Work Text:
Some people worshipped the wall, some worshipped a god long forgotten by the masses but Jean? Jean worshipped Marco’s lips, his own lips made meager prayers to the altar that was the curve of Marco’s lip. His humble offerings were all that he could give and his merciful god always accepted them. Jean didn't have time for god or the wall but for Marco he made every day a holy day.
If Marco’s lips were an altar his tongue was a shrine, Jean only wished he had the means to leave a gift upon the smooth steps of Marco.
Marco was made up of altars and shrines and Jean worshipped at every one. Gentle gasps were hymns and quiet cries were choirs and the sermons usually were quite compelling. His knees ached from his desperate contemplation.
Religious ideologies would always clash, some would cry for the wall and some for a god but Jean would grasp onto his mortal religion.
Gentle breathing and warm hands made Jean realize he was a zealot. He drank the experience like wine and he was baptised in desire.
Marco had become his icon, he clung desperately to their worship and his prayers were nearly always answered.
Jean had become the preacher to his personal flock, he sang the praises and drank from the chalice of their need.
There was a holy reckoning to every action but Jean faced it for he had found a congregation.