Homecoming.

God, it had been what, seven years? Eight?
He still looked good, Stephen thought. He'd kept his lithe but muscular figure. Still looked good in those tights. Faint crow's feet were starting to appear around Phil's eyes, but overall he still had that boyish face - the very face he had fallen in love with during the locker room days, back when he was a young frosh himself. Naïve. Tender. He gazed upon Phil with a glow of a shared memory.
He'd never found another like Phil. Oh, Stephen had moved on...kept his feelings silent all these years, even found himself a wife. Heidi wasn't bad - she kept things nice in the house and made a pretty fantastic meatloaf, but oh, Phil!
Stephen closed his eyes and thought about happier times, blood rushing toward his loins with the speed of a virulent postadolescent once again. He had to control himself. The trench coat could only camouflage so much.
He silently snuck up to Phil from behind, Graflex in hand (what racy pictures they had once taken! Surely Phil would remember?), and put his loafer near that glistening Adonis.
Shyly, he uttered these words:
"Number 16, I presume?"