“Please don’t say that,” he pleads, as he runs one slender hand through his dark tresses in a seemingly weary gesture that goes straight to my heart. “It’s not immaterial. And it obviously disturbed you.”
“Jesus…” I take a step toward him on impulse, my hand smoothing back that soft raven mane, without consideration of what I’m actually doing. I continue to not address his concerns, as if my doing so will simply cause them to evaporate into the air between us. “It’s late, you should be asleep. We have much to do, and not much time…”
“Not much time? Not much time? Don’t you think I know this?” His agitated words dance toward me, slicing me in a verbal rapier fashion. “Why does it have to be this way, Jude, why do we have to do everything in such…a short…time? Why can’t—” He breaks off, wincing, casts a chagrined glance upward. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to doubt you, Father. I do not mean—”
His words cease abruptly and an alarmed cry escapes my lips as his figure begins to crumple. Without hesitation I reach for him, gathering him into the shelter of my arms before he can hit the ground. I hold him close to me, as if by doing so I can protect him from the doubts that apparently assail him. The insecurities that are wearing him down, tearing him apart. Placing my panicked hand upon his chest, I search for a heartbeat even though I know this is not the way in which he will leave this earth—certainly not here and definitely not now. There it is. I can feel the rhythm, faint but palpable, and I breathe a wordless prayer of thanks to his father.
His eyes are shut, and I find myself staring at the too pale skin, as if willing them to open, yet also dreading the same, for I fear my own eyes reveal only too well the plethora of emotions that flood me at this moment.
Oh, why do I torture myself thus with these thoughts, torment myself with what cannot be, no matter how much I might wish for it? Because Judas isn’t nearly as hard as he thinks he is, his impenetrable shell is a mere facade he hides behind which a simple look from Jesus can crumble into so much dust. He’s the one, the only one that can get to me in this way, any others are mere dalliances, ways to pass the time and satisfy my libido. Scratch an itch, if you will. Jesus is the one I wish to delve into, to explore this world with, to love and protect from all those that would seek to harm him, to be with in every way that two people in love can be together…
And yet what reason do I have to think that he could possibly feel that way about me? I’ve never had any reason—at least not until that kiss. And now I have to wonder…or perhaps it’s simply wishful thinking? And what an exercise in futility this is. My Sisyphean thoughts are broken by the sound of his voice.
“Don’t be afraid, Jude,” he whispers faintly, so softly I’m forced to lean closer to take in his words, his gentle tones hinting he understands the vortex that is my soul, roiling with unexpressed passions, and that he wishes to reassure me everything will be all right. Even now, in his weakened state, he is utterly beautiful, and I find myself daring to reach for his lips, wishing to make this connection between us again, as if I’m compelled by forces which I dare not disobey. I don’t know at this moment which of us is the more vulnerable, or who is taking advantage of whom.
I’m suddenly thrust back into the real world, the illusion—if that is what it is—
shattered by the sound of shocked voices coming from behind us. In my distraction over his well-being, I have let my guard down, lost track of the world around us, and now we are about to pay the price.
“He was right, they are sodomites—”
“They want to teach our children? What do they want to teach them?”
“Unnatural creatures!”Their voices ring out accusingly, and I quickly pull Jesus and myself up on our feet, placing myself protectively between him and them, whoever “them” may be. There are about a dozen of them. All piously dressed. All carrying either Bibles or hymnals. Who was right? What are they talking about? And what are they doing here, at this time of night, in the literal middle of nowhere?
My questions are answered as the man himself steps out from among the shadows that shelter him. I should have known. After all, everything’s in the script, isn’t it? Not like we don’t know that it will happen, we just don’t know when or where. Or how. Fucking Lucifer—or whatever name he’s going by in this time—
and his fucking band of merry hypocrites. Those pleasure-leeching do-gooders who can’t stand the idea that anyone might actually enjoy themselves in the here and now. Instead they’re saving it all up for the image of the afterlife which they’ve built up in their minds. Do they have a big shock in store for them…