboards," he says, trying to shake it off.

"Yeah. I do a little of everything." A girl with pierced eyebrows walks by and says hi to Drake, and he nods in her direction.

"Listen, I have something I want to talk to you about," Josh starts, but before he can manage another word Drake's drummer appears at his side.

"You ready, man?"

"Soon as I get my drink," Drake says. He turns back to Josh. "What's up?"

Josh shakes his head. "Never mind, it looks like you're busy."

"Yeah, it's always a little crazy in here on Thursday nights." The bartender returns with Drake's drink, and he hands over a few folded bills. "Can you hang out for a while?" he says, scooping his glass off the bar. "We'll be done here by midnight, maybe we can talk then."

Midnight is still two hours away. Josh had no intention of staying that long. He hasn't been up so late since last year's Christmas Eve midnight mass, and in any case it just doesn't seem right for a priest to be hanging out in a bar until all hours.

Drake brushes the bangs out of his eyes with his free hand, and Josh feels his insides dissolve in a rush of heat. "Yeah, okay," he rasps. "That sounds good. I'll talk to you then."

The room Drake leads Josh toward at midnight is not much bigger than an oversized phone booth. Drake's eyes are glazed with the high of the applause, and he and the members of his band spend a good fifteen minutes or so talking about the highlights of the set while Josh waits patiently in the hallway. He feels like he should be tired, but he's not. Drake's energy is contagious.

By the time he's finally able to squeeze inside, Drake's clothes are in a wrinkled heap in one corner of a small couch that looks like it's seen better days. "C'mon in, Father," Drake's voice filters out from behind a bedsheet hanging from the ceiling. Josh can see Drake's feet poking out from the bottom. "I'll be right out."

"Nice place," Josh says wryly, looking around. The walls are plastered with posters, mostly of bands Josh has never heard of, though there's no shortage of scantily-clad women in the mix. The floor is littered with empty beer bottles, candy wrappers, guitar picks, and broken drumsticks, and the air smells like a mixture of stale beer and urine. Josh wrinkles his nose.

"Yeah, I know, it's a pit," Drake says, stepping out from behind the sheet wearing only his jeans. The tiny room suddenly feels even smaller. Josh turns halfway toward the open door, but his eyes are quicker than his feet and when he blinks he can still see the afterimage on the back of his eyelids: the smooth, hairless planes of Drake's chest; the dark, taut nipples; the flat belly; the trail of coarse hair running from his navel to the waistband of his jeans and beyond, a trail Josh wants to trace with his fingers, the tip of his tongue...

Warmth blossoms between his legs at the thought. Horror-struck, Josh lunges for the guitar propped in the corner and throws himself on to the couch with the guitar across his lap.

"Oh, you play?" Drake says, pulling a clean shirt on over his head.

Josh ducks his head to hide his flaming cheeks. "No," he replies, his voice unsteady. He strokes the strings with the side of his thumb and they make a discordant twang. "I - I've always wanted to, though."

"Maybe I can give you lessons some time."

"You do that kind of thing?"

"Once in a while, yeah. When I'm really strapped for cash."

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Josh risks a glance in Drake's direction. He's bent nearly double, combing his hair in a small mirror hanging low on the wall. Josh takes a deep breath. "I may know of some steady work for you."

Drake straightens and turns. "Seriously? What kind of work?"

"There's a church I know of that needs a music director."

"Oh, yeah? Which one?"

"Saint... Jude's."

Drake's lips twist into that quirky half-smile again. "Your church?"

Josh nods. He realizes he's gripping the neck of the guitar tightly enough for the strings to cut into his fingers, and releases his hold just a bit.

"So I'd be working for you?"

"Yeah. Well, technically you would be, but I don't know anything about music, so you'd really be working with me instead of for me."

Drake crosses his arms. "What kind of stuff does a music director do?"

"Oh, you know." Josh tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a cough. "You'd play at mass, mostly the organ, which, do you know how to play the organ? I figure if you can play the keyboard you can learn how to play the organ, right? So there's that, and then you'd work with the choir and choose the music for services each week, just basic stuff. It's part-time work and the pay isn't all that great, but it'd be steady, at least..." He lets the sentence trail off as he hears the pleading note in his own voice. This was a stupid idea, he realizes that now. He has no clue how he's going to handle it if Drake rejects the offer.

"Doesn't a church music director have to be, I don't know, religious?" Drake asks skeptically.

"Well, no, not necessarily," Josh replies. "I mean, you would have to be a Catholic, yes. But if you aren't already, you can become one. Not that I'm trying to convert you or anything, but if -- "

"That part's not a problem," Drake cuts in, waving the issue away. "My mom got real religious for a while after my dad died. She had both me and my sister made into baptists over at Our Lady of Grace when we were little. My sister still goes there."

"You were...made into Baptists?" Josh asks weakly.

"Yeah, you know, with the water on the forehead and the prayers and stuff."

"Ah. Okay. Right."

"But I dropped out when I was in high school, because, well. For personal reasons."

"That doesn't matter," Josh says. "You'd just need to become a member of my church. The rest will follow, if it's meant to."

"So what's involved with joining your church?"

"Does that mean you're interested?" Josh's voice sounds hopelessly over-eager to his own ears.

"Maybe."

"All you'd really have to do is take Communion with us. Oh, and you'd have to make a good confession first, of course. To get ready for Communion."

"A confession? Oh, I don't know about that, Father --"

"Josh."

"Father Josh. I don't think I'd be comfortable --"

"You don't have to confess to me," Josh says quickly. "Any priest will do. You could even go back to Father Schneider over at Our Lady of Grace."

Drake starts to laugh but then quickly gets himself under control. "Yeah, no, I don't think so. But there's probably another priest somewhere in this town, right?" He smiles. "Thanks, Father. Josh. This is definitely something to think about."

Josh sets the guitar down and rises gingerly to his feet. All clear now, thank God. He knows it's time to go, but he doesn't want to leave just yet. Despite Drake's assurance to the contrary he's not sure Drake will actually give the idea a passing thought once they leave the club, and Josh has no excuse to return. "So your dad died when you were little, huh?" he says, blurting out the first thought that crosses his mind. "I lost my mom when I was eight."

"That's rough."

"Yeah. For you, too."

"Yeah. My mom handled it okay, though. Like I said, she got real involved in the church and then in this single parents club."

"Huh. Weird coincidence. My dad was in one of those for a while, too."

"Oh, cool. Hey, maybe they knew each other. Was it the one over here on Madison?"

"Nah, I grew up on the other side of town. My dad still lives over there. He's the weatherman for Channel Seven."

"No way, really? My mom loves weathermen."

Josh grins. "Oh yeah? Maybe we should get them together some time."

St. Jude's isn't air conditioned, so the congregation tends to dwindle during the summer months. This is especially true on days like this, when a muggy Saturday evening follows a hot Saturday afternoon, and most of the pews are empty when Josh enters the nave and begins his slow march toward the altar. The rest are sparsely populated with either elderly, white-haired couples vainly waving their bulletins in their faces to stave off the heat, or young families with children whose behavior can't be trusted in the bigger crowds of a Sunday morning.

Which is why Josh spots Drake the moment he steps through the door. He stands out like a sore thumb.

The sight of him sends a dizzying surge of adrenaline through Josh's belly. It's been three weeks since that night at the club, three long weeks spent ricocheting from hope to anguish and back again, punctuated by memories of Drake's bare torso that created an urgent, overwhelming need so sharp it was sometimes difficult to breathe. Yet, Josh realizes that was nothing -- nothing -- to the way seeing Drake again makes him feel now. He wants to rip the shirt off Drake's back and do all the things he's been imagining right here in front of the whole congregation. He wants to turn and run screaming into his office and lock the door tightly shut behind him. The violence of his own conflicting reactions terrifies him. He's sorry now he didn't offer to give Drake Communion in private. He has no idea how he's going to get through this service with his sanity intact.

Focus. That's what they taught him in seminary. Focus. There's no room for anything in your thoughts during mass but Jesus the Christ. Everything else is extraneous. Blasphemous. Look to no other and for nothing else.

That seemed so easy when he was sitting in the classroom, Josh thinks as he steps behind the altar on a newborn colt's legs. So right. But it was all just theory, he realizes now, easy to spout but not always so easy to apply. This is real, and Josh has never before appreciated how quickly even that kind of deeply ingrained lesson can go up in smoke in the face of such blind, consuming want.

Still, he tries. He really does. He keeps his eye on his prayer book for most of the service. When he's forced to look up, he focuses on the empty choir balcony over the congregation's heads. He almost manages to convince himself Drake is just another member of his flock, albeit one who doesn't attend services very often. But the façade can only go so far. Josh has never been so acutely aware of a single person in the congregation before. His attention is diverted each time Drake scratches his nose or clears his throat. He hears nothing but Drake's voice during the hymns. When Drake yawns during the homily, Josh feels like he's been slapped. By the time he's ready to begin preparing the gifts, he's running on pure strength of will alone.

"The Body of Christ."

One by one, the communicants shuffle forward and take their places on their knees around the altar railing. Josh makes his way slowly down the line, offering the host to each in turn, and when the last of them has received they rise as one and move off to make room for the next group.

'The Body of Christ."

This time, the ritual brings none of its usual comfort. Drake is the last one in line; when his turn comes there's only a small number of other communicants left with him. He kneels directly in front of the altar and bows his head to wait. Josh prays Drake will elect to receive the host in his hands, as the woman kneeling next to him does, but this is yet another prayer that goes unheard.

"Th -- the Body of Christ."

Drake raises his head slowly, tilting it back so his bangs slide tantalizingly off his forehead, and opens his mouth. Josh's skin grows slippery with a sudden burst of cold sweat that makes his vestments feel like they're made of burlap. Blood roars in his ears as he leans forward, far lower than he ever has with a communicant before, as though to claim that open mouth, the parted lips and glistening tongue. At the last moment he catches himself and pulls back, heart thudding against his ribs, and jerks the hand holding the host toward Drake's mouth, instead. But something's wrong with his arm. It feels like it's made of metal covered in rust so thick it's nearly immobilized. He's moving in slow motion, and it to take a very long time before he can feel the warmth of Drake's breath on the back of his hand. Drake looks up as Josh deposits the host on the middle of his tongue; their eyes meet, and Josh knows he is lost. He lets his fingers linger in the moist heat of Drake's mouth, fighting the urge to cup Drake's chin, to brush his fingers up along Drake's cheekbone and through his hair to the back of his head, to pull that amazing mouth forward to the agonizing erection now barely hidden by the volume of his robes, and it's the hardest struggle he's yet had to face. Drake blinks and closes his mouth, swallowing audibly, and the spell is broken, but Josh knows in the instant just before it breaks that he and Drake were thinking the same thing.

"Amen," Drake whispers.

Josh stands in the narthex after mass, shaking hands with the congregants as they file past, but it feels like he's only playing the part of the devout priest now. Drake's expression is blank as he exits, tugging at his tie to loosen it. "Thanks for coming," Josh says lamely, cringing inside at the poor choice of words. "We would normally have had a little welcome ceremony for a new member, but I didn't realize you'd be here tonight."

"No problem," Drake replies. "I didn't really realize it myself. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing."

"We should probably have a talk," Josh says, lowering his voice. "About the job, I mean."

"Yeah, sure." Drake licks his lips and it shoots straight to Josh's groin. "We could have dinner at my place, talk afterward. That work for you?"

He should refuse, he knows he should refuse. They should meet here, in Josh's office, or at the very least in a crowded diner with bad food so they can complain about the weak coffee and soggy French fries and actually have a discussion about the job. The last thing he should ever think about doing is being alone with Drake, especially after what just happened to him, what he thinks just happened between the two of them. This is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. There's really only one answer to Drake's question.

"Okay," Josh says, nodding. "That sounds great."

The afternoon goes badly. First Josh gets a ninety-minute phone call from the president of the church council about something trivial that doesn't even need to be dealt with until next month. Then he learns Mrs. Galloway has taken a turn for the worse and he has to rush out to the hospital to perform last rites. By the time he's finished it's already past six, and he can see the traffic backing up through the hospital room window. It's too late to get back to the rectory to change, unless he wants to risk being late. Which he doesn't. He'll just have to go to Drake's wearing his collar.

Drake's apartment is on the fourth floor of a building with a busted elevator. The temperature seems to climb ten degrees with every flight of stairs, and Josh is already sweating by the time he reaches the landing. The doorbell to Drake's apartment rings with a hollow clunk. There's a rush of pounding footsteps on the other side, and then the door is jerked open so suddenly Josh jumps back in surprise.

"Hi!"

"Oh, hey Alex," Josh says warmly, smiling. "You startled me."

The little boy's face and chest are red with sunburn, and a beach towel is draped over one bare shoulder, trailing to the ground. "Sorry 'bout that. Uncle Drake said I could open the door."

"Who's there, Alex?" a woman's voice calls. Josh feels himself grow stiff with shock as the dark-haired woman Drake hugged at the club walks into the room dressed in a purple bikini, rubbing at her damp hair with a towel that matches Alex's. "Hi," she says when she sees Josh. Her eyes flash to his neck and a small crinkle appears between her brows. "Can I help you?" Her voice is wary as she tosses the towel on to a nearby chair.

Shit. He'd nearly forgotten this woman even existed. He certainly never expected to see her here tonight. "Um, I'm here to see Drake," he says. It's a statement, but it comes out sounding like a question.

She moves closer to Alex and puts her hands on his shoulders. "Is something wrong?" she asks, drawing the boy closer to herself. "Did something happen?"

"Oh, no," Josh says quickly. "I --" Does she live here? Was I completely wrong about what I thought was going on? "It's nothing like that. I'm a friend of his."

"Hi, Father." Drake appears at the woman's elbow and pulls her and Alex out of the way so Josh can get by. "C'mon in."

Josh takes a hesitant step toward the door. Maybe this is a good thing. What did I really think was going to happen here to--

"I see you've met my sister."

"Your sister." Josh suddenly feels like a hundred-pound weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He takes his first deep breath in what seems like days. Oh, thank God. Thank you, God. He saunters inside and closes the door.

"I'm Megan," she says, giving Josh a friendly nod.

"This is Father Nichols," Drake says.

"Call me Josh." It seems to have become his mantra.

Megan's eyes narrow sharply. "You're Josh?" She turns to Drake. "This is Josh?" Drake shrugs his shoulders and Megan's lips curl into a nasty smile that makes an unpleasant shiver crawl down Josh's spine. "Nice to meet you, Father," she says, offering her hand, and for an instant Josh feels like he should check her palm for a joy buzzer before taking it. "Drake's told me a lot about you."

"So, Megan and Alex came over to use the pool," Drake cuts in quickly. "But they're leaving now, right, Megan?"

"Oh, I don't know," she replies with an airy lilt to her voice. She appears to be enjoying Drake's uneasiness. "I'd kind of like to get to know your friend here a little better."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Drake says. "We've got something to talk about, so why don't you just get your stuff and take off now."

"Fine," Megan says petulantly. "Come on, Alex. Go get your bag."

"Mom said we can go to McDonald's for dinner," Alex announces a few minutes later, skipping across the room to throw his arms around Drake's legs. "The one with the big playground."

Drake picks the boy up and gives him a hug. "That's great, buddy! You have a good time, okay? Go down the slide a few times for me."

Megan, now wearing flip-flops and a long T-shirt knotted at the hip, leans in to buss Drake on the cheek. "I'll call you tomorrow," she says, giving him a meaningful look as Drake sets Alex on his feet.

"Yeah, yeah. Not too early, okay?"

"So, what's that mean, not before sundown?"

"Would you just get out of here?"

"We're gone." She gives Josh another of those sinister smiles. "Have fun."

"Here we go," Drake says, chivvying her and Alex along with a firm push toward the door. "Nice to see you, sis. Say hi to Mom for me. See you later, Alex!" He breathes a sigh of relief once the door is closed behind them.

The apartment seems strangely quiet once they are gone. "Sorry about that," Drake says. "They were supposed to leave ages ago, but Alex was having a really good time in the water and we both kind of spoil him."

"She seems...nice," Josh replies.

Drake snorts. "She's got her moments. Not many, but a few."

"You two close?"

"We are now. We weren't at all when we were kids, but after her husband took off I started helping out with Alex more, and me and Megan started getting along better."

"I -- I thought she was your girlfriend."

"Megan?" Drake's expression is half amused, half confused.

"Yeah. I saw you with her that night at the club, and I thought she was your girlfriend."

Drake laughs. "Oh, no. Wow, wait 'til I tell her that. No, man. I don't even have a girlfriend right now."

"Oh." A frisson of excitement makes Josh's stomach flutter. "Well, hey, don't sweat it," he says, grinning. "Neither do I."

"And that was when things started to get really weird."

Three hours, four tacos, and five beers after Megan leaves, Josh is feeling very mellow. He was right, Drake is fun to be with. They've been talking non-stop, with no awkward pauses in the conversation, no struggling to figure out what to say next. Josh sits spellbound for over an hour as Drake spins wild tales about his days as a back-up guitarist on a Zero Gravity tour (some of which Josh strongly suspects are embellished, but what the hell; a good story is a good story). Drake, in return, snickers in all the right places during Josh's far tamer stories about his father and his parishioners. No one's ever seemed interested before, and Josh can't remember the last time he's laughed so much. It's the best time he's had in years.

"Weirder than the thing with the girl in the cat suit and the guacamole dip?" Josh says, and Drake nods and laughs. "No way."

But it's starting to get late now, and they're both slowing down. With a yawn, Drake turns the stereo off and flops back sideways in the recliner with a guitar across his lap, legs dangling over the arm of the chair. As he picks out a tune, Josh props his stocking feet up on the coffee table and lets his eyes fall shut to listen, clutching a sweating beer bottle to his chest. With his eyes closed, his head feels lighter, his body less solid. He recognizes the tune as one Drake plays at Slim's, and in his mind's eye he can see Drake standing on the stage with the light shining down from above, tapping his foot so the guitar bounces gently against his crotch...

He cracks one eye open. Drake is looking back him, his eyes hooded slits, his lips parted ever so slightly, and Josh's skin grows prickly-hot with anticipation.

"Hey," he says, his voice as rough as a rake sorting gravel. "I thought you were gonna teach me how to play one of those."

Drake's hands still in mid-chord. "You really want to learn?"

Josh's mouth is bone dry, and he's not sure he can manage a verbal response. Instead, he beckons Drake closer with a twitch of his head, patting the cushion next to him with his free hand as he sets his beer down on the table. Drake swings his legs over the side of the chair and stands up, guitar hanging low at his side, and pads over to where Josh is sitting. He stands over Josh for a moment, looking down at him, and he seems all over tense, as though waiting for a signal. From the corner of his eye Josh can see the outline of Drake's cock through his jeans. He digs his nails into the cushion.

"Sit down," he murmurs. Drake hands him the guitar as he moves to obey, but Josh props it against the couch on his other side. As Drake bends his knees in preparation to sit, Josh straightens up as far as he can, lifting both hands to cradle Drake's jaw line in his palms. He draws Drake's head down toward his and Drake comes willingly, quickly, as though he's falling, and before he's fully settled on the couch his mouth is open and wet and moving against Josh's in a kiss so urgent it feels far more like a demand than a request.

Drake releases a shuddering stream of air through his nose, turning his upper body so he's pressed against Josh's chest. His tongue sweeps through Josh's mouth, leaving him dazed, and Josh chases it with his own as it retreats, impatient to taste it again. His hair is soft between Josh's fingers, his skin warm and stubbled and smelling of pool water and beer. He slips his arms around Drake's waist and pulls him closer as Drake's hand starts to move on his chest, stroking lazy circles that drift lower with each pass. He tenses when the hand presses beyond his belly to his upper thigh, moaning softly into Drake's mouth as Drake's fingers sketch patterns on his leg just a hair's breadth from his erection.

Please, Josh prays silently. Please. A moment later, his prayer is answered when he shifts his hips and Drake's palm smoothes across the head of his cock, back and forth, back and forth, again and again, then slowly presses down its length. Josh shudders and drops one hand between Drake's legs, fingers slipping on the faded denim as he tries to mirror Drake's movements. Drake's hand is warm and his touch is firm, and Josh can feel the pulse of the caress all over his body at the same time. Damn. It feels so right. Why in God's name did it take so long for them to get to this point?

"Jesus," Drake whispers hotly against Josh's lips, squeezing his fingers together. "You're fucking amazing."

Josh's eyes fly open as he hears a sound inside his head like the screech of a needle dragging across a record. What is he doing? What on Earth is he doing? He gives Drake a violent shove and holds one shaking hand up between them. His fingers are still tingling. "Stop."

Drake looks as startled as though Josh had just drawn a gun. "What?"

"Just stop. Okay? Stop."

"What's the matter?"

"I can't do this."

"Josh --"

"No." Josh roots around on the floor by the coffee table, trying to find his shoes. His stomach feels like an Olympic gymnast doing a complicated routine on the uneven bars.

"I thought everything was cool," Drake says. His face has no color in it at all.

"I can't do this," Josh says again, his voice sounding choked. "I'm sorry." At last, his shoes. He yanks them on and bolts to his feet. Drake calls his name a few more times as he staggers through the door and down the stairs, but he doesn't bother to answer. There's nothing more to be said, and he's afraid if he opens his mouth he might cry, or vomit, or both.

Either way, he's determined it's not going to happen until he's outside. Alone.

The intercom buzzes and the fountain pen skips, leaving a blob of ink on Tori and Thornton's wedding certificate. "Drake Parker's calling again, Father," the secretary says. "Line one. Do you want to talk to him?"

Josh sighs as he presses the reply button. This is the fourth time Drake has called in as many days. "No."

"What do you want me to tell him this time?"

Tell him I died. Tell him I left the country.

Tell him I'm scared I won't be able to stop myself if I ever see him again.

"Just tell him I'm not available," he snaps, crumpling the ruined certificate and tossing it in the garbage can.

The confessional is stiflingly hot. Josh wipes away the sweat on the back of his neck, willing time to go faster. A small fan on the floor oscillates back and forth with a high-pitched squeal that sets Josh's teeth on edge, but it provides almost no relief. It only manages to blow the hot air around. There have been few penitents so far this morning. Everyone else must either be on vacation or hoping God will forgive them for skipping confession in the middle of a heat wave. One more hour, and Josh can escape to the rectory for a cool shower that will solve more than one of his problems.

Muffled footsteps sound outside the confessional as someone approaches. Shadows appear on the wall next to Josh, then disappear again as the penitent pulls the curtain back in to place. Josh sits up straighter and waits.

"Uh... hello?"

Josh's heart skips a beat. Oh, dear God, no.

"Josh?"

Josh doesn't respond. He can't believe this is happening.

"Josh, I know you're in there."

He swallows past an unpleasant-tasting lump in the back of his throat. "What are you doing here?" he wheezes.

"You wouldn't return my calls," Drake says. "I didn't know how else to get in touch with you."

"Did it ever occur to you I wasn't returning your calls because I don't want to talk to you?"

"Yeah. That's why I came here, where you don't have a choice." There's an edge to Drake's voice, as though he's trying to control his emotions and having a difficult time of it. "We have to talk."

"Well, we can't do it here. Anyone could show up and overhear us." The mere thought of it makes Josh's palms damp.

"Relax. I've been sitting in the parking lot for forty-five minutes. There isn't a soul within miles of this place."

Josh realizes he's flattened himself against the back wall of the confessional, trying to get as far away from Drake as possible. He forces himself to relax and inch forward on the bench. He's glad there's a wall between them. It makes things a whole lot easier.

"Josh? You still there?"

"What do you want?"

There's a long silence. "We -- we never talked about the job."

Josh gives a hollow laugh. "That's not going to happen."

"I figured." Drake sounds defeated now, and a pang of regret pokes Josh in the stomach. He knows Drake needs the money, and he feels like he's promised a piece of candy to a child and then yanked it away when the child tried to reach for it.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, so softly he's not even sure Drake can hear him. "I don't think I could --" He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to center himself, but his mind flashes to the memory of Drake touching him, stroking him, the way Drake's mouth tasted...

Horrified, Josh jerks himself out of the daydream. In the confessional, for God's sake? No, no, this is no good. No good at all. And if Drake took the job, this is what it would be like every single day.

"It's not going to happen," he says again, more loudly this time. "Is that all you wanted to talk about?"

"Well, no. I also wanted to talk to you about what happened the other night at my -- "

"No."

"Josh -- "

"No."

"C'mon, man. This could be important."

"We are not going to go there. Not now. Not ever. And definitely not in here."

"Then I want to confess."

"No, you don't."

"Yeah, I really do. You gonna turn me away?"

Josh worries his bottom lip. If Drake truly wants to confess, he's obligated to listen and offer him absolution. Scrubbing his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, he says, "All right. But if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. Do you remember what to do?"

"Yes," Drake says sullenly. "Okay. Um. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been, like... God, I don't know. Fifteen years since my last confession."

Josh frowns. "Fifteen years? So you lied to me?"

Drake clears his throat. "Well, technically, it's not lying if I never actually said I went to confession, right?"

"That's not the point. You were supposed to confess before you received Communion. Why didn't you do it?"

Another long pause. The sound of the fan sets Josh's teeth on edge, and he wants to punt the thing across the sanctuary.

"I couldn't," Drake says at last.

"You couldn't." Josh struggles to keep the frustration out of his voice and fails.

"I just couldn't, okay?"

"Why not?"

"Because." The kneeler on the other side of the wall creaks as Drake shifts his weight and blows out a long puff of air. "Because there are certain things you just can't say to a priest, all right?"

"That's not true!" Josh says vehemently, leaning so close to the screen the tip of his nose nearly brushes against it. "You can say anything to a priest in confession."

"Yeah? Really? Anything?" Drake gets so close to his side of the screen Josh can feel Drake's breath on his face. His voice drops to a whisper. "What if I was to tell you I can't stop thinking about you? What if I said I lie in bed at night, and I can't sleep because all I can think about is how much I want to suck your cock?"

Josh rears back with a gasp of shock. "We -- we can't have this conversation in here."

"You just said I could tell you anything," Drake retorts. "This is the only place we can have it, because I have to tell the truth and you have to listen." He places his palms flat on his side of the screen as though he's trying to reach through and touch Josh. "I want to be with you, man. I need to be with you. And I know you're a priest and I know it's fucking impossible, but we were so close the other night. If I had just kept my mouth shut, I could have been fucking you all night long."

Josh feels the way he imagines the Apostles must have felt when confronted by the risen Christ. His head is swimming with the heat, and a sudden rush of nausea nearly overwhelms him. He can see the shadows that are Drake's hands pressing on the screen. He bows his head and two dark spots appear near his knees as something drips from his face. He's not sure if they're sweat drops or teardrops.

His cock is so hard it aches.

"Josh?"

Josh shakes his head, even though he knows Drake can't see him. "No."

"Josh. Please."

"Just go. Now. Okay?"

The shadows disappear as Drake drops his hands. "You sure that's what you want?"

No. No, it isn't. It's not what I want at all! Josh clamps his teeth together to keep himself from shouting the words aloud. Somehow or another, he manages to keep his silence. A few moments later, the kneeler creaks again as Drake gets to his feet.

"You know where to find me if you change your mind, man."

The rest of the hour seems to last for a week. Josh sits in the dark of the confessional with his head against the wall, his clothes tacky against his sweaty skin, and carefully wills his mind blank. He sits as rigidly as a statue, trying not to move and create more agonizing friction against his erection, and once it subsides it's easier to pretend the scene with Drake never happened if he focuses all his energy on something else. It's quiet enough in the church that he can hear the grandfather clock in his office chiming at the top of the hour, and with a sigh of relief he comes back to life and bends to silence the fan at his feet.

"Am I too late?"

Josh stiffens with his hand halfway to the controls. A cold shiver creeps over his skin, an odd contradiction to the heat that makes him break out in goosebumps.

"Father?" the Mystery Boy says. "You there?"

"Yes," Josh replies. "But I was just about to leave. I have something else I have to take care of."

"Please. I need your help. I messed up bad this time, and I'm scared. Really scared."

"What happened?" Josh asks, heart sinking and stomach rising at the same time. He thinks he knows what the Boy is going to say, and he's not sure he can handle hearing it, not now, not so soon after what happened with Drake.

"Um, well, okay. Bless me, Father, for I have --"

"Just get on with it!"

He can hear the Boy's gasp of surprise. "Okay, okay, I --" He swallows so loudly Josh can hear it through the screen. "Father, I had sex with that guy from my school. Real sex this time, not just the fooling around stuff we did before. I mean, he actually put his --"

"I don't need to know the details," Josh says through gritted teeth. He's shaking with something he tries to tell himself is anger, but it feels more like the pressure building up behind a dam about to burst.

"I'm sorry. The thing is... I -- I liked it. A lot."

Josh screws his eyes shut. He'd liked it, too. God help him, he'd loved the way Drake's hands had felt on him. A flare of envy tears through him that the Boy was able to go farther, get more of what Josh had been craving than he could ever dare allow himself. It isn't fair, dammit. It just isn't fair.

"It was amazing," the Boy says, and Josh finds himself nodding in agreement, eyes still shut tight. "At least, I thought it was at the time. But now, I can't live with the guilt any more. I tried to pray it away like you told me last time, but I -- I guess I'm just... too weak."

Josh's face feels like it's glowing neon red. Drake had kissed him, and touched him, and wanted to suck his cock, and God, he wants that, too. More than he can ever remember wanting anything in his life. If it's weakness to want to give in to that impulse, then he's weak, but sweet Jesus, it feels like the hardest decision he's ever had to make.

"I'm afraid I'm going to go to Hell," the Boy whispers. "You've got to help me. God will never forgive me if you don't."

Josh claws at front of his shirt and yanks his collar loose. It feels like it's strangling him. "I can't help you," he says, hurling it to the floor. I can't even help myself. "No one can help you, all right? No one." His voice is uncharacteristically stern, and he knows the Boy will interpret it as a rebuke, but he's no longer able to care. The pressure is only moments from boiling over now, and he needs to release it more than he needs to help the Boy ease the guilt a more forgiving God would never have required him to feel in the first place.

"But Father," the Boy says, his voice rising shrilly, "I --"

"No one," Josh says again, rising to his feet. He grinds the collar beneath the heel of his shoe and lurches through the confessional door before the Boy can say another word.

Looking back on it later, Josh will never be able to remember driving to Drake's apartment. He remembers getting in the car and he remembers getting out of the car, but has no recall of what happened in between. He doesn't remember walking up the stairs. He doesn't remember ringing the doorbell. But he will never forget the look on Drake's face when he opens the door and sees Josh standing there.

"Can I come in?" Josh says, breathless from the climb.

Drake opens the door wider by way of an answer, and Josh pushes past him into the apartment.

"Drake, I --"

"Look, man," Drake says, shutting the door behind him. "It's not that I'm not glad to see you, okay? But if you just came over here to get me all worked up and then leave again before anything else can happen, I'm really not -- "

Josh isn't listening. He sees Drake's lips moving, he hears the sounds coming out of his mouth, but they have no more meaning to him than the squeal of the fan in the confessional. He strides forward, bumping Drake backwards until his back is against the door, and bows his head to crush his lips to Drake's in a frantic kiss. Drake freezes for only a second, then arches his body away from the door so Josh can feel every inch of him from chest to knees, running his hands down Josh's sides to his hips, digging his fingers into Josh's hipbones in a way that under other circumstances might tickle but now makes him grunt into Drake's open mouth. His fingers twist in Drake's hair.

"You sure about this?" Drake murmurs, pulling away so abruptly the back of his head smacks the door. His lips are already swelling. Josh leans in to him, grinding his pelvis against Drake's so he can feel the heat of his erection.

"That answer your question?" he whispers.

Drake responds with a sigh that sounds like a growl, and dives back in for another greedy kiss. He pushes Josh backward, tugging the hem of his shirt free of his pants, and they take a few tentative steps away from the door in the direction of what Josh assumes is the bedroom. Their progress is slow and uneven because neither wants to break the kiss, and when their teeth clack together painfully for the third time Drake twists his head away.

"Fuck this," he says, toying with Josh's belt buckle. "I can't wait."

As he tugs the belt free of its loops, a sudden wave of doubt washes over Josh. "I -- I don't..."

Drake's expression hardens as he flings the belt to the floor. "What? I told you, Josh, don't do this to me, man."

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that," Josh says softly, raising one hand to brush the pad of his thumb along Drake's cheekbone. "I just -- I've never done this." He can feel his face getting warm. "I'm not really sure what to do."

Drake smiles. It's a different smile than his usual one. It doesn't light up his whole face. It makes him look like a cat that has happened upon a bowl of cream and can't wait to start lapping it up. The sight of it sends a thrill of arousal rolling through Josh's stomach. "Relax," Drake says, manipulating the button on Josh's pants. "I'll take good care of you." He slides the zipper down and hooks his thumbs inside the waistband of Josh's boxers. "I promise."

He eases the clothing past Josh's hips, dropping to his knees when it falls to the floor so he can remove Josh's shoes and socks. Josh fights the urge to cover his exposed cock with his hands, then forgets modesty altogether when Drake gives the head a swift lick as he's tossing Josh's clothes over his shoulder. Josh's erection is standing out through the open halves of his shirttail, and Drake pushes the shirt up over Josh's stomach so it's out of the way. "Hold this," he whispers, flapping the shirt against Josh's belly, and Josh obeys with a trembling hand. His knees are shaking, and he's not sure if they can hold his weight much longer.

Drake shuffles forward on his knees and wraps his fingers around Josh's cock, stroking along the length of it with a gentle touch that makes Josh twitch. "Relax," Drake says again, encircling the base of Josh's cock with his thumb and forefinger. "You're gonna like this. We both are."

Josh holds his breath as Drake opens his mouth. He taps the underside of Josh's cock against his outstretched tongue, then rolls his tongue around the head and leans in just enough that the glans disappears inside his mouth. Every muscle in Josh's body feels like a tightly-coiled spring. He drops his free hand down to rest on the back of Drake's head, groaning as Drake pulls back so he's balancing the head of Josh's cock on the middle of his tongue. Drake repeats the tap-roll-suck, this time taking in more of Josh's cock, and then again, and again, his lips sliding farther and farther down Josh's cock each time until they are nearly touching his fingers at its base and Josh's legs are quivering so violently they are almost numb. Drake tilts his head back so he can meet Josh's eyes, his bangs slipping slowly off his forehead, and a rush of déjà vu leaves Josh feeling like he's teetering on the edge of a cliff.

"Oh, man," Josh whispers hoarsely. "Drake, I -- I'm --"

Drake sits back on his heels and tears open the front of his jeans, pulling out his own cock, and they each start stroking themselves furiously. Josh drops to his knees next to Drake as the intensity swells, then peaks and crashes through him from head to foot and out to the tips of his fingers and toes. He comes with a choked groan, eyes locked on Drake's hand as it continues to fly along the length of his cock. When the last pulse of his own orgasm has passed, he pushes Drake down on his back and kisses him savagely, entwining his fingers between Drake's so they're both working his cock now. Drake's breathing becomes heavier, more erratic, and he pumps his hips forward against Josh's belly. His muscles stiffen and he arches his back, moaning against Josh's lips as he comes.

For a long while afterward, the room echoes with the sound of their breathing. Josh wipes at a trickle of sweat on his temple and flops down on the floor on his back, his chest and stomach rising and falling rapidly as he struggles to get himself back under control. His whole body feels like it's buzzing.

"You okay?" Drake says, rolling on to his side and propping his head up on his hand.

Josh shakes his head. "What's the next step up from okay?" he asks.

"Um... good?"

He shakes his head again. "And the next step up from that?"

"Really good?"

Josh laughs. "I would probably describe more like absolutely freaking amazing," he says.

Smiling, Drake leans in and kisses him, a gentle press of lips that slowly mellows into a deep soul kiss with the promise of becoming something more. "And just think," Drake says softly, nuzzling Josh's nose with his own. "The night's still young. I can make you feel even better." He kisses the tip of Josh's nose and pulls back so he can look Josh in the eye. "Wanna stay?"

The implication behind Drake's words is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Josh feels like he's stopped at a crossroads, and both forks are shrouded with fog. But then Drake kisses him again, slipping one hand under Josh's wrinkled shirttail to gently stroke his belly, and the way ahead suddenly becomes clear.

"Yeah," he says, shivering as Drake's fingers skirt across a particularly sensitive spot. "I think I do."

He is suddenly awake at 6:30 AM sharp, just like he is every morning. He blinks as the sunlight pours across his face, raising one hand to shade his eyes. The colors in the room are all wrong, and for a moment it's disorienting. They're too bright, for one thing, and what is with all the sunshine? He rolls on to his side, away from the light, letting his eyes flutter shut again. Thank God it's Father Gilbert's turn to take the morning mass. His whole body is aching, another hour of sleep would feel like heaven.

The mattress moves behind him, and the sheet is tugged off his shoulder. Josh's eyes pop open again.

Oh. Yeah. Right.

Drake settles into position without waking up, and Josh knows sleep will not be returning this morning.

He scrubs his face with the heel of his hand and rolls halfway over again, just enough so he can see the back of Drake's head out of the corner of his eye. Nothing has changed, he tells himself. He'd screwed up the night before. Bigtime. Capital "S," capital "U." He'd taken a vow a long time ago, and last night he'd broken that vow, thrown it aside like it had no more worth than an empty gum wrapper. But it's going to be okay. He can confess the sin, do his penance, and be forgiven. That's the way it works, after all. That's what it's all about.

There are certain things you just can't say to a priest, all right?

He can go back to his ministry and act like none of this ever happened. The work may not bring the kind of joy he was told to expect from it in seminary, he may feel more like a robot someone has programmed to be a priest than an actual man of God, but that's not such a big deal. It's never brought him that kind of satisfaction, he realizes with a pang. He's never felt the kind of deep connection to his parishioners or even to God he has sensed in other priests, but until this moment he's never admitted it to himself.

Everything's going to be fine. Nothing has changed.

Drake moves again, shifting a bit closer to Josh's warmth. It's the first time in his adult life he's awakened with another person in the bed, Josh realizes, and the thought that this is also the last time it will happen makes him feel painfully hollow inside. God, he's given up a lot. All these years he's been denying himself, and it's been easy because until this morning he never truly understood what was missing in the first place. Now, he does.

This is a noble thing, he tells himself. Christ made the ultimate sacrifice. Now Josh can make his, and it will be that much more meaningful for the understanding of what he's given up.

Nothing has changed.

"Hey," Drake says, and Josh turns his head to see Drake's lazy smile.

"Hey, yourself."

"You're still here. I was halfway expecting you to be gone when I woke up."

"Yeah, well, I -- I just woke up myself."

"Mmm." Drake drops his arm across Josh's abdomen and rests his head on Josh's shoulder, and it feels so perfect Josh's eyes prickle suddenly with impending loss. He wraps his arm around Drake's shoulders and draws him in closer. "I could get used to this," Drake murmurs, kissing his way along Josh's jaw line to the corner of his mouth. His hand moves between Josh's legs to cup his balls as he slips his tongue between Josh's teeth, and Josh's insides turn to liquid fire. "Could you?" Drake whispers, pulling back just enough to ask the question, and Josh knows exactly what his answer will mean.

He nods, and Drake smiles and kisses him again, and Josh realizes he was wrong.

Everything has changed.

Epilogue: Three Years Later

The concert is a sell-out. It's not a huge arena, but it's bigger than the venues Drake was playing this time last year, and things are only going to get better from here. Drake runs into the wings after the final encore and nearly tackles Josh with a hug. "You were awesome!" Josh yells over the noise of the crowd, handing Drake a towel. "Listen to them out there!"

"I know," Drake shouts back, mopping his sweaty face and draping the damp towel over his shoulder. His cheeks are flushed with excitement and happiness. "It's an amazing crowd." He takes the bottle of water Josh offers and downs it in a few gulps. It's not the expensive kind he prefers, but Josh figures it won't be long before Drake is a big enough star that Josh can negotiate his contracts to include not only his favorite brand of water, but enough candy in the dressing room to satisfy even Drake's insatiable sweet tooth.

"What's up next?" Drake asks as they meander their way toward the green room.

"You've got a meet and greet," Josh says, pressing his hand to the small of Drake's back to steer him through the backstage crowd. It's not strictly necessary, of course, as Drake knows full well how to get where they're going, but Josh always feels the need to re-connect with Drake after a show.

"Awesome," Drake says gleefully. He's not jaded enough yet that he considers the fans a nuisance, Josh knows. He still gets a huge kick out of meeting them and being asked for his autograph. He looks up at Josh and gives him the smile that turns his knees to water. "And after that?" he says quietly. Josh squeezes his back in reply, a promise of things to come.

A few minutes later, a security guard leads a group of a dozen or so people wearing backstage passes around their necks through the green room door. They all look unbearably excited. There probably isn't a dry set of panties in the whole crowd, Josh thinks sardonically, then raises his eyebrow in surprise. One of the people in the group this time is a man. That's unusual.

Josh turns away to study the spread on the buffet table. Ooh, olives. He pops a few in his mouth and picks up a plate to fix himself a sandwich. He hears Drake laughing and catches a flash of light out of the corner of his eye, and two of the girls from the meet and greet wiggle past with their heads together, giggling over the signed photos of Drake they now clutch in their hands.

Josh eats his sandwich and drinks a cup of coffee, chatting idly with various roadies and hangers on, always aware of Drake's presence in the background. The meet and greet crowd dwindles slowly; Drake shows each of them an equal amount of attention and Josh can see from the looks on their faces as they leave they will be Drake Parker fans for life. He's trying to decide if he's hungry enough for one of the huge chocolate chip cookies at the end of the table when he hears something that brings him up short.

"I am such a huge fan," a voice says, and Josh pulls his hand back from the cookie tray. He turns around to see Drake talking to the man Josh had noticed earlier. His voice is familiar, and it sets Josh's heart to pounding. "You were so amazing tonight."

"Hey, thanks. Thanks so much," Drake says to the Mystery Boy with a smile. "I'm really glad you enjoyed the show."

Josh edges closer, his mouth hanging open a bit in surprise. He's thought about the Boy from time to time since he left the priesthood, always with a twinge of regret for the shitty way he'd treated him that last night in the confessional, but he'd never expected to see -- or rather, hear -- him again. What a freakish coincidence that he should finally get a chance to see the Boy face to face here, of all places.

"Would you sign this for me?" the Boy says, handing Drake a glossy eight-by-ten. Josh cranes his neck to look at the photo. It's the one of Drake giving himself a seductive look in a bathroom mirror, bare-chested and with his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped and his belt hanging from the loops. His face is shining wet, and his arms are in the air as he sweeps his wet hands up through his hair. It's one of Josh's favorites. Drake was so turned on by the time they got home from the shoot, he let Josh fuck him, for a change.

"Yeah, sure, I'd love to," Drake says. He glances at the picture and then looks up with a grin, seeking Josh out in the crowd. He apparently has the same happy memories associated with this particular portrait that Josh does. "What's your name?" he asks, turning his attention back to the Mystery Boy.

"Craig. Craig Ramirez."

Drake signs the picture with a flourish, and hands it back to profuse thanks. They talk for a few minutes longer, but Josh isn't paying attention to their words. He still can't believe this is actually the Boy. The magnitude of the coincidence almost makes him re-think his loss of faith. When Craig splits off from the group to head for the door, Josh leaps into action and moves in front of him to cut him off. "Can I talk to you for a second?" he asks in a voice so hoarse he can barely recognize it as his own.

Craig, who had been blowing on the picture to dry the ink, jumps back in surprise. He gives Josh a quizzical frown. "Uh, yeah. Sure, I guess."

Josh starts to pull him to the side, but then notices the noise level in the room and thinks better of it. "Follow me," he says, beckoning Craig into the hallway outside the green room. It's not much better out here, but it will have to do.

"Listen, I have something I've been wanting to say to you for a while now," Josh says. Craig's frown grows even more pronounced, and Josh realizes with a jolt that Craig has no idea who he is. He reaches out and puts one tentative hand on Craig's shoulder.

"Do I know you?" Craig asks, his eyes darting nervously from Josh's face to his hand and back again.

Josh nods. "Yeah," he says, "you do. And I just really wanted to say I -- I'm sorry. I didn't understand what it was like for you back then. But I do now, and I'm sorry I couldn't help." He gives Craig's shoulder a gentle squeeze and meets his eyes dead-on. This is harder than he'd ever imagined it could be.

Craig shifts on his feet, and Josh knows the moment is getting away from him. It may be the only chance he ever gets to do this. He wants to do it right. He takes a deep breath and releases it with a sigh.

"What I really wanted to ask you," he says, "is this. Can you forgive me?"