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I liked an empty house. Parents at work, brothers gone. No one breathing down my neck. Of course, that killed my productivity. I should have be looking for grad school options, internships, or something more productive than hashing out Abyss mode on BlazBlue for the umpteenth time. But I couldn't concentrate. It was still the middle of June. I had time, and the windfall at the Milwaukee museum had me feeling just a little lax. Besides, I could be productive when other people were home, and I would be once again under the eye of parents who firmly believed in a house without locked doors. That ruling always clashed with my not-so-inner recluse. Each day built up a little more apprehension about the whole thing.

As much as they denied it, my parents could be class A snoops, and their adamance about no doors or secrets was borderline invasive, even though they obeyed their own rules. But Sam was coming. Sam was coming soon, and my confidence from the previous weeks was draining. Every day, even every hour, I jumped back and forth across the lines of truth. I'll tell them... I'll keep it secret... I'll tell them... I'll keep it a secret... I had told Sam about this. God, he was a saint about the whole thing. Having someone at your back like that, no matter what you do, was one of the greatest gifts he could have given. He just radiated security.

I leaned back on my bed so that I was laying down with my legs dangling off the end. I just sort of stayed there, the game paused with the music going. I reached for a pillow and held it close again. God, I missed him. I missed the way he held me, a true bear hug that was strong but still soft. I missed his scent, that mix of masculinity with a lace of sweet pine. I longed for the taste of his kisses and how he whispered in my ear when we shared a bed.

I certainly missed the sex, but not just because I was horny as all fuck without him around. Really, I missed the foreplay the most. Sex with Sam felt so different than my previous partners. Partners felt like the wrong term. Flings seemed like a more accurate descriptor. When I was with Sam, he never went right for the goods. He drew it out, he explored my body with his hands and lips. He almost fetishized my chest, my legs, my neck... When we had sex, Sam clearly thought that I was beautiful. It was such a curious experience, to be considered beautiful. You never really see men being called beautiful. Handsome, maybe.

I also missed waking up to him. In retrospect we started sharing a bed rather fast, but in other ways, we actually took things kinda slow. I probably started being his boyfriend around the second time I asked Sam for sex, really. I mean, I kissed him. I kissed him, and it felt really good. I still felt kinda bad about that whole thing. I was jerking Sam around in my quest of gayness. I still can't believe he put up with all of my bullshit. It was still kind of hard to believe that I fell in love with my friend and roommate.

Just like that, I returned to last Tuesday. Sam had set it. He'd said we were in love. Why did that feel so different? We'd shared plenty of "I love you's," but saying we were in love. The words basically meant the same thing, from a pure dictionary stance. But for some reason, saying I was in love with him held so much more weight. The simple change of phrase felt so powerful, and it felt so good. I curled myself around the pillow, wishing for the umpteenth time I had my cuddle bear in my arms. I was starting to see the appeal of those japanese body pillow things, but having a person-sized pillow of Sam lying around my room would probably be bit of a giveaway. I kissed the pillow again, wishing the freshly washed pillowcase didn't smell so sterile. I laid there, listening to the music loop for the eighth time before sitting up again.

...

The first way you know you're catholic when you contemplate which day of the week you'll be going to mass. Of course there's Sunday, but you also have to choose when on Sunday, generally around eight in the morning, then again at eleven, and then again at two in the afternoon. But there's also Saturdays, both at six and eight in the evening. And some catholic churches also have that token mass in the middle of the week, generally it's Wednesday. I've always kind of wondered if our pastor changed the songs or his sermons for each day of the week, but I'd never really wanted to invest that kind of time.

The second way you know you're catholic is that if you wear the same attire to church that you'd wear to a wedding, it'd be considered "dressing down." There's no accepted excuse I know of not to come to church in your Sunday best. I bet 90% of kiddie suit sales come from churchgoers. Probably one of the worst parts, if you asked me. I've always seen dress clothes as unnecessarily pretentious. Like, does a change of clothes really change the person wearing them? Especially such uncomfortable clothes? Is there ever an occasion that would be ruined by a comfortable pair of jeans and t-shirt?

I tugged at my collar as I walked through the doors, smiling a little. Sam would be giving me so much crap right now. His disposition on the topic of religion wasn't exactly sugar-coated, but between us it was more like playful banter. We challenged each other's opinions, which was healthy. Did Mom and Dad know Sam was an atheist? That might complicate things... Despite that I chuckled to myself. My poor bear would have to come out twice.

Even still, Sam probably wouldn't have had much a problem with our congregation. We may be catholic, but we're not the fire and brimstone type, and we don't do the whole "answers in genesis" science denial thing either. He might be even willing to join us. It would certainly simplify things on the home front. I'd have to tell him to bring a suit though.

The third way you know you're catholic is that your sunday worship doubles as an aerobics class. Every song is stand up - sit down - up again - on your knees - back down - knees again. The whole hour too. Not to sound like I'm complaining, really. I like our services, and I really like Father Gregorian, our chaplain. He was an old fox, his red pelt all but gray now, looking even shorter than he already was due to his stooped stature. But he still had his voice, a melodious tenor that could capture your attention or lead the choir with ease. Despite the fact that each song requires you to leap out of your seat, I like church music. As much as my inner scientist groans at me saying this, there's a special way that hymns can make you feel connected with everyone else around you.

As we put away our book of hymns for the fourth time, I noticed a change to the program. Father Gregorian was forgoing his normal sermon for a guest pastor. Some Pastor Crowley from down south. His name rang a bell, but I couldn't place it just yet. I scanned the crowd for anyone i didn't recognize. At the front row, I saw a head, crowned with blue and white feathers, sitting upon a massive body. I surprised I didn't notice him until now, just as Father Gregorian began to introduce him. I did feel a little pang of disappointment as he took the stage. Father Gregorian was just as much a wordsmith as he was a singer, and his sermons were half the reason I came.

Crowley struck an imposing figure as he stood behind Father Gregorian's podium. He was tall, taller than me for sure. His feathers were brilliant under a spotlight, almost incandescent. His body was broad and bulky, but the way his arms flexed and pressed against his pinstripe suit denoted strength rather than a man gone to seed. His face and fingers were adorned with a slash of black feather, and Pastor Crowley's eyes were only discernible by a glimmer beneath those ebony feathers.

He spoke with a honeyed, Louisiana accent, a rich, mellifluous voice with long vowels, slightly rolled r's, and a downswing on the end of his sentences. It was the kind of voice that could bring a room of 200 people to rapturous attention with a single sentence. "Good morning. I must first thank you for welcoming me to your pulpit. As your own Father Gregorian so courteously introduced me, I am pastor Allastor Crowley. I was invited tonight to speak with you, as if you were my own flock. And today, I wish to talk with you about... The word.. of God."

The pause was perfectly timed. Everyone had unconsciously scooted up to the edge of their pews. I was squeezed between Michael and David, my bulky, brownish brothers, with their broad shoulders squishing me like I was stuck in our car's middle seat, They leaned in, for once listening to the sermon. My father looked so much like my brothers, both in their mud brown, coarse fur, powerful chests, and their one-minded fixation on our guest speaker. Despite the fact that my mother was leaning back into her pew, her hand rested thoughtfully under her chin, her expression one of introspection as her pert, pointy ears took in Crowley's honeyed tones.

"Now, some people like to claim they're doing the work of God, and some people are indeed following His word. However, anyone can say they work the will of God. Of course, the only way to understand if one does the work of God is to check right here." His feathered hands reached into a sleeve and procured a black leather bible, different from the ones we had in the baskets on the back of the old oak pews. The bookmarks and red-embossed print denoted it as Crowley's own copy.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. This Crowley guy was walking that treacherous line of biblical literalism, which I always found to be a somewhat stunted view of a holy text. But at the same time, dismissing him upfront just because we disagreed wasn't smart. I mean, look at me and Sam, for one.

The magpie waved his hand, and I noticed a mismatched set of silver rings on his fingers. "By this book we know who truly do the works of God. And by this book we know who bears false witness when they claim they do the works of God. And by this book... we know the fate of those who falsely claim they do God's works." Crowley's dark eyes glimmered under the refracted light of the stain glassed windows, barely visible behind that black mask of feathers he wore.

It was then I noticed that I could smell him. It started as a flowery sweetness, wafting from the pulpit all the way back to the middle rows where my family sat. But as Crowley waved his hands again, the smell grew so strong so that it became overpowering, smelling sickly rather than sweet. My hands gripped the wooden seat, and despite that I knew it was my imagination, I swore my nose was picking up a whiff of brimstone.

I tuned out completely when I heard the word "sodomite." No one uses that word benignly. But I still couldn't check out. I had to look like I was listening, especially because everyone around me was listening. As much as I didn't want to validate this magpie on Father Gregorian's pulpit, I still had to pretend to be captivated. My eyes flitted left-right, trying to gauge my family's reaction. Mom's introspective stare was unaltered from when I last glanced her way, but David, Michael, and Dad were still enraptured. Was Dad smiling?! Why was Dad smiling?!

I resisted the urge to fidget, to get up and use the bathroom, to do anything that would get me out of this twisted mockery of my home church. Why was no one speaking up? Why was no one jarred by the fact that this man spoke so differently than our own Father Gregorian? Why was no one pointing out that just last month Father Gregorian welcomed any and all to our congregation, had admonished someone for speaking ill of GLBT people? I couldn't react. I just had to wait... to wait, and try not to listen.

I don't know when Crowley stopped. It was only until Father Gregorian finished taking communion that I noticed I was holding my breath, and I exhaled slowly. Michael and David had receded back into their state of semi-attentiveness. Dad was sitting with his arms crossed, fingers drumming against his elbows. Mom, again, was unchanged. When we all got to the car, I sat, silent and small. I withdrew into silence which wasn't abnormal enough to warrant attention.I felt isolated from them, as if I were an other. My father and brothers looked almost like clones, despite the differences in age. I was the only one who inherited my mom's glossy, raven fur. The only thing that connected me to my brothers were our ice blue eyes.

They were talking... they were talking! My ears snatched up words like "tight end," "snap," and "defense." That was good. No one would notice if I zoned out during a sports talk. But all that did was give me more time to ruminate over Crowley. This was the first time I'd really understood what people meant when they talked about "safe spaces." My church was already a safe space. It was a safe haven, a place where I had always felt welcomed and at home. "At least until an overstuffed bird darkens its doorstep." Why was everyone looking at Crowley like that? Was my congregation, which was previously so benign and welcoming, showing their true colors now? Or was it a product of fear-driven imagination? I felt like I was just starting to understand what it really meant to be closeted, to live a life on tenterhooks that one false word could turn my life upside down. As I stomped back to my room, I had to fight a sick urge to laugh at the absurdity of the whole thing. How could one tiny detail about my personal life could hold the potential to bring out the worst of otherwise decent people.

I spent the rest of the day in a state of retreat. I lied and claimed I was meeting a friend for dinner. What a fucking lie. I had no friends here. My relationship was my high school class ranged from indifference to abject loathing. I just hung around a coffee shop, nursing a tea latte and filtering out the babble of the other people. I wanted to just get out of my stupid town, to spend an hour to just run, even if I knew I had to return. I desperately wanted a car, to drive far away and escape back to Sam's arms.

I missed him. I wanted him. I wanted his comforting arms, his soothing voice. He always knew what to say, and he never said what I wanted to hear unless it lined up with the truth as he saw it. But he'd never say anything to hurt me. To him the truth was the best way to comfort anyone, even if it was uncomfortable. I knew he'd say something about Catholicism, but maybe he was right... could my faith remain intact and coincide with my new self? Was my participation enabling people like Crowley?

What perplexed me most was Father Gregorian. Why would he invite someone like Crowley to our congregation? He had made it abundantly clear his doors were open to everyone, especially GLBT people, even though it put our church in direct opposition to the catholic old guard. It just seemed so out of character. I got up and drained my tea. I felt the sudden urge to return to church.

I arrived a little after five, and made a beeline for the confessional. The lacquered pine brought me back in time, a sweetish smell that reminded me of my childhood. It had been years since I'd last been here. But now I'd returned for a purpose, and it wasn't me who had something to answer for. I sat back on the uncomfortable seat, and after a minute, I heard the faint wheeze of an aged fox.

"What brings you here my child?" It was indeed Father Gregorian. His voice was soft, melodious, with an aged, gravelly undertone. I smiled a little despite my foul mood. The archaic language he always used made him sound straight out of a silver screen film.

I didn't know where to start. The sense of purpose that had so recently bubbled up in me was deflating. It felt so out of place, inditing my own priest from inside this box. But I couldn't let this sit. "Father... I need to talk to you about the service this morning. The first service."

"Oh... er... yes. About that." I found myself relishing how uncomfortable Father Gregorian was feeling. As much as I liked him and even admired him, I kind of wanted him to feel a fraction of how unwelcome, of how violated I felt when Crowley led our service."

"Father... why did you bring Pastor Crowley here? Why did you bring someone who stands against everything our church has advocated for? Why would you bring in someone who openly spouted hate speech as truth?"

"I really need to apologize about that. I was going to announce a formal apology next week. And, I hope it comforts you to know that Pastor Crowley did not speak at the next service."

It did comfort me to hear that. "Did you know what Pastor Crowley was going to speak about? I just don't understand why'd you bring anyone like him into our congregation."

"Yes... you are right," said Father Gregorian ruefully. "A few neighboring churches informed me Crowley was in the area, and they did recommend that he come speak. I must admit I did not look up anything about him until after he left our church. I hope it comforts you to know that I will not make such a mistake again. And I should let you know that many of our congregation came up to me and asked me the same things you did. All I can do right now is apologize for my poor choice in guests and my ineptitude in researching their online presence. If I'd done a simple search I'd have found his website most illuminating, and most unsettling."

A wave of relief washed over me. As hurt as I had been by Crowley's transgressions, the fact that he was brought here by Father Gregorian's unfamiliarity with technology rather than malice. In fact, I kind of felt a little guilty at how accusatory I'd been. "Father... I'm sorry about... about how I was speaking with you. It's just that Crowley's speech... it hit a lot closer to home than it would've last year because... " I didn't know why I was admitting this. As anonymous as confessional was supposed to be, our congregation was small enough that Father Gregorian could guess who I was. I suppose I had to rely on the sanctity of the confessional.

"This spring, I fell in love with another man. I didn't really know when I realized I was starting to find males attractive... but now he's so important to me. I haven't felt this way about anyone before, male or female. I guess... I guess that's why I..." I trailed off, my confidence and sense of purpose crumbling away.

Father Gregorian finished the sentence. "why you felt so attacked. I wish that I could do something more than offer an apology. And if your... would you call him your boyfriend? If he comes here, I will personally ensure he is welcome."

In the shadow of the confessional, I actually smiled. "Father Gregorian... thank you." I sat in silence until Father Gregorian left the confessional. I didn't need to wait for long. Father Gregorian had a talent for staying just as long as he needed to. When I left the sweetish cedar box, I breathed easier, as if I'd left a heavy weight behind in the shadows.