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To most, Judas appears aloof. Uncaring. Standoffish.
But not to Jesus.
Judas is often quiet, but he can be brash to the point of rudeness, even if that isn’t his intention. He frets when disciples fall ill, making sure they’re all fed and watered. He’s not afraid to stand up for others, even to his own detriment.
And Jesus adores him for it.
He loves everyone; Mary, the disciples, their wives, even people he hasn’t met and never will. Yet he doesn’t love anyone more than he loves Judas.
Their gazes linger a little longer than what one may call acceptable. Judas’ tunic is just that little bit low-cut, revealing the soft skin and dark hair of his chest, and Jesus can’t stop his eyes being drawn to it. He notices Judas looking at him, too, whether it’s when he’s brushing a strand of long hair out of his eyes, or watching Jesus’ hands as he works.
Their touches aren’t particularly subtle. Hands cupping faces, hands clutching at the other’s hands, velvety lips pressing softly against cheeks. Judas drapes his own robe over Jesus’ shoulders when he tires, and Jesus pulls Judas into his embrace more often than he would with anyone else.
Sometimes, all Jesus can smell is Judas. That gentle scent of lavender infused with the slight saltiness of sweat follows Judas wherever he goes, and whenever Judas is in his arms, all Jesus wants to do is inhale it over and over again.
Nothing quite compares to Judas’ voice. It’s soft when he wants it to be, but it can be harsh and biting when he’s angry. It sounds like a hymn, like a psalm. It’s something Jesus knows he will never tire of hearing, even if he doubts Judas would say the same of him.
They share every meal, tasting the same food together. Bread and honey, fruit and wine, fish and cheese. As each bite passes Judas’ lips, Jesus wonders if Judas’ kisses would be sweet like the figs he loves so much, or salty and herbed like their bread.
Jesus is sitting by the fire, late into the night, long after the rest of the disciples have retired.
He sits and he ponders.
“Jesus?”
Judas’ voice stirs him from his thoughts. He’s standing a short distance away, and Jesus can clearly see the crackling fire reflected in his perpetually anxious eyes.
“Judas, sit with me,” Jesus says, gesturing to the rock he’s resting upon.
Cautiously, Judas does, wringing his hands and fidgeting with his clothing.
“Something troubles you,” Jesus observes.
“Yes,” Judas breathes. “Although I am unsure of how to tell you.”
“You do not have to tell me,” Jesus says, placing a gentle hand upon Judas’ knee, stilling him. He swears Judas tenses under the touch; it saddens him.
“I do,” Judas whispers.
“Then I will listen.”
Judas opens and closes his mouth for a moment, shaping around words that are not spoken.
“I love you,” he eventually says.
Jesus’ heart leaps in his chest, but he is quick to shut down that hope. “I should hope so, as that is what I’ve taught you… to love your neighbour.”
But Judas shakes his head. “This is different. Forgive me if I am wrong, but I believe you love me the same way.”
All Jesus can do is gape at him.
“I’ve offended you,” Judas mumbles. “I’m sorry. Forget this ever happened.”
He makes to stand, but Jesus is quick to grab his hand.
“Judas, no. You haven’t. You couldn’t,” Jesus says quietly. “What you say is true.”
Judas’ voice is quieter than Jesus has ever heard it. “Is it?”
Jesus nods. “May I show you how I feel about you?”
Judas sits back down, and a single word falls from his lips. “Yes.”
Then Jesus’ lips are on Judas’, and nothing has felt more perfect.
Judas’ lips taste like honey, and Jesus is sure that Judas’ kisses could sustain him for an eternity.
He hopes they will.