Work Text:
The sickly yellow glow of the sun was peaking through thin curtains, not enough to comfortably do anything. Enough to look at your lovers face and know him once more. Not enough to open an old page, nor to sharpen an old blade.
Jesus shook the shoulder of the man lying on the bed beside his. His face had a sunken look to it, as if he was still tired in his sleep. Jesus debated waking him. What would it accomplish?
"Judas."
Judas stirred awake. His gaze connected with Jesus' not long after, in a wordless, motionless embrace. It was comfortable silence, unlike what they were used to. Only tired, cozy mornings could have peaceful silence with them. No word would go unsaid if either had energy to speak.
"Good morning." Judas smiled lightly.
With every line on his face, with every expression, it was like he radiated love. Jesus couldn't help but wonder where it all came from, but more so where it would stop. He wondered if what he was told was true. He wondered if he was a fool to trust his father's tellings.
"Good morning." Jesus replied, breaking what little contact they had, opting to look out the window instead.
Judas looked around again, wondering why he was woken so early. Jesus' unfinished project from years ago stood out to him. Jesus hadn't taken it out of his closet for two years, closer to three. Judas had assumed he'd left the hobby behind, but the scent of the inside of the wood said otherwise. He noted that it hadn't changed much. Jesus hadn't done much.
Not yet, he thought, before correcting himself: Jesus wouldn't have the time to finish it. He knew that.
He was sure of it.
"When did you take that out again?" He asked.
Their room was relatively empty: two beds set on the floor, one bedside table with three books stacked on it, an unorganised closet filled with both their clothes. Whenever Jesus made something new, something handmade, something still being worked on; it gave the room life. Even if the remnant of him would be bittersweet at best at the end of the day, Judas appreciated seeing it.
"Hours ago. I couldn't sleep."
It was obvious to Judas that Jesus hadn't been up all night, even if he was up earlier than he should be. Jesus looked tired. Tired in the way one only gets when they're woken up before their rest. Tired in a way that says he'd been laying awake, staring, thinking, feeling nothing but the beat of his own heart when he knew he'd rather be listening to anothers.
"All you had to do was say so." Judas smiled patiently. "You could have woken me earlier."
"You have a long day ahead." Jesus ignored Judas' hand as it was placed on his own. Judas considered pulling himself away, seeing the reaction, or lack thereof.
"Do I? What have you planned for me?" He rubbed Jesus' knuckles despite himself.
"Nothing. Father has an idea. I don't." Came the curt answer.
Judas couldn't decide if he wanted to pity Jesus or be mad at him. He didn't want to debate anything with Jesus. Not this early in the morning. Not ever. He so wanted to say he didn't care for their goals anymore. He just wanted things to be how they used to be. He wanted Jesus the way he used to be. It was selfish, he knew, to want someone to be someone else, even if that someone else was them. Judas couldn't ask that of him. Oh, how he desperately wanted to.
"Does he, now?"
"He does."
"Care to let me in on it?-"
"Judas."
"What? I'm not the one who gets prophe-"
"Judas, stop." Jesus' voice rarely took on a commanding, scolding tone. Judas pulled his hands back, finally awake. A tight lipped expression painted his face. Despite the change of demeanor being expected, he didn't even think he could recount experiences like this with Jesus. They felt so surreal.
Sometimes, thinking back on the things Jesus had said and done felt more like slandering his name than reminiscing. Even now as he heard his voice, clear as day, he felt guilty for thinking of it as a scolding. As if he was accusing his lover. As if none of it was real. Jesus could never sound so angry. Not one so loved by the earth, by the people, by himself.
Judas wondered where all the love would go after tonight.
They stared at each other, waiting for an answer, holding onto a gasp. Neither wanted to breathe, to move, to be the first to make a sound. Judas knew he was meant to speak, despite what Jesus had just said. He knew that Jesus wouldn't talk until he initiated.
Jesus knew that Judas would not speak until he was told. Now that the rule had been set, Judas wouldn't cross the line in the sand, no matter how much wind obsecured his vision and ruined what Jesus had drawn. He knew the discipline his lover had.
Even as he'd wanted to trust his apostles, he knew they thought foul of Judas. Even as he trusted His Father, he couldn't help but think to ask for another kiss, the last thing he'd like to remember of Judas.
So they stared at each other, waiting for anything to happen, leaving the air stale.
Jesus' ashen curls framed his face beautifully. He had his back to the window, back to the sun, obsecuring his expression. Judas guessed he was being looked down upon.
It was a long moment, at least for the two of them. The rest of the world hadn't yet woken up. No sign of life was outside the window. The curtains were pulled in hopes for a sound sleep, despite their lack of function.
Jesus slowly arose, still making no move to explain what he meant.
"I'm going to make breakfast," Jesus said. "Don't join me."
Judas wanted to interject- why- but he was answered before he could.
"You will join me in dinner tonight. I want it to be special."
Judas nodded. He had wanted to forget about the dinner, but of course, today was a special one. Jesus had wanted to gather all twelve of his apostles for supper. Not that it was a grand meal. They'd eat what they always did.
Jesus just wanted it to be special.
It would be.
Judas watched his lover as he left their room with no more words. He still hadn't gotten out of bed, and it was early, but the sour taste in his mouth would keep him awake for hours, he was sure.
It was damnation. Foul play. An outside hand and a pawn. Any other way to describe it, and Judas would crumble in guilt. His situation as unique as any, no guide to find except for the self rightous voice in his head, echoing what he said to the priests, the other apostles, to their believers. He did what he had to, he said to the nothingness. Not even the morning sun would listen, nor the everpresent moon.
Still, he got up with that sour taste in his mouth, hoping the wine would wash it down in the evening.