Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The corner Judas finds himself in is right at the borders of the wasteland. Buried so deeply beneath the railway bridge that the glow from the surrounding city doesn’t reach. It’s damp too. Full of mouldy cigarette butts and rotting pallets smothered by black bin bags left behind by whoever was here before them. 

Judas stands in the dark for a moment. Feels his heart pounding in his ears as his chest heaves and his whole body shivers with unspent rage. Then he delivers a swift kick to the pile of refuse by his feet with a bitten off “For fuck’s-“  

He feels as though he’s on fire.

It had only been a sermon this time. Barely even that really, just Jesus talking quietly by the fire. But while the others sat and nodded and blindly agreed that yes, we should love our neighbour as ourselves, Judas just couldn’t bring himself to swallow it. The naivety had made him feel sick. And Jesus had delivered it with all the surety of someone who, despite their precarious situation, doesn’t actually have to worry about how he’s going to survive from one day to the next. He doesn’t have to know the food on his table is being actively taken away by members of the Roman establishment. Real people, real “neighbours” who do mean to hurt those too put down upon to do anything about it.

And because Judas is incapable of keeping his mouth shut he’d shot something snarky across the fire. Something about how the world isn’t driven by romantic notions of peace or forgiveness. Jesus had startled for a moment, and then gently but firmly, patronisingly, doubled down. Judas isn’t quite sure when it all spiralled irreparably, but it was probably somewhere between him calling Jesus a big-headed prat, and Jesus responding by accusing him of understanding absolutely nothing.

He loves Jesus, he knows that much. Sometimes he suspects Jesus might love him back in his own way. But the man is too distant, pulled in every direction by too many responsibilities. Judas always comes second to the movement. That’s how it should be of course, it would be selfish of him to think that he should take priority. Besides, even if Jesus tried to connect with him in that way, then what? Judas is difficult and he knows it. He has some half formed idea of how to love someone. He has no idea how to be  loved.

So instead of finding a way to navigate their messy relationship like the adults they are, they bicker and scream themselves hoarse. Then Jesus buries himself in the affection of his other followers and Judas retreats to the dark peripheries. He can’t stand to let anyone fawn over him like Jesus does, but on nights like this he does seek his own kind of human connections to cope. Something he thinks is more fitting for someone like himself, who looks inside and finds himself pocked with festering sores instead of radiance. 

He lights a cigarette with trembling hands. Back by the fire, the others are still passing wine around. Jesus has moved back to take his seat, with John resting his stupid insipid face on his shoulder. As if John’s the one who deserves such comfort. Between his fingers, the cigarette threatens to fold. Much as Judas tries to choke it back, he can’t help feeling the reverberating sting of rejection. 

He could always rejoin the group. Even when they’ve been fighting, Jesus never denies him a space around the fire. But his wounds are far too fresh. The thought of crawling back to Jesus so soon, of having to feel everyone’s eyes on him, is too much. No, tonight he just wants to get out. He needs to find an easy fix. Needs to be roughhoused inside and out until he can’t think straight and he’s lost the capacity to feel hurt anymore. Until he’s no longer itching to slap John’s smug face off Jesus’ shoulder.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket. Getting laid is lower on the priority list when you’re wandering the country between campsites, so the dating app he’d downloaded while tipsy hasn’t seen much use recently. Judas swipes quickly through a few profiles, still too angry for any of them to really register. The usual mix of faceless bodies, twinks too boyish for him, and always the wanker with a shirtless gym selfie, pass by in a blur. Increasingly frustrated, he checks his messages instead. There are a few weak “Heys”. The odd blurry dickpick that does nothing for him.

But then, furthest up is a message from just over an hour ago from someone called Annas.

[A: Looking for a top tonight?]

Judas scans his profile picture. He’s attractive enough. There’s some grey around his temples and his hair is cut short in a style Judas has seen on dozens of men about town, but it’s neatly kept. The face beneath the haircut is clean shaven and his expression comes across a bit smug. He’s wearing an unassuming cotton t-shirt with a neckline that shows off his collarbone and displays enough muscle tone to suggest at least reasonable stamina. He’s clearly chosen to take the picture in the classiest room he’s got access to; it’s all floor to ceiling windows, hardwood floors and ornate rugs. Whether it’s actually one he owns is of course another matter entirely. Just behind him, there’s what appears to be an avant-garde bit of decor mounted on the wall, but on further inspection-

Huh. Interesting choice. Phallic. It’s eccentric enough to spark his curiosity.

[J: It depends. What’re you offering?]

[A: An easy fuck with no strings attached]

Thank god. Judas balances his cigarette between his teeth so he can type faster.

[J: Sure. Yours or mine?]

[A: Mine.]

There’s a few seconds as Annas types. Then his location appears on the map. Judas’ eyes widen. The address isn’t just the nice part of town, it’s the quayside business district, home of bankers and businessmen and pricks who play golf once a week in private clubs in the countryside. Judas probably couldn’t afford a packet of crisps there, let alone a hotel room. His finger hovers over the block button. He doesn’t fuck toffs or tories. Most of the time he doesn’t like to engage with them at all unless he’s shouting at them across a police barricade.

But then his gaze flicks to the blurry figures still around the fire. He thinks about Jesus. Replays the way he’d verbally stripped him bare in front of the entire group.

Something ugly rears inside him. Something petty and cruel with wolfish claws. It’s hard to imagine anything Jesus would disapprove of more. They’ve clashed before over his habit of slipping off into the night and coming back bruised in the early hours of the morning. Jesus tuts and frets and asks overly sympathetic, patronising questions about why he does it, why he feels the need to let strangers have their way with him.

Judas can barely breathe he’s so hurt. Yeah, maybe he will fuck a privately educated trust fund wanker. Maybe spend the night getting defiled by everything he hates the most. Letting the establishment literally fuck him over. It’s more than spiteful. It’s borderline sick.

And it sends a tantalising shiver down his spine.

[J: Ok. Be there in 30]

He slips his phone back into his pocket. Then he drops his head back and takes a moment to breathe. For a few minutes, he just stands still as some of the adrenaline ebbs out of his system. The anticipation alone is enough to ground him somewhat. It feels good to have made a decision, to exercise some control.

Judas waits until his cigarette has burned down to the paper before leaving. Then he draws the hood up tight on his coat and heads off into the night without looking back. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The hotel isn’t nice. It’s far beyond that. Although he’s not easily impressed, Judas is still caught off guard when he passes through the revolving doors into a marble hall lit by crystal chandeliers. The room is all gold gilded accents with plush carpets as far as he can see. The polished furnishings are probably solid luxurious wood too. The art on the walls is uninspiring but clearly selected by a professional to seamlessly accentuate the price tag on a reservation.

Judas stands uncomfortably, eyes flitting around the room. He’s already checked the man’s profile picture several times, but now he’s here he has a moment of doubt and goes to look again. When he can’t immediately see Annas he shoves his phone back into his pocket irritably. If he’s travelled all the way here just to be stood up by an Eton alumni ponce it's going to do nothing for his already sour mood.

Worse, the longer he loiters the more intently he can feel the nearby security guards' gaze burning into him. He knows he’s not their usual clientele; the internet tells him it’s six hundred for a room during the off-season. Upwards of a thousand when demand is at its highest. With his patched skinny jeans, Superdrug eyeliner and tatty hair, it’s pretty unlikely that he’s booked a room.

Sure enough, the man stomps somberly over. He eyes Judas with obvious disdain, “Are you lost sir?”

Judas draws himself up defiantly. “No. I’m here to check into my penthouse suite, which lift do I need?” He punctuates his question with a challenging smirk.

The man raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave-" He says, folding his arms tightly across his chest as he leans a little closer.

Judas snorts. Starting a fight in one of London’s poshest establishments wasn’t on his to-do list tonight, but he could easily take this security guard if he wanted to. Fuck, if Annas doesn’t show up then perhaps he just might. The end result will essentially be the same.

But then a man appears in his periphery. “Judas, I assume.” His voice is slightly high in pitch. Predictably posh in intonation.

Judas backs away from the security guard with a last dirty look, finally face to face with the man he’s been looking for. Annas is shorter than he looks in his profile picture. Somewhat rounder too. Although, that might just be on account of his layered three piece suit, complete with shoulder pads and silver cufflinks. It’s such an odd choice that whatever snarky remark Judas might have retorted with dies on his lips.

Annas waves the still dubious security guard away dismissively with one hand. Then he holds the other, perfectly manicured and soft, out to Judas.

Judas keeps his own hands firmly in his pockets. “I don’t shake hands with Tories.”

Annas doesn’t even flinch. “Suit yourself.” He gestures towards the lift. “Shall we?”

Judas gives a mocking little bow and follows his lead. He goes out of his way to push the button before Annas can and is smugly pleased when he leaves a faint, nicotine stained fingerprint on it.

The elevator is walled with mirrors, which allows Judas to see Annas from every angle. His hands are clasped stiffly behind his back as if he has invited Judas to his suite for an interview. If he’s had Judas come out all this way just to get a nervous limp dick, his night might actually manage to get worse than he previously thought was possible. Better cut that tension.

“Three piece suit for a hookup. That’s an… interesting choice.”

Annas presses his lips together in a tight line and doesn’t dignify the taunt with a response.

“Do all your shags cost a grand a night?”

“Do you take all your one night stands to your actual home? That hardly seems advisable,” Annas sniffs. Prick.

Judas flicks a grimy fingernail against the ornate mirror beside him. “No, I was just wondering if you’re compensating for something.”

“In my experience, most people appreciate being taken to a nice hotel room rather than being fucked in an alleyway.”

“Actually, I fuck in tents. Alleys are for my exhibitionist friends.”

Annas raises his eyebrows in mild interest. “I usually go to a club for that sort of thing.”

“Do you wear the suit there too?” teases Judas.

“If it’s bothering you so much I’ll take it off.” Annas looks over at Judas, a slight glint in his eyes. “Or you can take it off for me.”

Judas snorts, “The amount of buttons on that thing, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Annas flicks his eyes up at him and he looks like he can’t tell if he is joking. Judas straightens his spine and appreciates the extra height his combat boots give him. “It’s just buttons. Don’t tell me you people don’t have buttons?”

“I don’t make a habit of fucking buttoned up yuppies.”

“And I don’t usually make a habit of fucking hippies. But here we are,” Annas replies, almost cheerfully. It's as if being insulted by his dates is just par for the course. Mildly amusing, even.

Not for the first time, Judas can’t help feeling a little unsteady. No matter what he tries he can’t seem to provoke Annas. He can get a rise out of Jesus in approximately four sentences if he plays his cards right. The lack of response from what should be an easy target is frustrating and intriguing in equal measure.

Ding! The doors glide open silently to reveal luxurious carpet and a hallway lined with heavy looking doors, and the space between them suggests large rooms hidden behind. Judas whistles as he takes it all in. The place must cost a fortune to keep at the right temperature. The hotel was burning a hole in the ozone layer just to keep empty rooms comfortable for pricks like Annas to have a quick shag.

The room they’re using is oversized and over decorated. The hotel is equipped with amenities that only London’s most pampered pricks could think to require. Somebody had even taken the time to light a scented candle on the bedside table.

Judas whips his shirt off and drops it on the floor unceremoniously as soon as the door is shut. His shoes are kicked aside with equal care. Annas tuts and places it on a chair before neatly unbuttoning his own and setting it on a hanger. “So how do you want to do this?” he asks.

Judas considers the question. When he dreams, Jesus is gentle, maybe even a little shy. Jesus would worship him like a monk at mass. Jesus would kiss him lovingly and look at him with stars in his eyes after he’d had his tender way with him. Judas wants Annas to be everything Jesus could never be.

He puts on a show of yawning boredly and stretches in such a way that displays his muscles at their best. “Well. I suppose you could rail me into the mattress. And don’t be shy, I like it rough.”

His partner for the night laughs a little nervously and swipes his tongue between his lips. “You’re sure about that? People say I can get a little too intense sometimes.”

Judas grabs his belt and pulls him in, putting a hard expression on his face. “Nobody has ever been too much for me to handle.”

The man shrugs. “You asked for it.” He tears his hand off his belt and slams his body into Judas, sending him plunging down to the bed.

He must be accustomed to holding himself back, or at least out of practice. Annas can tackle with the force of a rugby player, but he doesn’t have the coordination of one. When he pushes Judas down onto the bed he throws himself too hard and comes crashing down on top of him and grunts when he catches himself.

“You alright?” Judas asks when he doesn’t pick himself up immediately.

He hisses and clutches his wrist for a moment. “Yeah, just an old skateboarding injury. Keep going.”

Unfortunately, the momentum is lost. Judas sighs and searches his brain for something to salvage it while Annas stays flopped on top of him. After a moment a downright sinful idea crosses his mind and brings a devilish smile to his face. “What would you do to your most rancid ex?”

That does the trick.

Annas plants a hand on his chest and pushes himself up to stand over him, shoving his knees apart so he can stand between them. “I want you to say ‘red’ when you want me to stop.” Then his mouth is on Judas’, knocking his head backwards with the force of it. His fingers are digging into his shoulders and Judas’ hands instinctively fly to his back to pull him further into his space. Judas is pleasantly surprised when he drags his manicured nails down his chest. It sends a shiver down his spine and he grips Annas harder around the waist.

“You’re not into bondage are you?” Annas asks. “I had the staff bring my gear up earlier.”

Judas rolls his eyes and declines, “I’m a bottom, not a sub.”

Annas shrugs. “Your loss.” Then his hands are at his scalp, pushing his hair aside to grab at the roots and give a rough experimental tug. “Maybe this is more to your taste.”

Judas gasps and does not answer with words, only bites his lip as he stares up at the shorter man. Annas pulls his head closer by his hair, smirking cruelly as he stops just short of touching his lips. “Oh yeah, you love that. I can tell by how red you just turned.” He stops to run a lock of hair between his fingers. “I did wonder what it took to make you blush when I saw you’re a ginger.”

Judas tries to retaliate as he feels his face burn even more, but Annas has complete control now. He trails the back of his other hand down his face over the stubble of his beard and his breathing shifts. “Shame I won’t be seeing it for most of this.”

He releases his grasp and his hands go to Judas’ hip bones, the tips of his fingers pressing into him with surprising strength. Then in one quick movement he twists his arms and spins Judas around to bend him over the mattress. “Still good?”

Judas groans in exaggerated frustration, “Oh my god, I’ve had teachers handle me rougher for carving my name in a desk. Whatever you want to do, I can handle it.”

He bites his lip and freezes as a warm hand slips into the seat of his pants and gives a harsh squeeze. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.” Annas’ arms wrap around him and undoes his button and fly with ease. His tight jeans practically fall off his legs, leaving him standing in his thin boxer shorts.

He presses his lips together to keep himself quiet as he subjects himself to a stranger groping him from ankle to arse. Annas’ hands are soft but his grip is anything but gentle, and the way he groans as he grinds against him and nips at his shoulders is unnerving. He knows his body is attractive, he has seen a mirror after all, but he isn’t used to such a thorough, vocal appreciation.

It’s hard to tell whether it’s more degrading to feel a stranger swelling stiff against his arse or to feel how aroused he is himself. Would it really be so beneath him to rut against the mattress just this once? Ultimately he decides to preserve what little remains of his dignity, although that vanishes when the hand slips into his shorts and finds his swollen dick in record time. He can practically hear the self-satisfied grin when Annas says, “Thought so,” and slides them down to his feet, running his hands along his thighs and calves as he strips him bare and pushes his ankles apart. “Don’t move.”

Then cool air touches his backside and he hears fabric being set aside. He turns around, naturally curious to get a look at what Annas is working with.

Before he can get a proper look Annas shoves his face into the mattress and holds him there. Judas grins with satisfaction. It’s hard to say who’s easier to get a reaction out of, himself or the stranger about to fuck him senseless.

He feels a finger prodding at his entrance. “You don’t have to do that,” he rumbles into the blankets. “I stretched myself out before I got here.”

“Shit,” the man groans. “Alright, just give me a minute.”

Judas lays spread and bent as he hears the sounds of fingers fumbling to open a packet of protection. “Hurry up,” he calls back, and follows up by threatening to fuck himself if he takes much longer, knowing it would probably make him even clumsier. Then Annas is behind him, his hand is on his hip to hold him steady and he feels his cock resting hot and heavy against his back, growing harder as he situates himself. It’s hard to be sure without looking but he seems to be on the lengthy side. For a moment the room is silent except for the sound of heavy breathing.

Then he feels fingers plunge deep in his hair again and yank his head back, hears himself moan so loud it would have been embarrassing if he was with anyone but a total stranger.

He shivers and squirms as cold lubricant makes contact with his hole, dribbling down his crack. Then the hot, blunt head presses at his hole and another ragged moan is pulled from his throat as it pushes into him inch by torturous, frustratingly slow inch.

Annas doesn’t moan. He whines.

Judas closes his eyes and loses himself to the sensations of sex. The rock hard cock splitting him down the middle, the smell of expensive cologne mingling with sweat and lubricant, obscene sounds of slapping flesh and heavy breathing only broken by his occasional demands of “Harder!” and various taunts to spur him on. It’s sort of like what he imagines peace must feel like.

Then he’s gasping at the loss of sensation in his scalp and his head drops abruptly when Annas lets go of his hair. He turns around to spur him on, but the words are lost on his tongue and his hand shoots to his mouth to stifle the humiliating, needy moan that comes out instead as he rakes his nails all the way down his back. Annas isn’t just rough. He’s downright sadistic, methodically repeating the action until everything from his shoulders to his hips is on fire. It’s almost enough to make Judas melt away into a puddle of wanton need.

The scratching only stops when Annas’ breath is all whines and moans and the relentless pace he’s been maintaining speeds out of control, hips stuttering as he mercifully finishes. When he comes down from his high he wraps a trembling hand around Judas’ cock. Judas is so close that it doesn’t matter how clumsy Annas’ fingers are as he jerks him off and pushes him gracelessly over the edge, soiling the finest sheets he has ever touched with his semen.

The two of them lay on the bed for a good minute or so catching their breath. Annas is the first to sit up and stretch. “I’m going to take a shower if you want to join me.”

Judas looks at him and raises an eyebrow. “Hard pass, thanks.”

For someone who just spent the last half hour like that, Annas must be remarkably naive. He should really know better than to leave him unattended with his things. Really, the fact that he only cleans out the mini fridge must be proof that Judas is a decent person. At least that’s what he tells himself as he loads up his jacket pockets. Besides, it’s not like he’s taking it for himself. He doesn’t even particularly like the sweets and fancy juices. This is just wealth redistribution, it’s going to the community fridge.

Annas comes back after a few minutes to gloat with a towel around his waist. “So, you won’t shake hands with a Tory, but taking one up the arse is kosher?” God, he is just as smug as he had looked in his profile.

Judas rolls his eyes and zips up his coat. “Bugger off.”

“Are you going somewhere?” asks Annas. He’s propped himself up on the excessive pillows and is perusing a pamphlet left on the dresser.

Judas looks him up and down, one eyebrow raised.

Annas shrugs. “You can leave if you like. Don’t let me stop you, but you’re welcome to shower first.”

Judas hesitates and his gaze flits to the bathroom door. A hot shower usually only comes when they’re staying at a benefactor's house. Even then, the queue is always at least thirteen men long, and Judas is always at the end of it. When Annas shoots him a small smirk he has to concede that he’s already made his mind up.

Beneath his feet, the tiles are impossibly warm. All the energy it must take to keep the underfloor heating running, just on the off chance guests use the bathroom without slippers on. He undresses in front of the mirror and assesses the damage for a moment. There’s no marks above his collarbone, and thank goodness for that because everything else is covered in bold, angry red lines. His face is still a little flushed from the encounter.

The shower is predictably just as ridiculously excessive as the rest of the room; there’s a dozen different bottles of various shampoos and lotions to match the dozens of different dials for controlling the water flow. Judas turns the temperature up as high as he can withstand, gasping at the sensation, still sensitive where Annas’ nails dug into his skin. He spends an indulgent amount of time scrubbing the eyeliner from his cheeks and carefully rinsing each of his various scrapes, before finally giving his hair a long overdue wash.

When he’s done he draws a pristine towel down from the pyramid of fresh ones stacked on a shelf above the sink. It’s soft and warm and smells like lavender. Once he’s scrubbed his hair semi-dry he climbs back into his clothes. Although they’re just the same as ever they feel so much better now he himself is clean. Halfway through he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. There’s something about seeing himself looking so refreshed and ordinary that has him turning away.

He’s just zipping his coat back up when his gaze falls on the discarded bottles littering the shower tray. Judas hesitates for a moment. Then he grabs the nearest two and shoves one inside each of his remaining pockets. They’d be put to better use by one of the hundreds of people barely making ends meet who visit the disciples’ soup kitchen, he reasons. The same is true of the stack of towels, but he’s less sure he could sneak those out inconspicuously. If he’s ever lucky enough to find a hookup this wealthy again he’ll make sure to bring his rucksack.

When he leaves the bathroom Annas is luxuriating against the pillows exactly where he’d left him. In the time Judas has been gone, though, he’s managed to find a silk dressing gown and a newspaper. There’s also a little silver tray adorned with a cafetiere and teacups. The prick ordered room service.

Annas lowers one corner of his newspaper to look at Judas as he goes to lace his boots back up.

“Are you off then?” he asks, sounding immensely unbothered.

Judas gives him a curt half nod. Now they’re finished, it's as much as he cares to muster. The deal was a no-strings attached shag, not awkward post-sex small talk.

Annas nods. “Get home safe,” he says. There’s a second where it seems as though he might be about to say more, when instead he disappears abruptly back behind his paper.

Unseen, Judas rolls his eyes. If Annas were so concerned for his well-being he’d order a cab. It’s not as if he can’t afford it. Or maybe he’s assuming Judas can handle himself, which is admittedly fair; there’s fewer people on the streets rougher than he is. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Back at camp a still silence has fallen, accentuated by the thin layer of drifting fog which gives the whole site an almost dreamlike quality in the early hours of the morning. Judas picks his way carefully between the guy ropes. He’s sore and tired, but in the same way he might be if he’d just been for a run. It’s a satiating, comfortable sort of pain. One which reassures him he’s purged all his pent up frustration and has him thinking exclusively about his sleeping bag.

He’s ready to put this whole ordeal behind him and move on with his life until he notices a familiar solitary figure sat in front of the dying remains of the fire. Right. He may have exorcised something in that hotel, but that was after it had used its claws. He always leaves such a mess in its wake.

In the absence of his earlier anger, Judas can only feel a sting of shame. He doesn’t have to rise to the bait every single time. Fuck, he doesn’t need to see bait in every single off-hand remark. His fingers ghost the tent zip. It’s a halfhearted attempt though; even as he reaches out he knows he can’t bring himself to walk away. He stands at the flap, head bowed and shoulders drawn. Allowing himself a moment to fester in his remorse. Then he steels his resolve and marches back towards the fire.

Jesus doesn’t even notice his approach, apparently too lost in thought to hear him. He’s lost in his own world until Judas stands between him and the coals.

“Hey,” Judas clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Do you mind if I-” He nods his head at the space beside Jesus.

Jesus gives a small nod but remains silent.

That causes the pace of Judas’s heartbeat to quicken. If Jesus is too angry for words he’s really done it this time. For a moment it’s tempting to walk away, disappear into the darkness forever. That would just hurt Jesus more though, and Judas knows that he could not bear to lose him just yet. Better to rip the bandage off and have it done with.

He gingerly lowers himself onto the stack of pallets and clears his throat again. “I’m sorry. About what I said earlier.” He pokes awkwardly at some nearby ashes with his boots. “I didn’t mean to…” Judas trails off. He absolutely had meant to. Maybe it hadn’t been his initial intention, but he’d chosen the rest of his words with careful malicious precision and they both know it. “I felt like shit and I took it out on you,” is what he settles on. “Not that that’s an excuse.”

Jesus nods slowly. “Where did you go?” he asks. There’s a careful somberness to his voice, neither judgemental nor angry. He sounds like he’s barely even curious, but Judas knows him better than that. That’s the tone he uses when he recognizes that deep down Judas is a feral animal with a history of darting away if someone looks at him too closely.

“I just… wandered the city for a few hours. Met some people.”

The words hang heavy between them like a cloud. It’s not entirely a lie. But it’s vague enough that it’s obviously not the whole truth. Jesus knows better than to pry though. For the most part, he stays fairly distant from the disciples' private affairs. As long as Judas comes home safe that’s all that really matters.

“I was worried about you,” says Jesus quietly. He doesn’t use that exact tone when the other disciples get themselves into ill advised scrapes, at least not that Judas has noticed. Normally the sombre tone irritates Judas, but now it just rubs salt in a guilty sore.

“Yeah.” Judas keeps his gaze stubbornly elsewhere. The sentiment stings. Maybe more than any of the insults Jesus had thrown at him earlier because he knows it isn’t meant to. And because, unlike an insult, he has no idea what to do with it. It’s like he doesn’t trust him to get himself out of trouble. He can’t begin to guess why he would think that, he always gets by. “Sorry.”

There’s a moment of silence before Jesus replies. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He visibly tenses before looking up to meet Judas’ eyes.

“I’m sorry too,” he says. The waver in his voice betrays an earnest upset that has every inch of Judas’ skin crawling. “What I said earlier, it was inexcusable and it wasn’t true-“

Judas cuts him off. “You– you don’t have to do that. It’s ok.” He forces a laugh. “I was being a dick.”

But Jesus talks over him, clearly desperate to be sure that Judas hears what he has to say. “It wasn’t true and you didn’t deserve it. Especially not from me. We’ve known each other for a while now and I should know better. You understand a lot of things better than I do, especially since I’m not from the area. I shouldn’t take it so personally when you see things differently. I should be thanking you for sharing, not shutting you down.”

Judas doesn’t know what to say to that. If it had been someone else quarrelling in his place he would have thought the apology was warranted. There’s another pause. Somewhere in the distance a siren wails.

“You’re okay then?” Jesus asks quietly, much more calm now that he’s said his piece.

“Fine.” Judas is grateful for the cover of night, and for the shower. “You?”

Jesus nods. “Fine.”

It’s an uneasy resolution. There’s probably more they ought to say. Judas doesn’t have a clue what though. If they try to press the issue it’ll likely only crack the tentative ceasefire they seem to have reached. It’s fine, Judas tells himself. It doesn’t matter. They’ll be back to normal by the morning. They usually are. Reluctantly, Judas pushes himself to his feet, wincing when the movement burns the scratches on his back.

“… actually.” Judas turns back to Jesus. He isn’t looking at him now, he’s staring at the fire. He watches how the embers project faint shapes onto his face with their dying breaths.

“Yes?” he prompts him when it looks like Jesus hoped he hadn’t heard him.

He sighs. “I hate asking this after a fight. And I know you’re probably still mad at me.” He rubs his palm on his jeans. “It’s just… the dreams are getting bad again. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

Judas stiffens slightly, his back twinging as he does. “Are you asking me to stay with you tonight?”

Jesus nods silently and the motion casts deep shadows around his eyes. The sockets of his eyes look eerily skeletal. “Sorry. It’s just… I don’t know why but they aren’t so bloody when you’re around.”

Something about the way Jesus makes the request tugs at Judas’ heart. He isn’t much bigger than Jesus, but he looks so terribly small when he asks. He’s only one person, and the world demands so much of him. He never asks for much and graciously accepts any help or invitation he is given, but he tends to forget that he has needs like any other person until he’s nearly in tears from overstimulation. And that’s how he is when he can maintain a strict diet and sleep regimen. When everyone else is taken care of, Judas is the only person left he can ask to care for him. And Judas knows how to do that much right. The sermons he connected with most were about putting his own needs aside to serve others. So of course he nods his head, promises he isn’t angry anymore, hugs him for a moment, and brings his bedroll to his tent.

He can almost pretend that it was him a few hours before. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows he’s inviting trouble. He just doesn’t know how to stop himself when Jesus is laying so close he could hold him.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

And in the morning they wake up and life goes on like it always does. Nothing is all that different really, and the next few weeks are uneventful. He and Jesus are especially close and are more mindful of each other's feelings. They usually are for a few days after they make up; it’s lasting a bit longer than usual this time. Judas knows people speculate about them and he tries not to be bitter. People are curious about important figures like Jesus. He wonders if he knows or if he’s too preoccupied to notice.

He can already feel the familiar pressure building up inside him though. It won’t be long now before the frustration gets to him and he inevitably explodes again, driving them apart like he always does. And then they’ll fight again and make up again, and then one day he will cross a line he can’t walk back from. Then Jesus will tell him to leave. He doesn’t know what will come after that. It probably doesn’t matter. That’s just how it goes for someone like him, no matter how much he hates himself for it. For tonight he’s trying to ignore the self loathing by killing time in his tent before bed.

[A: You busy?]

Judas hovers his thumb over the notification to swipe it away, but he pauses. Normally he doesn’t revisit one night stands, but he remembers how clean and clear headed he felt leaving that hotel room. Like his problems had lingered there for a while with Annas instead of riding home on his back. And the community fridge could use some more juice. Simon had enjoyed the chocolates.

[J: Make it worth my time. Think you can go rougher than last time?]

[A: I’ll fuck you up. Just give me a reason.] The text is enough to shift his breathing.

[J: I’m on my way.]

Chapter Text

Annas is waiting for him in the hotel lobby, dressed much more casually this time. Really he looks downright dishevelled. Apparently Annas is the sort of man who doesn’t bother with the suit jacket and tie when he has already made his first impression. His shirt is noticeably crumpled too, and his eyes are red at the rims and a little bloodshot. That makes sense, Judas reasons. He had probably just gotten off work. Probably snorted Adderall while he did whatever he was doing to fuck up the local economy. 

He doesn’t say a word in the lift, just leads Judas to the same room as before. There’s something dark and angry swirling around him, something that Judas can tell he intends to take out on him. That sounds quite agreeable to the dark and angry something inside of him. 

“So you want me to give you a reason to fuck me up?” he asks to break the silence.

“Make my fucking day,” Annas growls. Judas smirks. His eyes flick up and down once as he decides on a target.

“Nice suit,” he taunts. Judas lifts him to his toes by his shirt collar, his lips turning up at the corners when he catches Annas ogling his biceps. But that isn’t quite what he’s after. He tugs at the material again, rougher this time, and is rewarded by the sound of ripping fabric.

Annas glares at him with red eyes as Judas lets go to admire his work. “You’ll pay for that.”

Judas grabs the shirt again, takes the rip in both hands and tears it in two, revelling in the sound of Annas’ damaged property. “Oh no,” he drawls, leaning into a porno character. He twirls a lock of hair around his finger and bats his lashes. “But how can I possibly pay you, gov'ner? I ain’t got no money, sir. I lost it all in your great recession, sir.”

Annas pulls a face. “What the actual fuck was that?”

“What? You don’t like the accent?”

“Ew, no. I hate it.”

Judas grins insolently. He can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. He exaggerates the accent even more this time. “Well then, Oi’ reckons you’d better make me drop it, gov’.” He runs his tongue over his lips tantalisingly to drive the point home. 

Annas shoves him and Judas falls to the floor. It’s more out of shock than the force of it. Annas is stocky, but Judas is sure he could overpower him if he really wanted to. He just didn’t think Annas had that in him. 

Then Annas is pressing a boot into his ribs and heat rushes to Judas’s cock. “Who said I want your money?”

Annas drops to his knees and straddles his ribs. He stares at him intently, like he’s calculating something, then he reaches for his face and grabs him, one hand clenching his hair in a fist and the other gripping his jaw with a fierce intensity. “We both know I have plenty of money,” he says and Judas shivers with anticipation at the cruelty in his tone. “I want to ruin your cheap makeup and fuck your pretty mouth.”

Judas groans eagerly and feels his erection already straining against his zipper. He lost count of his escapades ages ago, but Annas is one he won’t soon forget.

Annas pulls his mouth to his own before he can think of a snappy retort and Judas grunts in genuine pain when their teeth clack together. He pulls back and Judas can see cold frustration in his eyes. “I don’t stop until you say red.” 

Judas has no plans to make that call. He pulls Annas’ lip between his teeth and bites down with his canines. Annas pulls him away roughly by his hair, then nips at his earlobe when it looks like he’s going to mouth off again, making him whimper instead. 

“You shut up so easily,” Annas sneers. He releases his chin so he can snake a hand up Judas’s t-shirt and hooks a finger around the collar. “I’ll bet you’d let me tear this shirt right off you. You wouldn’t stop me. I could buy you a dozen new ones just like it.”

Judas’s throat bobs nervously. Jesus would definitely notice if this shirt disappeared. “I’d prefer you didn’t, actually. It’s my favourite one.” 

“Fine.” Annas contents himself to scrape his nails in punishing streaks down Judas’s chest. “Next time I want you to wear one I can rip off you. It’s only fair after what you just did. Can you do that for me?” He drags his fingers slow and hard. Much harder than last time.

“Yes,” Judas arches his back and gasps. Every nerve ending in his skin sends a paralysing flood of messages to his brain as Annas slides the shirt over his head. He shoves him back down to the ground roughly.

“Good.” Annas drives his knee between his legs and Judas presses into him, desperate for friction. “God, you’re needy. You’d think nobody fucked you before. I don’t think that’s even a little bit true though.”

Annas’ voice is full of contempt. He might hate Judas more than he hates himself, and from here he can see how it’s affecting Annas. He deliberately drags his eyes from the obvious bulge in his trousers and looks him in the eyes. “You’re the one that messaged me,” he reminds him. “I could be doing anything tonight. If anyone’s desperate here, it’s you.”

His awareness of his heartbeat is heightened as he watches Annas’ face contort for a brief moment. 

“You said you can take it rough?” Judas bites his lip and nods. Annas strikes him across the face and he gasps. He loves how it stings, and he knows it brings the colour rushing to his face. 

Without further ceremony, Annas yanks him to his knees by his hair. Judas sucks his teeth and grimaces at the burn. He pulled so hard it brought tears to his eyes. Judas would never say it out loud but he loves the way the burn in his scalp seems to pulse right through his body. Then Judas opens his eyes again and Annas’ crotch is in his face. “You know what to do.”

He certainly does. Judas’ hands fly up to his belt and he gets to work. No need to tie his hair back, Annas has that taken care of. Never one to make things easy, Judas decides to play dumb, deliberately aggravating him by pretending to guess at what Annas wants until he snarls at him to quit being a tease and suck him off already.

Judas looks up and holds his gaze as he takes him into his mouth. Annas’ eyes roll back before they fall closed with a moan so soft he might have mistaken it for a breath. 

Judas is good at what he does, but Annas doesn’t make it easy. He isn’t small by any stretch of the imagination, and he doesn’t hold still for him. Judas can feel his eyeliner sting as tears run freely down his face while he gags around him. The wet sounds coming from his throat are equal parts embarrassing and arousing.

Annas moans something that sounds like it might be a name. It’s not one Judas recognises, but it certainly isn’t his. 

A minute later Judas is sure of what he heard, because Annas is talking to himself and he knows he hears him say, “That’s it, Caiaphas. You’re all mine.”

Curiosity piqued, Judas looks up. Annas is looking down at him, but his eyes are distant. He’s thinking of someone else and imagining him where Judas is.

Judas sees a part of himself in that stare. There’s something gratifying about seeing it on someone else. It’s definitely for the best that trying to imagine Jesus in this position is an exercise in futility. 

Annas is quiet when he finishes himself off on his chest, and Judas notices that his face is damp too. Taking that as his cue to clean up and leave, Judas stands up and begins to gather his things.

“I didn’t say I was done with you,” Annas mumbles, “Go on, get undressed. I’m not the sort of host who doesn’t reciprocate, especially when you did a good job.”

Annas is subdued when he goes down on Judas. He touches him with soft hands and gentle lips, not rough like he had been before. It’s almost like an apology of sorts, certainly not one that Judas feels that he is owed. When he’s finished Annas sighs and rolls over. “Now I’m done with you.” 

Judas lays back on the plush pillows, his mind straining to process everything he just experienced. His name is Judas Iscariot. He doesn’t know this man’s first name. He’s sticky, naked, and slightly dizzy in a five star hotel on a millionaire’s paycheck for the second time and he feels incredible, and he wouldn’t be mad if it kept happening. 

“So I guess you can’t really call this a one night stand anymore.”

Annas rolls his shoulders in a shrug and reaches for the paper. “I suppose not. Want to go again sometime?”

Judas pulls his jeans on before answering, “I don’t see why not. Just send a message when you want to see me.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“Sometime” happens far sooner than Judas would have predicted. Not a week after leaving Annas’ bed, he’s working with Matthew to send out a tall stack of donation solicitation letters. Figures, the two diagnosed dyslexics are in charge of the job with the most writing, but nobody says that volunteer work is always a well oiled machine. Matthew used to be a tax collector and Judas has a sharp eye for who might need a hand and who might be willing to lend, so they make it work. 

It’s usually a nice, quiet break from the chaos for both of them. Matthew particularly benefits from the familiar routine, enjoying the quiet scratching of pen on paper and occasionally pausing to pet his dog, and Judas puts his headphones in and is given something besides himself to focus on. There’s something soothing about the repetitive task of signing a solicitation letter or a thank you note, folding it neatly into the envelope with a contact card, then passing it off for Matthew to address and stamp.

Matthew sets the tall box of sealed envelopes down on Judas’s table. “Here’s the envelopes I’ve got labelled, think they’re ready to post?”

Judas adjusts his reading glasses and looks over the form on the top. “… Matthew. Is this what you’ve been working on all morning?”

“Yeah, the address labels going to Dorset. Is there a problem?”

The letters are nearly late already and Matthew just wasted their entire morning addressing letters to Doncaster. Obviously it’s worthwhile work but god, cock ups like this must be doing something awful to his blood pressure. Judas throws his pen on the table and buries his face in his hands. Matthew’s dog perks up his head at the disturbance and Judas tries to hide his annoyance from it. He startled Matthew one single time with an angry outburst, and now the overprotective animal is ready to give him a real headache if he so much as thinks about raising his voice.

“God, Matthew! Did you even think to check that was the right post code? Honestly, how did you ever get by at your old job? I was looking forward to actually having a social life tonight but I guess that’s off the table now. This is fucking useless, go fetch some fresh envelopes and peel off the stamps so I can fix your bloody mistakes for you.” That’s what he wants to say. He’s pretty much said it before. If he did, Matthew would either cower or curse him out depending on the day he’s having. But… his mind wanders. 

If Matthew cursed him out they could have a shouting match about it. That would be cathartic. He might tell the others and Judas’ unfavourable reputation would be maintained. But that routine was getting quite stale and it didn’t really change much, and while it is the first option to come to mind, it isn’t his only option. 

He could hold that grudge, put the anger in a jar until later. Then when Annas texts him again he can open that jar and tell him he’s a dull minded paper pusher and wasting his precious time, and then get railed and punished within an inch of his life. Then the anger would be released and nobody else would need to know it had ever been there. Plus he would get laid. That option is much more appealing. 

So instead he relaxes his scowl, allows himself a heavy sigh and informs Matthew of his mistake. Matthew is appropriately horrified and dismayed. They take a few minutes to defuse and then set to work to fix the mistake. Turns out Jesus was right, Matthew can work much more accurately when he hasn’t been berated. The issue is resolved in plenty of time to get to the post office and all is well. 

That’s how it starts. For the next two months, Judas settles into his unexpected newfound double life. By day, he distributes donations and shouts from picket lines. By night, when he’s fed up with Simon’s bullshit or James’ and John’s bickering, he’s throwing insults at Annas and getting his hair pulled by perfectly manicured hands. Even better, getting along with Jesus is easier than ever. It’s so easy to let his self righteous quirks slide when he’s getting fucked by the most smug man alive. It’s like an exorcism. If his limbs still ache from the night before he can’t find it in him to be angry or bitter or melancholic. Everybody benefits.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Several weeks into his new arrangement, Judas is alone. Annas hasn’t texted and Jesus disappeared hours ago to pray, so he’d spent the night around the fire with the others. It’s not a regular part of his routine; being around the same eleven people all day is exhausting. Why he’d then choose to pass the evening with them is usually beyond him. But it had been surprisingly nice. Fun, even. They’d shared beers and talked to Judas about the relatives, places and sights they miss from home. He’d lent his lighter to Thomas while Peter had teasingly wondered what’s in the London water because Judas hasn’t called anyone a prick in weeks. And since he’s in such a residually good mood from the last time he saw Annas, the comment had made Judas laugh.

It’s late now. From the surrounding city, there’s still the faint, reassuring buzz of traffic. Coupled with the low crackle from the dwindling fire, Judas feels warmly content. He taps the edge of his empty beer can absentmindedly as he watches the last dying embers flicker out. The others have long since gone to bed but he’s not tired. He’s been spending so much time with Annas that his already backwards internal body clock has warped itself further to fit around their hook-ups. Even on nights when he doesn’t leave camp, he struggles to fall asleep until the early hours of the morning. 

He stretches lazily, then decides he’s going to sort through donations until he’s burnt enough energy to sleep. If he’s going to be awake he might as well be useful. There’s always a disorganised pile of items awaiting distribution in the supply tent. 

He flicks on the torch stored by the tent flap and nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a faint groan. He grabs the nearest object, a child’s baseball bat that had been donated in a recent toy drive. “Hello?” 

An absolutely pathetic whimper sounds out from the back of the tent. He has to move a few boxes to find Jesus huddled behind them, palms pressed to his face and knees curled to his chest. His skin has a sick, clammy sheen to it and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks like an animal that is frightened by pain with no discernible source. “Turn off the light. Please.” 

Judas turns off the torch and relies instead on the flash on his phone. The fear of an intruder dissipates immediately, replaced by the reflex to step into the role of his best friend’s de facto caretaker.

“It’s ok. You’re alright. I’ve got you. It’s ok,” Judas moves to lay a hand on his back, gently pulling his hair off his face with the other. “Hey. Hey, look at me.” Jesus just shakes his head, curling in on himself. There’s a curdling, sinking feeling in Judas’ chest as he realises what’s happening. 

Jesus has these episodes. The first time it had been terrifying; Judas had been in a strange city sleeping in the living room of some distant relation of this man called Jesus whom he’d known barely longer than a month. The convulsions had come on so fast Judas thought he was having a seizure. Against all his anarchic, ingrained self-sufficiency, his instinct had been to phone for help.  

But Jesus had begged him not to. Hissed at him through clenched teeth that it was nothing. “It happens, it’s fine, I’m fine. ” As the pain reached fever pitch, he’d told Judas to leave. Judas had regained some of his anti-authority wits at that point; he’d fallen asleep on the floor beside the sofa, having spent the whole night watching helplessly as Jesus had contorted in agony. Wrists held tight against his chest, sweat pouring down his face. 

When Judas had woken the next morning the sofa beside him was empty. Terrified, he’d frantically searched the house until he’d finally found a grey looking Jesus wrapped in a blanket at the bottom of the garden. 

Jesus had given him only the slightest nod of acknowledgement. He barely looked at him as Judas had tried to ask if he was alright, what was that, did he need anything. Jesus had scrubbed a hand over his face irritably. “No Judas. I don’t- It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it,” he’d said, so uncharacteristically coldly, “It’s been happening for years. It’s fine,” he’d paused, still looking away from Judas and out into some distant horizon. 

Then he’d taken a deep breath, his shoulders rising before settling firmly. “I need some space.” 

So Judas had left him alone, though he himself was confused, concerned, and feeling slightly more wounded than he’d have liked. It was the first time he’d seen another side to the insistently kind, obsessively good natured man. It’d knocked the floor out from under him a little, even though Jesus had later apologised profusely for being so harsh. 

That was over two years ago. Judas knows better now. 

“Come on,” he wraps an arm around Jesus’ shoulder, firmly but gently pulling him upright. Jesus falls against him with a shudder. When they try to move he almost stumbles back down to the floor, barely able to hold his own weight. Every time he places a foot down his entire body convulses and he's choking on whimpers of pain. It’s worse than usual tonight. Judas tries not to imagine what would have happened if he had decided to go to bed. 

Inhibitions lost, Judas tucks one arm around his waist and the other over his shoulder. “You’re ok. ‘Not going to let you fall. We’re almost there.” 

When they reach Jesus’ tent, Judas doesn’t bother asking for permission to stay. He hands him a pair of pyjamas and, after turning his back to give Jesus some privacy, he diverts his attention to their sleeping arrangements. Jesus begins every morning by folding his bedding back up into a perfect roll. It puts his mind in the right place to start the day, so he says. Judas unwinds the sleeping bag and blankets, leaving them open so Jesus can lie down. 

Without Judas’ steady arm, Jesus, now clad in his pyjamas, has curled back over himself. Even with the weight off his feet, he’s still trembling hard.

“Here.” Judas drapes Jesus’ favourite scarf, the keffiyeh, around his shoulders, leaving it looser around his neck so it doesn’t catch in the night. “Bed?” 

Lying down doesn’t seem to draw any colour back to Jesus’ face. In the dim light, he looks waxy and wan. Judas brushes a hand over his damp forehead with a frown. Sleep isn’t going to be enough to relieve him. 

Judas pushes himself up. “Back in a sec.”

“Don’t. Please.”

By the front of the tent, Judas halts. He feels strangely guilty when he says, “I swear, it’ll be quick.”

Once outside, Judas passes through the sleeping camp as quickly and quietly as he can. First, he rifles through the supply tent. It’s a two-handed job that has him balancing his phone awkwardly under his chin with the torch on, but eventually his hands grasp a bundle of clean rags at the bottom of the first aid cabinet. He also takes a few packets of painkillers. Filling his pockets, he then darts to the mess tent. 

It’s easier to find a deep enough bowl; there are thirteen of them but they’re all woeful at putting the washed dishes away after a meal. Judas carries it over to the water barrels and fills it to the brim. While the days are growing warmer the nights are still biting and the water is so cold it burns his fingers as it spills over. 

Back in the tent, he starts with the pills. “Take these,” he holds two out, “It’s co-codamol.” 

Jesus opens his eyes to frown blearily at him. 

“Don’t look at me like that. We can always get more. Come on,” he nudges insistently. When that doesn’t work he tilts his head to one side, “What if it was me? Hm?” 

Jesus doesn’t have an answer for that, so he begrudgingly accepts the tablets. Satisfied, Judas then dips one of the rags into the bowl of water before laying it carefully over his forehead. The man hisses at the cold, but Judas holds it in place. “I’m sorry, it’ll help.” 

He hopes it does. Prior experience says it should, but Jesus looks so immediately awful, with his breaths still coming in desperate gasps and his chest heaving as he writhes against whatever’s tormenting him. 

“You need to take a deep breath,” says Judas. In his efforts to conceal how shit-scared he is, he sounds almost stern, “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Tears mist in Jesus’ eyes. “I can’t.” 

This time, Judas makes an effort to soften his voice. “You can. I know you can,” He draws Jesus’ hand closer so he can place it over his chest. It’s been at least a year since it’s been bad enough to need this. “I’ve got you. Just copy me.”

For a minute they sit silently. Judas leading, and Jesus trying his best to follow. It’s too fraught with anxiety to be intimate. The sound of Jesus’ panicked wheezing sits heavily in the space between them as they breathe together. Until, thankfully, the worst seems to have passed and his lips are no longer tinged with a sickly blue. 

Heart still hammering in his own chest, Judas turns his attention elsewhere. “How’re your wrists?” 

The shake of Jesus’ head is so weak anyone other than Judas might have missed it. 

“Ok,” Judas releases his arm gently before shuffling so his back is pressed against the wall of the tent, and he can sit cross legged beside Jesus. He draws Jesus’ hands slowly into his lap, careful not to jostle him too much. Then he dips two more rags carefully into the water before running them lightly up and down Jesus’ wrists.  Jesus gasps, but he doesn’t pull away. As Judas bathes his forearms in cold water, he murmurs vague assurances. When Jesus seems to have adjusted to his touch, he ventures to press harder, massaging careful circles into the dip between his bones at the base of his wrists. 

Jesus exhales slowly. Some of the tension in his frame visibly easing. When he’s no longer actively swallowing down sobs, Judas finally feels comfortable pulling away. 

“Be right back,” he murmurs. 

He makes his way carefully to the centre of the tent where he shrugs off his coat before kicking his boots into a corner. Then, in the limited space he has, he wriggles out of his jeans. His shirt also takes a bit of wrangling; undressing in a tent is one thing, but the shirt stretches tight over his chest. It probably belonged to Jesus at some point. They travel so much that everyone’s clothes inevitably enter community circulation no matter how well guarded they are. Although… when he reaches for a hoodie, he finds that it’s also one of Jesus’. At least the tracksuit bottoms are his own. 

When he lies down Jesus wastes no time burying his face in Judas’ shoulder. He’s burning up but his nose and fingers remain ice cold. Judas wraps an arm around him, drawing him in close to warm him. It’s instinct more than anything. A basic gesture of support that implies nothing. Yet Judas still has to forcibly push away the wave of warm protectiveness surging in his chest. It’s neither the time nor the place to be acutely aware of just how right Jesus feels in his arms. He tries not to notice how he hasn’t done that before. 

“You missed the news at dinner,” Judas ventures. Casually as he can, like it’s just a normal conversation. “Peter finally received a reply from Ramah. She says we can use the hall we had up in Leeds for a few weeks.”

Against his neck, Jesus’ still erratic breaths even out a little. 

“And Lazarus texted to remind us we’re welcome to stay at his whenever we need to,” he scratches a hand lightly over Jesus’ scalp like he’s seen him do whenever the others are upset or ill. It doesn’t feel natural at first. He only grows more confident when Jesus eases into it. “But I think the others want to go back to the coast for a while,” he continues, “You know Peter, he misses his wife. And I guess the others miss home.” 

Judas doesn’t waste words easily. His preferred communication is more tactile, telegraphing with body language and deliberate touch whenever it will suffice. However, he’s not so dense as to think that everybody understands him like this, not so isolated as to not notice that for the most important person in his life, words are everything. So he makes an effort to speak his language.

“So we thought we could finish what we’re doing here, travel up North, do a few weeks with Ramah,” Judas pauses for a moment. “If we leave before the 11th we’ll be able to support the teachers strike too. Then we could stay with John and James’ family. We can keep doing outreach, even if we don’t have the soup kitchen running the whole time we’re there.” 

Over the next half an hour or so he continues whispering reassuring nonsense until he feels Jesus fall completely limp against him. Judas glances down, notes the way his brow is still slightly furrowed, even in sleep. Without meaning to, he brushes a few sweaty strands of hair from Jesus’ face. There’s that wash of affection again. So vivid it hurts. He’d rather die than vocalise it, but he knows with every shred of his being that he’d do anything for this surreal, eccentric, stupid beautiful man. No matter what Jesus asks of him, he’ll never walk away. 

The intensity of his emotion flares for a moment, then flickers as a dark creeping dread rises beside it. Judas looks back at Jesus’ sleeping form and feels sick. He’s not even sure why. It’s like guilt, almost. The realisation that this will never be enough. That he can only love Jesus in his own little fucked up way. That he wasn’t built to do anything more. It sparks a sour pulse of anxiety deep in the pit of his stomach. 

Then his phone buzzes. 

[A: Had a meeting that overran. Are you still up?]

Despite the absence of an audience, Judas’ face twists into an incredulous sneer. [J: Who the fuck has a meeting that lasts till past midnight?] 

Annas types for a few seconds.

[A: So you are up]

[J: No shit]

[A: See you in half an hour then?]

Judas stares at the message for a moment. Then he drops his phone onto his chest with a sigh. He could say no. He could spend the whole night beside Jesus instead. Feeling the warm weight of the man against him like an anchor. All Judas needs to do is put his phone down, roll over, and call it a night. He’s in his pyjamas for fucks sake. 

But then there’s that creeping sensation. The sinking pit in his stomach that has his heart racing. He could stay beside Jesus all night and he won’t sleep. It’ll just be him and the four sagging walls of the tent and every single unpleasant emotion he has no idea how to process. Hours of silence. 

[J: alright] 

He lingers anyway, just long enough to be sure that Jesus is actually asleep. Annas can wait a little longer. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Annas is not happy when Judas arrives at the hotel forty-five minutes after the text he sent. He frowns as he takes in Judas’s attire but chooses not to comment.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a man waiting?”

Judas scoffs at his entitlement, “I know you’re not used to hearing this, but you are far from the most important thing in my life.”

Annas rolls his eyes and makes his way to the lift, “Whatever.”

Judas has to laugh. Annas sulks like a spoiled child. “Aww, what’s the matter? Did somebody have a bad day at the stock market?” He pouts his lip out in a display of mock sympathy. 

“The stock– What exactly do you think I do for a living?”’

“Bugger the poor mostly.”

“You really think you’re funny, don’t you?” The doors glide open and close. “Do you always play the clown when you arrive late?”

“Well, you’re welcome to try and fuck some manners into me,” Judas presses his hips against him suggestively. “But I’ll bet they’re gone by the next time you feel like a shag.”

Annas slaps his arse just before the doors open up again. He rolls his eyes but there’s an interested glint in his eye and a smug line across his lips. Judas is his bitch and he knows it. Or maybe it’s the other way around. “You’ll never learn your lesson, you’re too much of a brat.”

“Maybe if you leave a mark somewhere I can see it I’ll learn better.”

A shark-like grin splits across Annas’ face the moment the heavy door shuts behind them. “I think I’ve got a better idea.” He steps into Judas’ space and manages to be imposing despite his short stature. “When you are in a room with me, I am the most important person in your life. Tonight, you are going to act like it.” He grabs Judas at the hips and wraps his arms around him with surprising strength. When Judas instinctively struggles to free himself, he takes his ear between his teeth and bites down. “When I teach you manners, you aren’t going to forget them. Let’s start with something simple. Please and thank you. And I don’t want any foul language from you tonight.”

Judas freezes where he stands. Something about this insistence on politeness reminds him of Jesus, but the biting certainly does not. Fortunately, Annas doesn’t allow his attention to lapse for long. “Get your clothes off and lay down on the bed.”

Judas complies and props himself up on the pillows, feeling thrillingly vulnerable as Annas looms over him. “Don’t try to tell me your time is only worth the same shitty little marks you always leave.”

“Darling, I’m not going to do something so unimaginative as a mark on your neck.” He slides between his legs and scrapes his teeth against his throat, letting one hand slide down to Judas’s hips so he can support his weight on his stronger wrist. “You’d need a mirror to see something like this.” He pulls the skin of his neck between his teeth, leaving a mark on his favourite spot. When Judas gasps, he leaves a couple more for good measure, seeming to forget himself while his hand kneads firm circles into Judas’ muscles. When Judas tries to pull his shirt off, he pulls away.

“You’ll never learn to use your words if you just go around grabbing at what you want like a child,” he scolds. 

Judas rolls his eyes and says nothing. 

“Petulant, are we?” Annas smirks. 

“Feeling like a thesaurus, are we?” he snipes back. To his surprise, instead of slapping him Annas begins trailing kisses down his belly, then stops right when he begins to gasp. “The fuck?”

“Ah, language. You just made this so much worse for yourself.” Annas puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes down with his full weight. “I want to hear you beg.”

Judas shoots him a look that is clearly meant to be a challenge. “I don’t beg.”

Annas scoffs and runs his hands between his thighs. “Oh, please. I haven’t even done anything and you’re already getting hard.” He runs a hand over his cock to prove his point and draws a little moan from Judas' throat. “You will.”

He’s right. Judas can beg. Annas could make him sing if he put his mind to it. His hands are teasing and sensual, leaving cold shivers and sometimes nail dents in their wake. When he isn’t using his mouth to taste and mark his most sensitive areas, he’s putting it to use spitting out the most obscene strings of words Judas has ever heard in his life. Of course, every time Judas indulges in profanity he pulls away again, punishing him with his absence while verbally degrading him with the skill of an artist. Seems like he’s spent quite a lot of time thinking about just what he would say if he ever got Caiaphas in such a compromising position. 

The combination of filthy words and devastating touches alone is enough to make any man want to die, but matters are made agonisingly worse when he takes him in his mouth only to leave him exposed to the cold air when he’s close to relief. Judas endures through willpower alone for what feels like hours, leaking more fluid than he thought possible as his heart pounds in his ears. God damn it, he’s backing off again.

“If you want something from me you have to use the words I taught you,” Annas prompts with a smirk when Judas growls with frustration. 

Finally defeated, Judas whines and says something slurred and incoherent. 

“What’s that?” Annas runs his tongue over the crease in his hip. “You’ll have to use your words, darling, I can’t read your mind.”

Judas wants to call him a bastard, but that would be too many syllables for his scrambled brains. Finally he finds the coordination to make his lips and throat work together to say, “Please.” Once he finds the word he can’t stop saying it, reduced to a babbling mess by his natural enemy. Fuck, he’s barely even using his mouth, how does he do it?

Annas decides he’s had his fun and his face takes an analytical expression while he studies Judas, watching to see what made him jolt and sputter. His eyes fix on his face and he picks a spot, targeting it until Judas finishes. It’s rare that someone can leave Judas shaking, but he can’t hide how violently his limbs are trembling from the intensity. Bloody fucking hell, he actually can’t see for a moment. 

Annas scowls at the sticky mess on his shirt, the second one that Judas has ruined now, then a devious grin creeps across his face. He takes the cum in his hand and then smears it on Judas’ face, swirling his finger on his cheek to mix it with the streaks of eyeliner. He grips his jaw with near bruising force, turns his head this way and that, inspects him like a work of art. A satisfied expression finally crosses his face and he releases him. “What do you say?”

“... thank you.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

By the time Judas slips back into Jesus’ tent there’s a strip of pale blue at the edge of the horizon. The sound of birds mingles with the faint buzz of activity as the earliest risers in London begin to move. Jesus looks exactly as Judas had left him. A little less pale though, he notes with relief. The worst is definitely over. He’s sure the man is still asleep. When he slides in next to him on his own thin bedroll Jesus doesn’t open his eyes or change his breathing. He just rolls over to plaster himself against Judas’ side. Judas halts for a moment as his heart skips a beat. He waits for a sign. Waits for him to say something. After he’s met with only silence, however, Judas surrenders to the fact that he’s too tired to care. 

When he wakes up the space beside him is cold. While there’s no immediate indication of how long Jesus has been gone, his phone tells him it’s past mid-day. 

By the fire, Jesus is swamped in a hoodie that falls past his knees. He’s pale and drawn, like he always is after an episode. The others move carefully around him. Their usual cheeriness muted ever so slightly. John is sat close by his side, one hand on Jesus’ shoulder as he leans in close to his ear. When John spots Judas he stands abruptly. As the pair walk past each other he gives Judas a suspicious, stern look. It’s not intimidating; John still gets asked for ID when buying painkillers. It is odd though. Judas can’t remember the last time he mentally called John a prick, let alone said it to his face. 

He takes that as his cue to wander over to Jesus, cigarette in hand. “You feeling any better?” 

Jesus winces at the question. For how good he is at sitting beside other people’s sick beds and asking the same question, he always carries an air of embarrassment when he’s on the receiving end. Like weakness is for others, not for him. 

“Yes,” he says hurriedly, before immediately diverting the attention, “Are you ok?”

Judas laughs, “You look terrible and you’re asking if I’m ok?”

Jesus runs a hand uncomfortably over the denim of his trousers. “I don’t know, I know it’s a lot to deal with-"

“Yeah, lying down next to you was a proper hardship. How will I ever recover?” 

Jesus shoots him a look, but he can’t hide his smile. “That’s not all you did, and you know it.” 

“It’s ok.” Judas shrugs, his face flushing. “You know, today it’s you, tomorrow it’s me.” And then, completely unintentionally, as if to prove his point, his next cigarette drag gets caught in his chest. The undignified minute he spends hacking into his hands is worth it though if it makes Jesus feel less self-conscious. 

“You know what would make me feel better?” says Jesus, looking pointedly at Judas’ cigarette. 

From anyone else, the judgement would be irritating. From Jesus though, it just makes him laugh. It’s disconcerting how easily the man disarms him. Sometimes Judas only realises after they’ve parted how much his mouth aches from smiling. When they’re not fighting, it’s impossible to be around Jesus and not be in a good mood. “Stop caring about my lungs. They’re a lost cause.”

“No such thing,” smiles Jesus. “And no.” 

Judas exhales smoke. “Eh. Just make sure they play something good at my funeral, alright?”

"Judas,” Jesus eyes the cigarette disdainfully. When Judas takes another teasing drag he adds, “They’re an appetite suppressant you know. At least wait until after we’ve had lunch.” 

“You mean breakfast, right?”

“I mean the meal most people are having at one in the afternoon,” says Jesus reasonably. 

“Yeah,” grins Judas. “Breakfast.” He flicks some ash away, “I don’t think I’ve eaten breakfast before twelve since I was at school.” When he catches Jesus smirking, he nudges his shoulder, “What?” 

“Nothing. I just feel sorry for whoever had to try and get you out of bed in the morning back then.” 

“Fuck you, I was an angel,” says Judas. And then they both laugh again, because Jesus knows exactly what sort of delinquent he was when he was a teenager. He’s already familiar with the number of detentions Judas faced for oversleeping through lessons. 

It’s different after that morning. In the weeks following, when Judas returns home he wakes up to Jesus’ alarm and eventually the cold spot where he had been wrapped around him drives him out of bed. He starts sleeping in Jesus’ tent more often than not, until he stops sleeping in his own tent altogether. They don’t talk about it. Maybe they don’t need to. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It’s interesting what Jesus takes to heart. If Judas had to guess which part of their conversation the morning after his episode he was going to focus his attention on, it would’ve been that Judas needs to give up smoking. Infinitely strange as he is, however, Jesus finds a different cause to latch onto. 

“Judas?” The waking world is cold and disorienting and decidedly unwelcome, but the hand shaking Judas’ shoulder is insistent while the voice is as familiar as his own name. “Judas?”

“Th’ fuck? Yeah? What?” Judas jolts back to his senses. Immediately tense. Historically, his experiences of being woken up in the middle of the night have not been positive ones. He reaches blindly for his phone with uncooperative limbs, squinting as the numbers burn his eyes. 05:02. 

He rolls over to bury his face in his arm. “Fuck, someone better be dying.” He’s not joking. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Above him, Jesus has the audacity to laugh. That answers that then. Alarm is rapidly replaced with a spark of irritation as Judas holds up a middle finger resolutely in his general direction. “I'm barely alive.” He frowns into his pillow. “What if I wake you up at 12am, see how you like it?” 

He can hear the grin on Jesus’ face without the need to look. “If you don’t want breakfast you don’t have to eat it.”

“Hm?” Judas pushes himself up.

“I thought we could have breakfast and then go for a walk by the river, while it’ll still be quiet. Well, quiet for London,” he corrects himself, beaming. “Is that ok?”

Judas looks him up and down. Takes in his obviously-very-pleased-with-himself smile. His perfectly fluffy hair and immaculately together outfit. How much his eyes are shining even though it’s the arse crack of dawn. Something in Judas softens. Despite the fact he’s so tired his ears are ringing he can’t find the heart to be mad. 

“It sounds great, just…” He buries his face in his hands with a groan, “Shit, warn me twelve hours in advance next time.” 

After taking some time to wake up, Judas joins Jesus outside. It’s too early to light the fire so he’s got his coat drawn tightly around his shoulders against the early morning damp. Sunrise hasn’t even begun in earnest yet. When he sits down, Jesus nudges a bowl into his hands. Warm porridge with little bits of dried berries, and a little carton of orange juice to wash it down. They’d probably all have scurvy if it weren’t for Jesus. 

The food goes a long way to making Judas feel significantly more human. Around a mouthful of berries, he asks, “So, what’s the occasion?”

Jesus shrugs. “There doesn’t need to be an occasion.” Then he grins, “I don’t need an excuse to do something nice for you.”

Judas raises an eyebrow over his porridge. 

“I know it might sound crazy, but people can do things for you because they feel like it,” says Jesus. “There doesn’t have to be an ulterior motive.”

“Yeah, sure.” Judas rolls his neck, partially because he knows that Jesus is always astonished at how he manages to make every vertebrae crack. “Who actually says fluff like that anyway?”

“My mum!” Jesus tries to look insulted, but he can’t hide his amusement. “She also says that every opportunity to enjoy the sunrise is a gift from God,” his voice takes on a matter of fact tone. 

“That explains a lot,” Judas says with a wry smile. “Insanity must run in the family.”

Jesus punches him lightly on the shoulder, but he’s grinning too. “Yeah, and your parents must be a pair of owls the way you carry on.”

London is quiet at this damned early hour. The only people stirring are industrious bakers, basket case joggers, an unobtrusive painter setting up his easel in the park, and a contagiously chipper revolutionary chattering away about how nice it all is. It’s a terrible time to be awake, but it is undeniably peaceful and refreshing, especially with the promise of hot coffee in another hour.

They sit quietly for a moment, long enough to really let the cold set in. Judas plays with his lighter and tries to warm his fingers with the little flame.

Jesus laughs at him, his teeth flash bright and sunny in the pale grey light. “Are you really that cold?” 

“Don’t see how you aren’t freezing your own nips off,” Judas grumbles. “Isn’t it supposed to be hot where you’re from?” He rubs his free hand against the back of his neck. Then he reflexively jolts when he feels warm, rough fingertips on his skin.

“Here, let me.” Jesus lifts his mane of hair off his collar and wraps his keffiyeh around Judas’s neck. Judas is acutely aware that it’s still warm from his body heat. Jesus is sitting very close to him, close enough to drive the chill away. He’s like a furnace that burns with something more than heat. He fusses with it, adjusting it until he is satisfied with how the tassels sit. “That’s better. You should keep it, it looks good on you.”

Judas mumbles a thanks much later than he meant to. It smells like him.

Jesus just beams at him, the features of his face just beginning to be visible in the soft red light. “Here, you’ve got something on your neck. Let me get that for you.” Jesus reaches out and touches a spot on his neck, gently rubbing with his thumb. He frowns and scrubs a little harder. Embarrassment rushes to Judas’ face when he realises what Jesus is trying to wipe off.

“Uh. That’s not going to… that’s a bruise,” he stammers. “I’m sort of seeing someone?”

“Oh!” Jesus pulls his hand back quickly and suddenly all his limbs are held tight to his body. The chilly air between them immediately steals any lingering warmth he had been radiating. “Oh.” He laughs lightly and rubs his hands on the grass, an irrepressible signal of his discomfort. “Nice guy?”

Judas shrugs and stares at the sun instead. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

As always, Jesus says and does nothing, so nothing really changes. Judas comes to their tent at random hours, wakes up to Jesus’ alarm, then goes back to sleep until mid morning. Life just goes on as usual, and as long as he doesn’t stop to dwell on that awkwardness it will continue to do so. 

Judas is highly averse to any form of structure in his life, but he has developed one routine that he enjoys. When he has time to kill, he buys some fish and chips, puts the greasy paper parcel in his pocket, and goes to enjoy them at a place that only he knows. He found a rickety piece of scaffolding that had been abandoned by a construction crew a few years ago and made it his own, complete with a water proofed box stocked with cigarettes and a lighter. He likes his little retreat, away from rambunctious comrades, the sardine tins they call train carriages, and any other nuisances of his daily life. Even the city pigeons leave him alone here. 

Unfortunately, not every pest can be deterred.

“Judas, how’s it going, mate?” 

Judas nearly drops his fish off the scaffolding. “Shit, John. What the hell are you doing up here?”

“Oh, nothing.” He sits down on the scaffolding next to him and hangs his feet over the edge. “Nice spot, isn’t it? Lovely view of the back of the Smoking Hog.”

“Yeah, I love the smell of the construction rubble and burnt onions.”

“Do you really?” John asks, politely surprised. “Suppose everything must have somebody that likes it.”

Judas rolls his eyes. “Sarcasm, mate.” He decides to ignore John and pretend that his sanctum is still his own.

“Right on.” John swings his feet and looks down into the alley. The silence doesn’t last long. “Chips with the curry, that’s a good choice.”

“Yeah, well, Jesus is always complaining that I make the whole tent smell like cigarettes, so I figured I’d stink of curry and cod this time.” Judas frowns a little. Sharing that gripe feels wrong somehow, as if his sleeping arrangement is somehow taboo, even though John shares a tent with Peter and Andrew. 

“Speaking of Jesus, he’s been talking about you a lot. I think we should talk about that.”

Judas chokes on a bite of fish. He suddenly remembers that he did mention this particular scaffolding hide out to Jesus once. “Is that how you found me, then?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” John shifts uncomfortably. “He didn’t send me, just so you know. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Judas doesn’t know what to say to that, so he decides not to say anything. Instead he decides to take a bite of fish and see where John is going with this.

John lets out a weary sigh, as if this conversation is a dreadful burden he would very much like to move on from. “Do you really think people don’t know what’s going on?” He raises an eyebrow, the way he always does when a conversation turns even slightly sexual. 

So that’s what this is about. He probably shouldn’t toy with John. That’s not good for “camaraderie” or whatever. But then again, John makes it so easy, and it’s so fun to watch him squirm. “Afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific.”

John tenses his shoulders and huffs in annoyance. “Fine, I’ll spell it out. Obviously you’ve been having some kind of wild, kinky sexual escapade and everybody can tell.”

“Have I?” He takes a big bite of fish. “What of it?”

“I honestly don’t care, I wish it had nothing to do with me. But when Jesus is worried about you, I’m the one who gets to hear about it. You know all those bruises you’ve been flaunting? Or maybe how you were walking funny last week? Or maybe how you just disappear without telling anyone where you’ve gone?”

Judas has to force himself not to laugh. “Go on.”

“He’s thinking about them all the time. And when he notices a pattern he’s bound to draw a conclusion,” John pauses, giving Judas ample opportunity to fill in the blank himself. 

He smirks a little. “He does have an imagination that he can’t seem to turn off.”

“Exactly! You know how he is,” John’s face lights up at the idea of a conversation with Judas going without unnecessary antagonism. “He’s gone and convinced himself that you’ve got an abusive boyfriend, and I don’t want to be the one to explain BDSM to him.” He shudders, apparently imagining how that conversation might go. “Frankly, I can’t take any more of this, so would you do me a favour and use any discretion at all?”

Judas does laugh this time. “Well it’s sweet that he’s worried but I don’t plan to restrain myself on his account. Can’t he just ask me himself?”

“Obviously not,” John sighs dramatically. “I think he’d rather die than acknowledge that he’s noticed anything that isn’t strictly his business.”

“Oh!” He speaks around another large bite of fish. “Maybe you should follow his example then.”

“Seriously?” John throws up his hands in exasperation. “You aren’t even a little embarrassed that your neck is more bruise than skin?”

“What’s the matter?” Judas casually loosens his scarf to better flaunt his latest marks. “Jealous?”

John raises an eyebrow again. “God no. You look ridiculous. Can you at least explain your situation to him?”

“I will if he asks,” he says, more than pleased at the idea of John squirming in discomfort. It’s nice having some form of payback for all the times he’s seen him fawning over Jesus. Shameless prick. “But you can tell him that if he’s really that worried he needs to get the stick out of his arse and tell me.”

The unjustly burdened messenger buries his face in his hands. “You’re the worst.”

“Don’t I know it. But you’ll need to bring a legitimate grievance if you want me to change something. Chip?”

John glares at him and takes a handful of chips. Apparently his business is concluded, he climbs down the scaffolding without another word, clearly fuming. 

“Bye!” Judas waves insolently. “Have fun not telling Jesus about my scary sex life.” But once John is gone a new pest has taken his place. For some reason his stomach is twisting, and it isn’t because of the fish.

So Jesus has been talking about him. And he’s worried about him. Worried enough to vent about it regularly. That meant that he hadn’t been ignoring him, not really, and things aren’t the same after all.  And for all his adoration, John isn’t speaking of him like one would a boyfriend. His gut twists again and he recognizes it now. It’s a little bit of hope, poorly mixed with fear of the unknown. The hope itself feels bad too, like it knows he doesn't deserve it. Even if deep down he knew that his flagrant recklessness had something to do with Jesus, he hadn’t been doing it to spite him. 

He looks down at his phone and sees a message from fifteen minutes ago.

[A: Busy tonight? ]

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Several weeks later, Judas is up to his elbows in soapy water, his hair tied loosely out of his face in a low bun. While his confrontation with John lingers in the back of his mind whenever he slips away to see Annas, Jesus has predictably stayed perfectly unobtrusive. If anything, their relationship has only continued to harmonise. They’ve been so unbelievably good the last few weeks. When he thinks about the way they used to scream at each other on an almost fortnightly basis it seems laughable. 

Naturally, when Jesus appears by his side holding a tea towel, Judas is expecting more of their usual light conversation. As he begins wiping a plate dry, Jesus asks, “You’re still working? I don’t think you’re even on the rota for this until next week.”

Judas shrugs. “I wasn’t busy. Andrew and Phillip looked like they needed a hand.”

Jesus hums noncommittally. Unsubtly. 

“What?”

“Little James said you helped him in the kitchen earlier. And you were with Peter yesterday,” he presses further, the plate forgotten, “Didn’t you help John with the water barrels?”

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to be helpful now?” Judas teases. He’s joking, he’s not trying for sarcastic or mean. His heart sinks further, though, when Jesus just looks more troubled. It’s true, he has been more involved than usual. But that’s only because his general mood has been so much better recently. 

Jesus lays a slightly damp hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you leave that and come sit with us?” 

For a second Judas can’t find the words to say, “I’m sorry. I can’t.” It comes out stilted, borderline staged. Like he’s reciting excuses to the police instead of chatting with his closest friend. 

“You’re going out again?” Jesus’ tone doesn’t obviously shift, but Judas knows him too well to miss the disappointment in his voice. 

“Not for long. I’ll be back before midnight,” he says. Although it doesn’t lessen his guilt. He’s suddenly aware of his movements, everything he does awkwardly magnified under Jesus’ eyes. He checks his phone for something to do, grateful when the time is just about late enough that he feels justified escaping the conversation. “Should probably get going.”

Silence follows. Judas wipes his sopping hands on his jeans. Scratches his beard. Tips the bowl of soapy water out. All with Jesus’ gaze burning into his back. When he turns to leave they lock eyes again. “I’m sorry,” Judas ventures, “I’ll see you in the morning? We could do breakfast again?” 

Jesus opens his mouth, hesitates for a moment, then finally settles on, “Sure. Look after yourself.”

Something uncomfortable twinges in Judas’ chest. “I will.” He says, feeling frighteningly self conscious. 

Two hours later he’s back on silken sheets trying to regulate his breathing while his vision is still full of stars. Annas never goes easy on him; tonight he’d wanted to try some new positions he had learned at some highly exclusive club. It must have been exclusive to gay Olympic athletes, he had pushed Judas’s body to its absolute limits. 

He feels a wave of heat as Annas exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam. “Still alive, I take it?” 

Judas looks over at him lazily. “I’ve had ferry crossings rougher than that.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re very demanding?” asks Annas bemusedly. Wrapped in his silk dressing gown, he doesn’t get back into bed as usual after his shower but instead crosses the room to begin foraging in his suitcase. “I’ve never had a hookup that was this much hard work before.” 

Judas pushes himself up against the headboard. “So fuck someone easier then.” He rolls his stiff shoulders with a groan. “Rich bastard like you, I’m sure you’d be in high demand.” 

Annas stops rummaging. “I find that what I truly want isn’t meant for me,” he’s aiming for suave, only there’s a thoughtful, almost morose undertone. It occurs to Judas that he hasn’t heard the name Caiaphas in a while. He flashes an uncomfortable grin at Judas, trying to recover some amount of charisma. “Suppose you’ll have to do instead, eh?”

Annas stands up, pocketing whatever it was he was looking for. “I’m going for a smoke,” he gestures towards a pair of white curtains, presumably covering a previously unnoticed balcony. “If you’d care to join me.” 

Annas doesn’t strike Judas as the smoking type. Not that it matters, after all that exertion he’s dying for a cigarette. One he doesn’t have to pay for is a nice bonus. 

He rolls his shoulders again with a sigh, “Sure. Let me get dressed first.” Avantgarde as he is, he’s not smoking naked on a balcony in the middle of London. Besides, as he pulls his jeans on his attention drifts to the treasure trove of wasted goods concealed behind the mini fridge door. Once fully dressed he steals a glance in Annas’ vague direction before sweeping the contents into his rucksack. He can donate most of the food and keep the little orange juice cartons. Their group needs the vitamin C. 

After joining Annas on the balcony, Judas ignores his host for a moment to gaze over the skyline. London has never been beautiful to him; it’s overcrowded, dirty, and, naturally, full of Londoners. From up here, though, it almost sparkles. There are lights as far as the edge of the horizon. High buildings of glowing glass tower over the city while the London eye shines like a halo beside the Thames.

Annas looks far too pleased with himself. “Like the view?” 

“It’s alright. I guess.” Try as he might, Judas can’t repress his smile. It should be making him angry. This is the London reserved exclusively for the elites. You only climb this high by crushing those beneath you on the economic ladder. He forces himself to frown, “So how much are you spending on this room anyway? Like on a monthly basis?”

Annas laughs lightly. “I don’t, it’s my hotel.” Then, as if he hasn’t just rocked Judas’ entire understanding of his life and wealth, he holds a cigar out to him. Because of course, that’s what he smokes. He owns a five star hotel in London. He has money to literally burn. It makes sense; Judas already knew he was filthy rich. Even so, it’s enough of a shock that he almost doesn’t reach for the cigar. A scathing criticism which would usually come so naturally to him fails to appear. The best he can manage is a weak, “You’re a caricature. I hope you know that.” 

Judas has never seen a cigar in person, let alone smoked one. He pats his pockets for a lighter. Before he can find his own, however, Annas is already holding one out to him. Judas leans over, letting Annas light it while it’s in his mouth. 

“So what got you interested in me anyway?”

Judas sputters on his first drag, “What?” 

“Your bio said no twinks. I mean, I know those days are long past me but,” Annas checks his immaculate nails. “I’m hardly what you’d call a man’s man.”

“I’ll say,” Judas curls his lip and runs a hand over his chest. Annas’ body is smooth as a dolphin everywhere from the neck down. “How often are you going in for waxing anyway? You must be spending a fortune.” 

“More often than you, clearly,” he grazes the bristly hair on Judas’s arm with his thumb, then smacks his tattooed bicep lightly.  “Besides, I know these aren’t free.”

“Everything’s free if you don’t pay. You’d know all about that.” 

“I absolutely would not,” scoffs Annas, “Tell me, who do you think pays more council tax out of the two of us?” 

Judas takes another drag from his cigar. “Damn, that’s a real head scratcher. Give me a couple more of these and I might find an answer.”

They share a laugh. For the next few minutes, they continue chatting idly. Annas points out a few landmarks, and Judas finds himself listening with surprising interest. When he reaches the end of the cigar Annas plucks it out of his hand before he can suffer the awkwardness of having clearly never finished one before. He yawns and stretches. The lingering warmth from his session with Annas is fading as the chill night winds brush over the balcony. “I need to get going. How about Thursday night next week?” 

“Sure. You know where to find me.” Annas pulls out his phone and opens his calendar, squinting to be sure he selects the right date.

Judas snorts, “You normally schedule your hook-ups like doctor’s appointments?” Then he has a thought, “Shit, actually, I don’t know about Thursday. We were thinking of doing club outreach.” 

Annas nods down at his calendar, “What about Friday?” Then he looks up with a curious frown, “Club outreach?” 

“We stand outside clubs. Make sure people get home safe, give them snacks, water,” Judas waves a hand. “That sort of shit.” 

Annas’ frown deepens. “Isn’t that a little risky?” 

Judas indulges in another leisurely stretch, deliberately displaying both his physique and his nonchalance. “Maybe if you’re walking around in silver cufflinks. I’m just as dangerous as anyone else out there.”

Annas looks thoughtful for a moment. Then he holds a finger up, wait a moment, and disappears off the balcony back into the room. When he returns with a wallet, Judas is almost convinced that for whatever reason he’s going to hand him money. Instead, he draws a business card. 

“In case you ever need to reach me through official means,” he explains, passing it over. When Judas raises an eyebrow at him, Annas just shrugs, “I have friends in important places. You seem to have friends in precarious positions.” He pauses for a moment and decides to pat his arm in an awkward display of distant affection. “Besides, I’d be a little annoyed if my favourite distraction was sent to prison.”

Judas snorts as he turns the card over in his hands. It’s just basic contact information printed over a mildly fancy sigil. American psycho style shit. He hands it back. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need it.”  Then, because he can’t resist, “Favourite?” 

Annas shoots him a wry smile. “Weren’t you leaving?”

Judas grins back and helps himself to another cigar, just to see how Annas reacts when he puts it directly in his pocket. “Whatever. See you Friday.”’ 

Chapter Text

Outreach isn’t as proselytising as it sounds. For the most part, it’s about flagging down taxis for students too drunk to walk home and handing water to tipsy women. On a few sparse occasions, there have been more serious responsibilities: overdoses, concussions, intervening with arrests. But that’s why they’re there; to keep people out of trouble.

Everyone has an assigned partner, and your one job, failing everything else, is to keep them out of trouble. The more likely you are to find trouble, the more likely it is you’ll be paired up with Jesus. And the system generally works, excluding that one time they lost Philip, although Peter maintains that’s exactly why the system is so important. In any case that can't be why Judas is paired with Jesus. He’s been on his best behaviour, there’s no reason to think he’d be likely to find trouble. 

Judas leans over the club barrier, the chill of the metal seeping through his jacket. He’s grateful for the extra warmth Jesus’ keffiyeh provides. “Keeping an eye on me, are you?”

Jesus shrugs cheerfully and opens a water bottle. “I don’t have to worry about any of the others, so I figured we could finally get some time to hang out without them. You’re good people watching company.”

That’s lucky, because there’s plenty of people to watch. With the clubs just starting to open, the pavement beside them is increasingly congested as the queues swell. People flood the road from all directions, passing around Jesus and Judas in waves. 

A young woman brushes past them, eyes fixed on the ground. A young man follows at her heel, breath and voice already reeking of alcohol and not seeming to care who knows it. “… so I told him, I said, Dad, I want my inheritance money now, and he just gives it to me! Now my brother won’t talk to me but the old geezer still calls all the damn time…”

Judas smirks and points them out to Jesus, not caring if the young man can hear them. “I think that one’s a lost cause.” 

Jesus follows his gaze, “I don’t-" 

“-believe in lost causes,” finishes Judas. “Yeah, I know. But come on, why would he even want to change? I met plenty of blokes like him, they’re all the same. Daddy’s money makes rotten prats, and they always either hoard it or blow it.”

Jesus ponders for a moment. They are both in agreement that wealth has a corrupting quality, but he doesn’t share Judas’ cynicism. “Maybe something will happen and he’ll see that money and attention don’t really make him happy.” He muses. “I’ll bet his family would be glad to have him back. Bet they’d throw a party.”

Judas can’t help but scoff. He could name several young men just like that one, they’d made his life a personal hell. They were much too coddled to ever want to change. “Yeah, alright. If he loses his inheritance that might be enough rock bottom to make him get his act together. He deserves it anyway.”

Jesus smiles brightly at him. “Judas, I think you’ve given me an idea for a new parable.”

Judas laughs and butts up against his shoulder affectionately. “Glad I can help.”

Jesus pushes back and laughs with him, both enjoying the playful scuffle. A few passersby give them a strange look but don't care enough to say anything. “You really don’t think he can change?” 

Judas pulls a box of cigarettes from his pocket and selects one. “No. It’s not that I don’t think he can change, I just know he can’t be arsed.” 

“That’s definitely the same thing,” says Jesus fairly. 

“No, because,” Judas gesticulates with his cigarette. “I mean, people could change. They have the capacity to, but.” He shrugs and takes a drag, blowing the smoke away from Jesus’ face.

Jesus frowns to himself. “But if they can’t-" He flashes Judas a smile, “Sorry, won’t , change then what’s the point of being here?” His brows furrow deeper at the existential weight of the question.

Judas flicks his cigarette in the direction of a passing man with his shirt open and the words too fucked to piss, too pissed to fuck written across his chest. “Well obviously because the company is immaculate.” Then, just to be an arsehole, “You reckon he can change?”

“Alright, enough.” Jesus laughs, eyes sparkling with high spirits. “But yes.” He adds pointedly, head held high. “I think there’s good in everyone.”

“Yeah, tell that to whoever has to deal with him tonight.”

They continue to bicker gently back and forth until, a little higher up the road, a drunk woman sits down on the pavement. Despite her slightly more sober friends' vain attempts to pull her back up, she stays resolutely put. 

Judas raises an eyebrow. “Dignified.”

“You know, we can do this without judging the people we’re trying to help.”

Judas shrugs one shoulder. “We can, but this is more fun.”

“Judas.” Jesus shoots him a look, exasperated but fond. 

They keep watching. When she bursts into tears Judas picks up a couple of leaflets and they go to help her.

Jesus approaches first, keeping a reassuring distance from the two women as he holds out a bottle. “Hi, are you alright? Do you need some water?”

The more sober of the two, the one still standing, eyes them suspiciously. “You what?”

Judas passes a leaflet to Jesus, which he in turn holds out. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but it contains numbers for charities, foodbank addresses, and the like. “We’re the twelve, a non-profit group who work with at risk communities across the country. This is our club outreach. We’re just here to make sure everyone gets home safe. The water’s sealed, see?” 

“Oh.” The woman looks startled for a moment. “Thanks.” She tentatively takes the leaflet before crumpling it into her handbag. 

The water is passed to her companion, who rolls her head listlessly and whines. Judas frowns and runs over the effects of various drugs in his head. “Is she…?” 

“Yeah she’s fine. She’s just very drunk.”

Judas looks over his shoulder down the road. He notices the drunk lady’s nicotine stained fingernails. He thinks about all the times he’s been drunk and disorderly, and what it would’ve taken to make him move. “You know there’s a maccies about three minutes that way.” He poses it as an observation instead of a suggestion, as if it’s just occurred to him that he might want a burger.

As predicted, the effect of his words is instantaneous. “Really?” The woman’s sobs die down as she looks up at him with wide, mascara stained eyes. “Yeah,” She wipes her face with a sniff “...that would help. That would really, that would make me feel better. I want chicken nuggets.” 

Judas presses his lips together to give her what he hopes is an encouraging smile, “Get home safe.” 

As they watch the two women disappear down the street, he turns to Jesus. “You know, Andrew always tells them to follow us on Twitter.” 

“And do they?” 

Judas snorts. “Most of them are too drunk to remember they even own a phone. But we’ve not been doing too badly recently. We’re at about two thousand followers last I checked, so fuck it, maybe it does work.” He puts his hands in his pockets as they walk back to their previous perch on the club barricades. It takes him a few seconds to realise Jesus is frowning slightly, more a face of confusion than outright disapproval. “What?” 

“Nothing.” He walks a few more paces then decides he wants to talk about it after all. “I thought we didn’t approve of MacDonald’s.” He raises an eyebrow, half reproachful half bemused.

Judas shrugs. “Chicken had a shit life, but it’s not getting any deader.” 

One lengthy discussion about battery farming later they’ve decided the meat industry is not a black and white issue and drop the subject. Crowds continue to cluster around the pavements as pre-drink parties head for the streets. 

As she passes, a woman points drunkenly at Judas’ jacket patch and slurs “Yeah! Fuck Rome! Rome fucking lies!”

Judas gives her a small mock salute while Jesus holds out a bottle of water. She stumbles over, bringing with her a small crowd of her friends. “Would you like a leaflet?” he prompts. “It includes resources on how you can reach your MPs, we can do something even under Roman occupation. We can always use volunteers for canvassing.” 

The woman nods enthusiastically, her eyes wide, “Yeah, yeah, thank you.” She folds the leaflet into her pocket and takes a deep breath, “What I don’t understand… How’re we meant to live when Rome’s always fucking us up the arse…” Her complaint turns to mush in her mouth, but she presses on undeterred. “Asking for all this shit in tax money-" Again the words are unintelligible but it’s pretty clear what she’s agitated about. She shakes her head, disoriented in her drunken anger, “And I’m just trying to live!” 

Jesus holds his hands out, “It’s difficult right now, I know,“ he soothes. “I think a lot of people are struggling with feeling powerless or abused. It’s easy to feel like you’re just barely keeping yourself together…” Jesus pauses. His gaze flicks to the sky like it always does when he’s about to launch into a parable. 

“I know, it’s hard right now.” He begins again. This time more certain, his voice warm and inviting but resolute. “We’re all struggling, and it always reminds me of this friend I’ve got, an older woman. She’s never had much in the way of money, and this one time she decided to buy food for her granddaughter instead of pay rent. She was cleaning out her house, ready to be evicted, and she found a stash of banknotes in the floorboards. She was talking about it for weeks after, it was the exact amount she needed to keep her home, right down to the pennies. It was like God saw her need and provided for her at that moment.”

The woman nods earnestly, eyes wide in amazement. “That’s exactly what it feels like! The same thing happened to my sister’s cousin.” 

Jesus nods back just as sincerely, and there’s something about the eagerness in his face when he speaks to her that Judas can’t seem to look away from. He’s always been drawn to Jesus’ passionate side. The woman’s companions are similarly entranced, and one of them comments suggestively on Jesus’ looks to her friend, to Judas’ discomfort. Most of his speaking engagements go like that. His sermons might be shite sometimes, but they are his sermons, and they always connect with their audience in some form, typically eliciting either encouragement or conviction. Whether they were meant to elicit encouragement or conviction, his eyes always sparkled with the same loving fervour. It’s lucky for the rest of the world that his ministry hasn’t turned into a cult. He could sway a crowd in any direction he pleased. 

Judas does let his attention wander when Jesus starts into another parable, it’s one that Judas has heard before and isn’t particularly partial to. It’s easy to get distracted by the increased drunken traffic, especially when a man a little way down the road face-plants the curb spectacularly. The flocks of university students part around him, but nobody tries to help him up. Judas elbows his companion and points him out. “Hate to interrupt the party, but–”

Jesus looks at the crowd and gives an apologetic face. “Think you can handle him?”

Judas inspects the crowd. He doesn’t recognise any hostile faces, and the lad looks like he'd lose a fight with a wet tea towel. It’s probably alright. “Sure, I’ll be two secs.”

Jesus is already turning back to his captive audience, “I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Judas breaks away to help the man up. Well, man is being generous. He’s barely eighteen, and clearly not from around London if his thick Lancashire accent is anything to go by. More importantly, he’s so drunk he doesn’t immediately remember his address (some shitty university accommodation) when Judas goes to hail down a cab. 

Once the boy is safely on his way home, Judas looks back down the road for Jesus and finds that he isn’t where he left him. He’s moved across to the other side of the road where there’s more space for the small crowd that has formed. Most of the listeners are unsteady with alcohol, and they’re gathering near him like moths around an open flame. The drunk woman from before stands the closest, happily plastered to Jesus’ ribs. He has his arm around her waist and their faces are hardly a few inches apart.  

Judas feels a sneer of disgust curl on his lips and he looks away. It’s not an uncommon occurrence; Jesus attracts people without even trying. It’s why he’s their leader, after all. Nevertheless, Judas is irritated. Their job is to keep people out of trouble, not to preach to women who toss their hair whenever he looks at them, batting their insipid eyes for his attention. Maybe Jesus truly feels that he’s helping them, but the more cynical part of Judas’ psyche can’t help but suspect he’s enjoying their attention for less than holy reasons. He’s just a man- 

As his gaze sweeps the nearby club queue, Judas' thoughts are interrupted by a quiet disturbance unfolding just a few feet from him. He's not sure why the pair catch his eye, but he remembers the man when he sees the writing on his chest. Most of it has rubbed off and smeared, but the word piss is still emblazoned on his chest. More importantly, he's now pressed against a woman, grinding aggressively on her backside. The woman is clearly frightened, but she doesn’t fight back or complain.

Jesus wouldn’t stand for that, and neither will Judas.

He's there in an instant. “Oi!” He yanks the man’s arm away as he slips a hand up her skirt. “How about if I did that to you?”

The piss man assesses his face, clearly disgusted by the eyeshadow. “Oh fuck off, poofter. ‘Wasn’t even doing anything, ain’t that right, sweetheart?” he leers. The woman smiles tightly and nods, but she looks like she wants to cry for help. 

Judas draws himself to full height, puffs his chest out and lets his physique speak for itself. Even bundled up, he’s clearly in much better shape than the piss man. The man scowls, but peels himself off the woman, who is clearly shaken and clings to her friend. 

Judas turns away with a snort, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Prick.” He steps between them to give her a buffer, letting the piss man seethe behind him. “Are you alright? I’ve got this leaflet that’s got some counsellors on it–” 

The woman shrieks and points behind him. He whips his head back around just in time for his vision to explode in a shower of stars as something jagged slices across his forehead, cutting deep into his eyebrow. The blood flows into his eyes immediately and the queue is sent into chaos. He staggers back in shock and his head smacks against a brick wall. Enraged, he swings his fist but doesn't connect with anything. There are shouts and gasps, but he doesn’t recognize any voices. 

Judas stumbles backwards blindly over his own feet as his vision flashes red. 

“Judas!” A mercifully familiar voice rings in his ear as several pairs of hands drag him away from the noise of the club. That must be Jesus, he has to have seen what happened. But when he opens his eyes it’s Peter checking on him. The man clutches his arm and guides him roughly down to the curb. 

“Motherfucker–” Judas inhales sharply. Blood trickles hot down the side of his face as he tips his head back, blinking against the pain. Everything happened so fast. He looks around for his assailant but the man is long gone, probably vanished into the crowd. 

“Hang on, you’re alright.” Peter crouches in front of him, a hand on each of his shoulders, “Sit still. John’s bringing the first aid kit.” He draws a torch from his bag. “Look at me for a sec.”

Judas compliantly stares into the light and follows Peter’s instructions when he waves a finger to follow with his eyes. He forces himself to draw deep breaths, letting them go slowly. 

Behind Peter, the woman he had intervened for hovers anxiously. “Do we need to call an ambulance? The police?” Other people mill around watching with their phones poised. 

After waving an encroaching bouncer away, John appears clutching a fistful of paper towels. “What the hell happened? Judas-"

“I’m fine. Just,” He reaches blindly to snatch the paper towel from John’s hands. It’s not so much that it hurts as it is that he’s completely disoriented. The shock supersedes the pain as he clutches the tissues shakily to his forehead. “Shit. He fucking glassed me?” 

Somewhere beside him, Peter whistles low. “Yeah. He absolutely had you.” 

“I’m so sorry.” The woman looks absolutely distraught. “I was trying to tell you, he’s been threatening me with that broken glass since I joined the queue.”

“Scumbag.” John mutters. “Can you find Jesus?” 

Peter glances over his shoulder. “Last I saw he was still in the middle of that crowd. You know what he’s like when he gets talking.” 

Judas tries to draw himself back together. He’s had worse. He knows the rattled feeling will pass. It’s just residual adrenaline. Still, he can’t shake the stark reality of just how lucky he is. That could’ve been his eyes, his throat. And Jesus… 

 “Forget it.” He mumbles. He knows how Jesus is, he knows what his priorities are. Once he starts talking to someone, they are the most important person in the world. It’s intoxicating having that attention, and he always forgets how much it hurts to lose it or how easily Jesus can be diverted. 

“God. I need my phone.” He pats his pockets clumsily. When he turns the camera on to check the damage it still manages to shock him. “Oh shit.” There’s blood already seeping into the collar of his shirt. He takes the keffiyeh off in a hurry. 

“I think it looks worse than it is,” John offers limply. 

“Do we have any–”

“Here.” He hands Judas a packet of antibacterial wipes. “Shit. It’s not clotting.”  

Peter nods with a wince. “It might need stitches.”

“It better fucking not.” Judas groans. 

“Judas–”

“I’m not going to A&E.” He glowers firmly. “I’ll take my chances with tetanus.” 

“Alright, that’s fine.” John holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll try to patch it up with plasters for now. But you might end up going to A&E anyway.”

For the next ten minutes John stems the blood flow while Judas wipes his face clean. Together they manage to make him look marginally less like he’s just lost a fight with a blender. John’s no doctor though; the plasters are already clumping together and peeling by the time he leans back to admire his work. 

“Sit the rest of tonight out, yeah?” He pats Judas' shoulder awkwardly just as Peter looks up from his phone.

“Matthew just messaged the group chat, he’s getting overwhelmed so I’ve told him to join us. You two can stay here, and we’ll regroup with Simon?”

So that’s what Judas does. For the next forty minutes or thereabouts he smokes and shivers on the slightly damp pavement. He’s not particularly in the mood to talk to Matthew, or to people watch anymore. Especially not when, across the road, Jesus continues to preach, and the crowd continues to grow. So does Jesus' passion. It makes him shine in the sputtering streetlight. It makes Judas’ headache so much worse. He’s making big gestures with his arms, and Judas recognizes the parable he must be telling from across the street. He can tell by how he crouches on the ground and stands tall to illustrate a seed growing into a vine. It’s hard to tell if the crowd is gathering for the story or if they came to stare at a freak show.

When it becomes too difficult to watch, he tries to occupy himself by letting Matthew’s dog clamber all over his lap. There are too many distracting sights and smells for it to be hugely interested in Judas, but its steadily thumping tail is comforting nonetheless. It’s something to feel besides the waves of splitting pain in his skull. He runs his fingers over the coarse overcoat absentmindedly and picks a stray sliver of sticky glass out of his keffiyeh. 

Matthew watches him inspect the shard. “He shouldn’t have left. That’s not how the system works.” 

Judas shrugs and lays the glass in his palm, turning it over and ghosting his fingerprints over the sides. “It was an outreach opportunity. You know he never turns down a chance to build solidarity.” A drop of fresh blood spills beads on his fingertip, an accident. Instead of applying pressure to stop the bleeding, he watches it grow with bland fascination. 

“Are you not upset?” Matthew tilts his head expectantly. 

“You know what he’s like. It’s fine.” He drops the glass down a drain, then regrets casting it aside. He turns his attention back to petting the dog.

“But you would have noticed if he got hurt,” Matthew insists. “And he always–”

“It’s fine!” Judas snaps, then winces as the sound of his own voice hurts his ears. Then he wilts and buries his face in his hands. He’s been getting along so well with Matthew, of course this would be the night he blows it.

“... sorry.” Matthew, already soft spoken, lowers his voice even further and pats his arm. His dog whines and licks his hands until Judas emerges. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I’m– Could we please just drop it?” 

Matthew nods and turns his face away.

As they approach the agreed rendezvous time, Jesus still isn’t finished. The other disciples drift back in pairs. Some of them notice Judas’ injury, most don’t. It’s dark. They’re all tired. When some of them start quietly grumbling about how late it’s getting, Jesus waves over to signal that he's very nearly done, he promises. Judas tries not to grit his teeth when the women giggle raucously.

Despite that, when he finally does make his way over he’s still talking. There are only five people left now but they don’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. Apparently Jesus is going to preach all the way home. They start walking back towards camp with the small audience in tow. 

“... and that’s why we’ve got to forgive our fellow men not just seven times, but more than seven thousand even. Does that make sense, Marlene?” The drunk woman who had started it all, Marlene apparently, nods in absolute rapture.  

Judas’ heart sinks. It’s heavy and it’s ugly, full to nearly overflowing with the indignity he’s been ignoring. Another unwelcome emotion he refuses to label twists inside him and he pulls his phone out like a reflex. 

[J: You still free tonight?]

[A: my room is always ready ;) ]

As the rest of the group keeps walking, Judas falls unnoticed to the back. There’s a tube station in sight. Annas’ hotel is probably only a few stops away. 

[J: Be there in twenty?]  

He slips his phone back into his pocket. Then he calls, “Matthew,” after the retreating group. When Matthew slows, Judas nods at the tube station, “I’m going to-"

“You’re leaving?” Matthew scratches his dog behind the ears with a frown. The dog whines and tugs at the leash, anxious to be back with the twelve. “You don’t want to talk to Jesus first?” 

Judas doesn’t even pretend he’s reading the tube map when he looks away. “What’s there to say?” 

“He’s going to notice you’re gone,” says Matthew. Not with any particular emotion, he’s just stating it as a matter of fact. 

Judas lets out a mirthless laugh and considers making a cutting remark about Jesus’ attention span. Instead, he shuts his mouth and stalks away. That bile is meant for someone else.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

He always forgets how much he hates the tube. It’s nasty and crowded. Then again, his shirt is covered in blood so everybody gives him plenty of room. As he enters the hotel reception the security guard - the one who’d stopped him that first night - makes as if to approach. He’s seen Judas enough times over the last few weeks that they’re passingly familiar. There’s only concern in his frown as Judas breezes past him. He’s not sure what they’d even say to one another. 

Annas opens the door to his suite wearing nothing but a loose silk robe and a smirk. His face immediately falls when he sees the state of Judas’ shirt. “Are you alright?” 

Judas shoves his coat into Annas’ arms. “Fine.” He drops his shirt on the floor and kicks a boot off.

“Then whose blood is this?” Annas holds up the sticky shirt with a look of horror.

“Hm?” Judas kicks off the other shoe unceremoniously and reaches for the belt on Annas’ robe. “Oh, that’s mine.”

Annas takes a step back and adjusts his garment. “What?” Judas steps further into the room. Annas flicks the overhead light on and gasps at the plasters stuck to his forehead. “What happened to you?” 

“Oh, that.” Judas searches for a lie. If he opens up a little he might actually talk about what happened. “You would not believe what a hen party will do to get a piece of my arse. I saved plenty, don’t you worry.”

“Really? A group of young women tried to slice your face off?” Annas raises a sceptical eyebrow and Judas can tell he’s insulted by the lazy attempt to deflect.  “How novel. Am I going to be seeing this on the news?”

“Obviously not.” Judas snaps. 

Annas shakes his head, lost and unamused. “Seriously, who did this to you?” He holds the shirt up again, as if Judas could have forgotten. 

“I dunno. Who cares?” Judas puts a hand on Annas’ neck and caresses it suggestively. “I’m here, that was out there.” 

Annas slips out from under his touch. “Well, you’re going to report it to the police, aren’t you? And once they catch whoever did it, you’re pressing charges. And when you do, drop my name. I’ve got friends in the force.”

Judas snorts and brushes a bit of congealed blood off his face. “Yeah, I’m sure I would just love your friends.”

“Judas, that is assault, this is very serious.” 

Condescending prick. “Aw. You think the coppers will want to swoop in and avenge someone like me, that’s cute.”

“You said it was safe.” Annas looks like he wants to hit him, and not in a playful way. “You said you were just as dangerous as anyone out there. And now you’re lying to me about what happened? Are you even listening to me?” 

He grabs his wrist, too hard to be mistaken for a friendly touch. His eyes have turned beady and there’s something volatile and controlling flashing in them, something more intensely personal than frustration. For a moment that feels longer than it should, Annas looks like he might actually pose a threat.

“I won’t stand for it. If I’d been there–”

Judas rips his hand out of the vice grip. “I said I’m fine, and if you don’t shut up about it I’m going to leave, and if you ever fucking grab me like that again I can and will fuck your face up,” he snarls. He feels dirty almost immediately after the burst of rage, and the rush leaves his head ringing. He glares at the floor and sits to put his shoes back on.

“No, wait, I’m sorry.” Annas reaches to touch his shoulder, then lightly takes his hand instead. “It’s not every day someone I care about shows up on my doorstep looking like actual hell. I don’t like the idea of letting someone hurt you when there’s something I can do about it, but I’ll respect your wishes. It’s your problem, you decide how to deal with it. I’m sorry.” His hands are warm and soft, and Judas suddenly notices how raw and chapped his own are. He can’t see his face, he’s kept his eyes low, but he can feel the look in Annas’ eyes. It’s unexpectedly warm and kind. 

“... thanks.” His hearing must have been damaged. His voice doesn’t sound right. It sounds rough and broken. “Look, I’ve had a long day and I could really use a good shag. Now, are you going to fuck me or not?” It doesn’t come out as forceful or bratty, just frustratingly weary. 

Annas lowers himself to meet his gaze, like he’s assessing the damage for himself to decide if Judas is too broken to know what he wants. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather watch the telly? I don’t mind.”

Judas raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t feel like finding the words to say how badly he needs Annas to fuck him without resorting to whining. He tugs lightly on the robe’s belt just in case the point wasn't obvious.

“Well, alright.” Annas sounds conflicted but Judas has made himself quite clear, so he slides into his lap and steals his breath. Annas’ body is soft, a bit pudgy. It’s a familiar part of this room, as much as the clean sheets and comfortable strain in his thighs. When he’s sure Annas won’t notice, he rests his head on his shoulder, lets his eyes slide shut, and allows himself to inhale the spiced vanilla scent behind Annas’ ears, just this once. This night doesn’t count.

He is still rough, but Judas notices that Annas doesn’t pull his hair as hard this time and takes care not to reopen the wound on his eyebrow when he’s manhandling his face. Even at this restrained intensity Annas still exhausts him, although it’s probably compounded by the adrenaline drop. He’s much too tired to try and spur him into something rougher. He’s too tired to even want that. He really needs anything Annas will give him and he can’t find the self loathing needed to feel shame for the indulgence. He doesn’t even realise he’s dozed off until he wakes up disoriented when the mattress shifts beneath Annas’ weight when he returns from his shower. 

“You’re okay.” Annas laughs softly as he settles in. “How are you feeling? Any headache? Nausea?”

“What?” Judas takes stock. Minor aches and pains, but nothing serious. “Not really, no.”

“Good. You’re alright then.” Annas nods to himself, and Judas realises he’s been assessed for a concussion again. “You don’t have to go back out, you know.” He looks him in the eyes and his usual smugness is notably absent. “You can stay here anytime you like, I told the staff you’re my guest.”

Much as Judas hates it, there’s more than a small part of him seriously considering the offer. He’s so beyond tired that the effort to stay awake is broaching on painful. As for safety, Annas has demonstrated a genuine interest in his well being. Even if it’s just sex, they know each other on some level now. 

Judas takes one more second to relish in how soft Annas’ bed is compared to Jesus' battered old air mattress, then he forces himself to sit up, “No. I need to get going.” 

He pushes the covers back and goes to find his clothes. When he picks his jeans up, his phone falls out of a pocket. 

“Oh for fuck’s..." Judas’ heart sinks as the screen lights up, revealing hundreds of unopened messages, all from the same familiar number. The first is from almost two hours ago.

[JC: John says you were glassed?? Are you alright?] 

Then, two minutes later. 

[JC: Where are you?]

Followed by a steady escalation,

[JC: You left?? Judas what were you thinking?]

[JC: Judas I know you’re angry but can you please pick up]

[JC: Judas I’m really worried, please call back] 

Sandwiched between the texts there’s a string of voicemails that Judas doesn’t have to open to know what they’re saying. There’s also a couple of messages from John,

[JN: What the fuck are you playing at?]

[JN: He was being a prick, he shouldn’t have left you. Peter and I have both told him that. You need to reply to him though, he thinks you’re dead in a ditch somewhere he’s on the verge of panic attack]  

[JN: Hope you’re ok]

And a simple, [P: Are you fucking joking?] from Peter. 

Judas lets out a slow, “Fuck…” His skin crawls as the reality of how deep in the shit he is sinks in. It must look bad. Really bad. He hadn’t deliberately been ignoring his phone, not that Jesus knows that. He can picture him so vividly pacing fretfully up and down the camp, immune to John’s attempts to placate him, growing increasingly frantic.  

Annas peers over. “Everything alright?”

Judas shakes his head. “Yeah. Fuck, I really have to go.” 

Annas climbs out of bed after him. Perhaps on account of their earlier altercation, he doesn’t press for details. But he looks concerned as he frowns and says, “At least let me call you a car.”

Judas hesitates, his jeans halfway up his thighs. He thinks about the journey back across London. How much longer it’s going to take him and how much nastier the tube will feel at this late hour.

“Yeah. Alright.” He concedes. “Thanks.” 

Already on the phone, Annas waves a hand in his direction. Then he does a double take, “Oh, you can’t possibly go home in that. Leave it here, take one of mine.” 

He’s walking away before Judas can protest. He’s right though; the shirt is completely crusted with dried blood and yet somehow still wet. Judas grimaces. 

There’s a chest of drawers against the wall, which is where he finds a fittingly simple white undershirt. Even though it feels crisp enough to be new, it still smells like Annas’ cinnamon and vanilla aftershave. In between scrambling to get dressed, Judas sends Jesus a rushed “Am ok srry wasnt near phone onway back”

He’s lacing his boots when Annas returns, flipping his phone back into his dressing gown pocket. “The car should be outside. He’s expecting you.” He looks Judas up and down. His apprehension about letting him leave in this state is apparent.

As Judas stands to go, Annas holds a familiar piece of card out. “Just in case you change your mind about bringing the entire force of the law down on the filth who hit you.” 

This time Judas doesn’t hesitate to accept. It can’t hurt to keep hold of it. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The only car parked outside is a sleek black Bugatti, driven by a man in a matching cap and jacket. Naturally, Judas walks right past. Then, when no other cars appear, he doubles back and mentally rechecks Annas’ instructions. As if sensing his confusion, the man rolls down the window to confirm that yes, this is the car Annas sent for. Specifically, this is Annas’ car driven by Annas’ personal driver. 

As Judas climbs in, the man asks, “Where to sir?”

Judas baulks at the question. Sir . That’s an honorific rarely addressed towards him. And when it is, it’s usually sarcastic and feels more like they’re calling him scum. Yet Annas’ driver appears nothing but professional as he looks expectantly in the rearview mirror. For a split second Judas doesn’t even remember where he lives, he’s too shocked. Maybe he really should have John double-check he’s not concussed.

“Uh, do you know Shoreditch?”

The driver nods. “Any stops sir?”

Judas draws his seatbelt down slowly. “No?”

“Very good.” He gives another short nod before adjusting his rear view mirror. Once they’re smoothly away from the hotel, he clicks the radio to a soothing hum of classical music. Judas pulls his phone out of his pocket,

[J: i thought you meant a cab not your personal chauffeur] 

[J: caricature]  

[A: Get home safe x ]

Judas laughs despite himself. It’s such an Annas gesture; ordering your personal driver to escort your hook-up home. It’s excessive and silly. But he can’t pretend it’s unpleasant. The seats are cream leather with a button to adjust the height, for god's sake. He couldn't be uncomfortable if he tried. Judas rests his head against the window and lets himself enjoy the most luxurious view of London he’s ever going to have. Well, second most luxurious after cigars on Annas’ balcony. 

His phone lights up with another call from Jesus. He reaches for it instinctively, before his hand stills. The lecture and subsequent argument is inevitable. There’s no point starting it early. Jesus’ texts, however, prove irresistible. Judas can’t help picking up his phone just to scroll back through them, watching as Jesus visibly moves from concerned to furious to frightened. 

[JC: John says you were glassed? Are you alright?] 

[JC: Where are you?]

[JC: You left?? Judas what were you thinking?]

[JC: Judas I know you’re angry but can you please pick up]

[JC: Judas I’m really worried, please call back] 

[JC: If you’re going to ignore me at least tell John or Peter you’re alright] 

[JC: Why won’t you answer?]

[JC: Judas I know you’re angry but can you please pickup]

[JC: Judas I’m really worried please call back] 

Judas reads them once. Then again. Then one more time until it dawns on him that he’s angry with Jesus. It’s a familiar state, but one he hasn’t been in for quite some time. The self-righteous little preacher had forgotten him. It could have been much worse, he could have had his eyes gouged out or his throat slit and Jesus might not have even noticed until after he had told all his parables. After all the time they’d been spending together, the mornings he had gotten out of bed early for him, Jesus didn’t care enough to even stick to the buddy system he had put in place himself. Not if there was a gaggle of drunks swaying to his words. 

Then the anger turns on him and Judas is ashamed of himself for being lulled into that sense of belonging with Jesus. He knows better. At the best of times he is still snarky and dour, people like Jesus only pretend to enjoy that. He used to be self-sufficient before Jesus, he didn’t need people. He shouldn’t have let himself need Jesus. 

Worse, he knows that Jesus wasn’t trying to hurt him. Even if Jesus is upset now that he is paying attention again, he had turned around and ignored him to console and coddle Marlene, who probably wouldn’t even remember his name in a week. Marlene was more important than him. That stings far more than being hurt out of malice. Being hurt out of negligence means he wasn’t even important enough to think about. 

He can’t need him again. Jesus is unreliable and self absorbed. No, that’s not quite right. Jesus sees Judas for who he really is. Someone he shouldn’t bother trying to save, because he’s too far gone. He’s got heaven on his mind, and Judas lives in a hell of his own creation. Fine. 

It’s a tumultuous combination of pain, shame, and, above all else, anger. There’s an absolute mess waiting for him back at camp and somehow it’s his problem to fix. He doesn’t want to grovel for Jesus’ forgiveness, any more than he wants to look Jesus in his stupid self-pitying eyes and hear him say “It’s fine you left me, I completely understand!” Everything that’s happened tonight is the direct result of Judas doing exactly what he’d been asked to do. If Jesus wants to pick a fight over it, Judas will happily brawl. 

He’d been so drained in Annas’ hotel room, but now he’s itching with pre-emptive defensiveness. He’s at a point where he’s almost hoping Jesus will be waiting for him with a condescending parable, just so he can tear into him.

Sure enough, as Annas' car pulls into the pothole riddled backstreets surrounding their camp, a familiar figure stands guard. Judas has barely slammed the door behind him when he's being pulled into a hug.

Jesus clutches him to his chest, immediately fussing. “Where did you go? Judas I’ve been so worried. Your head–” 

Judas extracts himself angrily from the embrace. “I told Matthew I was leaving. I assumed he’d talk to you.” 

The look of horror on Jesus' face tells him everything he needs to know. Matthew must have spoken to him, presumably only after he had finished giving his sermon. In his panic he might have actively dismissed Matthew when he tried to talk to him. It’s not unlikely. 

“Judas that’s not–” He looks away for a moment, sighing, “You know that’s not the point. You had a head injury, you could’ve been concussed, you could’ve got into trouble.”

Judas is so angry he feels as if his head wound is going to split itself back open. It’s one thing for Jesus to abandon him. Whatever. It’s not the first time anyone’s ever fucked up before. It’s another entirely to try and guilt Judas into an apology. An apology he won’t mean, because, no, he’s not sorry that he did something for himself instead of crawling back to his master like a loyal dog.  

“Yeah, well. I didn’t.” 

Jesus groans and the noise only serves to irritate Judas further. “This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t got so excited about the sermon. Judas, I am so sorry–”

“It’s late. I’m going to bed.” He almost leaves it at that when something petty and spiteful twists inside him. He looks at Jesus over his shoulder with a sour, pointed scowl. “I hope those drunks remember your sermon.”

Jesus flinches, deservingly shamed. “Come on, let’s get some rest. I got the tent ready ages ago. We’ll talk about it later, I’ll make some tea.”

“I’m going to pitch my tent.” Judas snipes. He leaves without bothering to see how Jesus reacts. There's no guarantee that if he looks back now he'll be able to stop himself from twisting the blade in as hard as he can.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Halfway through angrily putting his own tent up, his phone buzzes. 

[P: Rip Judas. Either died of his head injury or was killed by Jesus when he got home] 

He has to wait until the urge to march right into Peter's tent to deck him in the face has passed before he replies. It's completely sincere when he texts back, 

[J: drop dead]

Judas goes to bed but he doesn’t sleep until the sun is coming up. 

Chapter Text

His head still hurts when he wakes up mid-afternoon. He lays silently in his sleeping bag and stares at the thin tent flap for a while, letting time pass meaninglessly by before he has to get up to piss. He scowls at his pillow. Apparently his wound reopened in the night, so now he has to wash the pillowcase. Fucking marvellous. And the scab is already starting to itch, and he hasn’t washed since well before the outreach event. So now he has to shower and do laundry.

Jesus is loitering in the camp when he emerges from his tent. Just seeing the back of his head immediately pisses Judas off, and seeing his face when he turns towards him irritates him further. He approaches with guilty eyes and a well rehearsed apology on his lips. Judas pushes past him as if he isn’t there. He feels a vicious satisfaction as he does it, but immediately after he’s ashamed of himself. He doesn’t have to look back to know what Jesus’ face looks like. That’s what he wanted after all, he should feel hurt. Nonetheless, Judas feels bad for hurting him. He can’t help but think that it’s his own fault for caring so much.

It isn’t better the day after. The more he ignores Jesus, the worse he feels, and the worse he feels the harder it is to engage with Jesus, so it quickly spirals out of his control into an enticing feedback loop of feeling bad. Jesus still tries to talk to him every time their paths cross. It used to be that Judas would be happy when he did that. There’s a part of him that still responds positively when Jesus approaches and wants to hear what he has to say. But the rest of him won’t let that part have its way. Embarrassing as it is to admit to himself, he’s good at being miserable. It’s familiar, stable ground. Judas knows that at heart he’s fundamentally an arsehole. 

Jesus gives up trying to talk to him after the third day. He has one more go, and grabs Judas by his wrist so he has no choice but to acknowledge him. 

“Judas, please, what can I do to fix this?”

Judas could say something. He can feel all the emotions sitting sour in his chest, right on the verge of spilling over. But he looks at Jesus and nothing happens. Everything he might put into words complies into one messy incomprehensible wall. He couldn’t speak if his life depended on it. There’s so much and it’s gouged so deep he can’t begin the process of untangling. He might as well pull his own organs out. That would be about as easy, probably less messy. 

So he glowers over his cigarette and says, “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

And Jesus, obliging as always, leaves him alone. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The atmosphere at camp grows increasingly bleak as their silent feud goes on. Everyone knows something has happened between them. They’re not stupid. They know he’s stopped sleeping in Jesus’ tent. They can see how he’s away from camp as much, if not more, than he’s there. How he’s always one minor inconvenience away from biting someone’s head off. Most of them are (wisely) avoiding him. Those who aren’t tiptoe around him with obvious trepidation. 

The only exception is John, who corners him on the fifth day. Because John can never mind his own business, he also thinks he ought to manage Jesus’s too. Their brief, one-sided confrontation ends when John says, “Don’t you think he’s been punished enough?”  

Judas freezes, then turns back to face him, pointing at the thin red line across his forehead. It’s been a few days so he doesn’t need plasters anymore, but it’s still ugly. “Look at my face and say that again.”

John looks like he’s ready to rip him a new arsehole, but then his face shifts to pity. Prick. “At least stop punishing yourself, won’t you? Everyone can tell you miss him too.”

Judas doesn’t show how those words brought previously unknown pangs to his heart. How did John get to know him so well? John leaves and Judas stalks away to look for a sufficiently grimy dive bar. He does not succeed in getting laid that night. Even Annas is too busy for him. So instead he blacks out on cheap vodka shots and wakes up on the tube. That’s a new low. 

It gets even worse the night after when he goes out with the rest of the disciples. He doesn’t want to be around any of them, but Jesus is there, and it’s important that Jesus sees how well he’s doing. He wakes up in Annas’ bed the following morning and only remembers that they didn’t even hook up. Apparently the others called him to find out where he was, and because he was blackout, Annas answered. With everyone else on the other end of the line. He can tell by how they’re politely not looking at him. 

He has enough self-awareness to know that he’s spiralling. Breakfast doesn’t involve Jesus anymore so it slips down his priority list, back where it belongs. No amount of cigarettes burns out the ache in his chest. The only thing that helps is Annas, and it doesn’t last like it used to. He’s started texting Annas first, almost daily now. He can tell Annas is growing concerned. Ever since their brief confrontation after outreach, he’s been noticeably careful about prying into Judas’ personal life. He never asks what’s wrong directly. He still fucks Judas like he hates him. When they’re not actively shagging, though, Judas catches Annas looking him over with cautious worry, which pisses him off more, which drives him to demanding increasingly extreme handling. 

One night, when he’s feeling particularly tetchy, he asks Annas to choke him. They’re tangled in the sheets and he’s flat on his back with Annas dripping sweat as he pounds into him. It’s frantic. It’s punishing. It’s not enough. He speaks up and demands something more.

Annas slows his pace. He looks down at Judas, mid-rhythm, groaning and flushed. “Ah- What?”

Judas takes his hand and presses it against his neck. He’s never tried this before but the idea is thrilling and he already likes the feeling on his throat. “Choke me, fucking bastard.” 

“What?” Annas is too occupied by what he’s doing to reply. He grimaces with a shake of his head. 

“Ugh, forget it,” Judas scowls. Annas is still trying to read him. “Well I didn’t say slow down, did I?”

Annas rolls his eyes and picks up the pace for a few thrusts. Neither bother talking again. 

When they’ve finished their business Annas hands him a cup of water from the bedside table and wraps a blanket around his shoulders, a luxury Judas has given up trying to convince him is unnecessary. When he’s satisfied that Judas has been adequately cared for he opens the conversation and ends the precious moment of escape. “So what was that about?”

Judas drinks the whole glass before he speaks. “What?”

“You think we aren’t going to talk about how you randomly asked me to choke you back there?” Annas raises an eyebrow. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but if there’s something you’re bringing with you here, I think I should know what I’m participating in.”

“Lots of people like choking. Fuck, don’t tell me you’ve never choked anyone.” 

“Certainly not without prior discussion,” Annas snaps, almost defensively. Then he sighs, “You haven’t been yourself. That’s all.”

The comment stings in ways Judas either can’t or won’t articulate. So instead he deflects. “Don’t let Thatcher’s ghost hear you say that. She’ll revoke your Tory licence.” It’s a weak dig and he knows it.

“This isn’t really about politics, is it?” Annas gives him a look. Somewhere between scrutiny, weariness and, worst of all, pity. 

Judas stubbornly refuses to meet his eyes. “It’s nothing to do with you. Just wanted something rougher, that’s all there is to it.”

Annas frowns thoughtfully. “I’ve got some ideas for next time. I’m not going to choke you any time soon so you can take that off the table, but I can bring some things I think you’d like.”

“Sounds good.” Judas heaves himself off the bed and decides to skip the shower. He’s spent enough time here. He’ll be back again tomorrow. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

He hasn’t been counting the days, but he has managed to avoid talking to Jesus for roughly a week and a half. It’s clearly wearing on the little preacher. He looks at him like a kicked puppy any time they’re in the same area. He’s getting bags under his eyes too. Darker even than the ones Judas sees in the mirror. On more than one occasion he’s watched John passing him painkillers. The satisfaction from indulging his grudge has grown stale, now it just hurts to look at him. Their spat is hurting Judas too. He barely sleeps and he smokes almost a pack a day. Shame is an addiction that comes with companions. Maybe it’s time to move on, get a real job and a bed in a hostel. 

As soon as the thought occurs to him, Jesus is hovering in his peripheral vision. 

It’s early afternoon. Or morning, if you only woke up half an hour ago. Knowing that he can’t rely on Annas for company for at least a few more hours, Judas had planned to kill some time at the gym. It's a good place to shower and it’s an even better place to be left alone. Staying fit is probably a bonus, even if it’s one he doesn’t really care about right now.

But now Jesus is standing above him expectantly. Intruding on his plans. If he’s waiting for Judas to say something first, he’ll be waiting an awfully long time. 

Eventually Jesus ventures, “Are you going out again tonight?”

Judas pulls his trainers on as slowly as possible before grunting, “It’s not really any of your business.” 

He ignores Jesus’ audible sigh, even though it makes his blood simmer. When he stands to leave, Jesus remains in his way. He looks troubled but stubborn. It’s enough to tell Judas that he’s not going anywhere. 

Judas stares him down cooly. “If you’ve got something to say then hurry up and spit it out.” 

“I think we need to talk,” Jesus says, so earnestly it would tug on anyone’s heartstrings. “Not just about the other night.”

Judas keeps his voice level. “What’s there to say?”

“That I’m sorry?” Jesus suggests. “And we can fix this and get on with our lives? I’ve been ready, I’ve been waiting for you to come around.”

“I’m not ready,” he says stiffly between gritted teeth. 

“Well, when will you be ready?”

Judas doesn’t answer, he just shrugs sullenly instead. That should be clear enough of an answer.

Jesus’ jaw flexes. Clearly he’s managed to irritate him. Good. That should make ending things easier for both of them. “You know, I’m not the only one at fault here,” he says, quickly growing heated. “I should have stayed with you, and I’m sorry that I didn’t. I won’t do it again. But–” 

“What exactly have I done wrong?” Judas demands. It’s not a question. It’s a challenge. 

Jesus walks into the dare headfirst. “You know it isn’t easy for me when you carry on like this.” He snaps and tugs at the hem of his shirt. “Listen, Judas. You said you wanted your space. I understand that. I know I really hurt you. But we can’t do this forever. I’ve been trying to apologise-"

“Apologise for what?” Another challenge. 

“For letting you get hurt, I already said!” he retorts. “Now if you’d just let me–”

“Oh that?” Judas laughs dryly. “It doesn’t matter. Cuts nearly healed already.”

Jesus huffs indignantly. “Clearly it does or you wouldn’t be carrying on still. Really, where are you going? Don’t you know I’ve been worried about you?”

“Maybe you should save that worrying for people that can use it,” he snarks. “I’m going to the gym. Pray that I don’t pull a muscle if that will help your poor conscience.”

“I’m not stupid, Judas. I know you’re seeing him”

Something inside Judas snaps. Jesus thinks he knows everything about his personal life? Fine. He’ll tell him what he expects to hear. “Yeah, alright. You got me. I’m off to get molested behind a Tesco with my abusive boyfriend and his entire drug dealing harem.”

“Why would you do that?” he demands. “Is it really so miserable here with me?”

“Do you actually think that’s what I’m doing? Do you really think so little of me?”

“Judas.” Jesus practically growls, hands on his head in exasperation. “I don’t know what kind of demon you’ve been indulging, but I can help you. You know that I can help you! So why won’t you just get over yourself and let me in?” Jesus has raised his voice, and Judas certainly won’t be lowering his. After months of getting on, they’re finally fighting again. Nothing ever really changes.

“God, you’re stupid, do you know that?” He punctuates his words with a pointed finger. “You are naive, pushy, and a spoiled brat who won’t mind his own business and take ‘I don’t want to see you’ as an answer. You’re plenty busy with all your little crowds, you don’t need me too. Are you really so starved for attention that you need mine too?” 

And then the words are spoken and he is frightened to his core by the silence that takes their place. He’s said awful things when they fight, but nothing as bad as that. That side of him shouldn’t be here, it shouldn’t be showing itself to Jesus. It’s supposed to stay in the hotel room and leave him alone until he comes back for it, like a dog to its vomit. He never meant to treat Jesus the way Annas does him. With Annas it’s different, they’re both despicable in their own ways. Jesus isn’t made to handle ugliness like that.

Jesus takes a step back, shocked by the beast that Judas had finally failed to suppress. His jaw hangs slack and his face turns bright red as he struggles to find something to say. He might as well have slapped him across his face. There’s no response that would mend the rift he just opened. He wanted destruction, and now he has it. 

Judas can’t stand to look at Jesus. Can’t stand to look at the damage. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket.

[J: Hey. I want to see you again.] I need you. Judas pushes the thought away as soon as it rears its pathetic head. He doesn’t ‘need’ anyone, he just can’t exactly go fuck himself senseless the way Annas can.

He takes so long to text back that Judas is about to send a text calling the whole thing off when a new text box pops up.

[A: Can I take you to dinner? Just had a big win at work and I want to celebrate properly ;)] 

Judas texts back so quickly his fingers can barely type accurately. 

[J: You can do whatever you want as long as you fuck me up when you’re done.] 

Fuck me hard enough to forget what I just did. He thinks to himself. Anything to get the Jesus that lives in his head to shut the hell up for even a moment.

A few minutes later Annas texts back. 

[A: It’s a date! I’ve got reservations made at The Shard. See you soon!] Of course it’s the bloody Shard, a brand new blemish of a skyscraper that ruins the skyline. Where else would a smug rich asshat eat dinner?

Jesus is still staring at him when Judas looks up, and he only looks more upset than before. Judas doesn’t know why he holds up his phone and tells Jesus that he does have plans that night after all. Hurting Jesus makes him hurt too now. Maybe he should hurt. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The rest of the day passes in a miserable haze. Judas burns through a whole pack in the garden of some run-down pub a few streets away from camp before Annas finally, mercifully, gives him something else to think about. 

[A: Don’t forget to dress smart!] 

Judas taps his latest cigarette irritably against the ashtray. As if Annas was reasonably expecting him to rock up to the literal Shard in his ratty jeans. Although, as he mentally rummages through his limited wardrobe he realises all his nicest outfits belong to Jesus. That’s where he usually finds a formal shirt on the rare occasions he needs one. 

The trousers and black shirt he eventually settles on come from a nearby charity shop and cost him a pound fifty. On his way home he lifts a bottle of Tesco’s finest tequila, which he starts as he’s brushing his hair out. The final touch is a delicately applied layer of eyeliner. When he’s ready he props his phone in the corner of the tent to check how he looks. It’s a far cry from classy, but he’ll pass for smart. 

He has another swig of tequila before leaving his tent. Jesus is sulking by the fire and watches him walk past with a hangdog expression. Judas makes sure to stand where he can see him smoke another cigarette while he waits for Annas’ chauffeur. One more sip for good measure, just to keep the buzz going. 

When the sleek black car pulls up, looking completely at odds with the decrepit surroundings, the door opens for him from the inside. It shouldn’t be surprising that Annas is here; they’re going out for dinner, and this is his car. It makes sense. But Judas is still a little taken aback. He’s never seen the man outside the four walls of his hotel. That’s where he subsists in Judas’ mind. It’s weird having him here, so close to camp. Somehow it feels invasive.

“Good evening,” he looks Judas over, nodding approvingly. “I see you found a way to put your own spin on the dress code. It suits you.”

Judas shuffles into the seat next to him. “Oxfam’s finest.” 

“I quite like it,” Annas drapes an arm over his shoulder. “I have to be honest, I was pleasantly surprised that you messaged me first. I was thinking about properly inviting you somewhere just this morning.”

Judas makes no attempt to return the attempts at conversation, paying more attention to the faint buzz in his skull and hoping it will last through the car ride. He doesn’t have a say much besides letting off the occasional sharp tongued flirtation, something that he could probably do in his sleep. Annas chatters excitedly until they pull up outside.

“Never been anywhere this exclusive before, have you?” Annas is downright giddy as he hops out the car. He’s standing a little bit taller and there’s actually a spring in his step. 

Judas blinks at him. “I live in a tent,” he says slowly, “No shit, I’ve never been anywhere like this before.” The closest he’s come is Annas’ hotel room.

He follows Annas through the revolving glass doors and lets him lead him to the lift. The lift is crowded and the panel has an absurd array of buttons. 

The restaurant is exactly what one would expect for the trendy eyesore that dominates the London skyline. The first thing he notices is that the place is unsettlingly clean. The sleek glossy tables don’t show dents and gouges, and the floor to ceiling windows are spotless, giving occupants a flawless view of London Bridge. The last time Judas went out for a meal it was to a Wetherspoons. A man had his nose smashed in by another patron halfway through and the police turned up. Somehow, he suspects that’s probably not going to happen here. 

The well dressed host recognizes Annas and exchanges cordial greetings and small talk as he escorts them to their table. Apparently Annas is something of a regular here. While he’s distracted, Judas takes a small sip of his tequila, careful to not appear visibly inebriated. The familiar bite of cheap alcohol burning his throat grounds him in the unfamiliar and uncomfortable environment. 

Annas snaps the waiter over with his fingers.“Moët, please,” he asks, without looking up. “Bring the bottle.” 

Annas passes him the menu. It’s hand printed parchment bound in real leather, probably worth more than Judas’ entire collective inventory. Judas turns over the first page, grimacing. Just touching it feels unsavoury. 

His disdain must be palpable; Annas tilts his head at him. “Not hungry?” 

“Fifty fucking quid for a steak?” 

Annas shrugs one shoulder. “It’s an exclusive establishment.”

“You know there’s now more foodbanks in the UK than McDonald’s? You know how many people- children- live below the poverty line? And you’re all up here in your ivory towers eating caviar.” Annas doesn’t bat an eye, so Judas keeps prodding for a reaction. “Yeah. That’s pretty fucking disgusting if you ask me.” 

Annas purses his lips and frowns thoughtfully. “Poverty doesn’t exist because I’m eating caviar, and it’s not going to stop if I decide to buy dinner in Tesco instead.” 

Judas doesn’t have the intellectual capacity or emotional restraint to refute Annas without simply resorting to calling him a wanker, so he sourly backs down. He’s contemplating refusing to eat anything altogether when Annas puts his own menu down.     

“You can sit there all night protesting if you like, but I’m having the veal with the saffron sauce. You’re welcome to have whatever you like, including nothing.” 

Veal. Jesus would be absolutely beside himself. Judas only knows what veal is because he’d listened to an emotional ramble from him once about the “inherent exploitation permeating all levels of the meat industry” and “have you ever looked a calf in the eyes? They know what’s going to happen, I’m sure of it.” Actually, animal cruelty had been the last thing they talked about at outreach before-

Judas forces himself to look at the menu instead of finishing that thought. “Fine. I’ll have the…” He scans the list of exorbitant dishes, looking for something he’s at least heard of before. “Fettuccine Alfredo.” 

“Right.” Annas snaps the waiter back over, relaying their order with an even colder level of curtness than before. Once the man has walked away, he turns his attention back to Judas. “Tell me, does the chip on your shoulder not start to get tedious after a while?”

Judas gives him a challenging, mean kind of look. “Yeah sorry, Your Highness, but I don’t feel like explaining my shit to you. I’ve seen where you stay- sorry, I’ve seen your second penthouse home at the top of your hotel, and-"

“And I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and my father was a member of the House of Lords. Of course,” Annas cuts him off. He’s not looking at Judas, focusing instead on the inside of his wine glass. 

Judas raises an eyebrow. “What? Upset because it’s true?”

“Not that it matters, but, no. I grew up on a council estate in Yorkshire. My mother was a seamstress and a housekeeper and my father worked in a factory.”

Judas stares at him blankly, not sure what to do with that information. “You never mentioned that.”

At Judas’ obvious surprise, he shrugs one shoulder. “You never asked.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.” And he means it. He’s not easily shocked. Annas has assimilated into his position so perfectly. Judas really had believed he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. If Annas’ father had been the bloody prime minister he’d have been less surprised.   

“Fuck,” he’s too confused to speak for a long second. “How do you grow up like that and end up a Tory?”

Annas tilts his head, somewhat affronted yet gracious. “I’m not ashamed of where I’m from, Judas.” He looks him right in the eyes and looks self satisfied without looking smug. “But I’m not ashamed of where I am, either.”

“No, I mean it. How did you get from a council estate in Yorkshire to champagne at the fucking Shard?” 

“My parents thought it was important for me to get a decent education. So I was sent to private school, and we didn’t have much else.”

Judas rocks back in his seat, arms folded over his chest. “And then you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps and made an honest living. That’s sweet.” 

Annas laughs politely and shifts in his seat slightly uncomfortably. “You say that like it was easy for us. It wasn’t. They made a lot of sacrifices for me, and now I support them. We managed, but it wasn’t easy for me either. Being working class and gay, couldn’t really hide either of those from my classmates.” He taps his fork thoughtfully, “But I am the only person from that school who can afford to book dinner in the Shard with only a few hours' notice, so it can’t have done me too much harm.” 

Against his will, Judas’ own memories of school encroach on the edges of his mind. He looks away from Annas. “Yeah. It doesn’t work out for all of us though.” It’s strange. After all these years, just thinking about school prompts the feelings of bitterness to resurface. 

“Oh?” Annas prompts. He refills Judas’ wine glass and looks at him expectantly. 

“Private school and gay,” he looks back at Annas. He expects a comment on his raging hypocrisy, and then he could defend himself by launching into the long boring tale of how a young man from a nice middle-class background ended up homeless, estranged, and with a criminal record. 

But Annas doesn’t seem angry, just surprised and interested. He seems to be expecting Judas to elaborate.

“What, did you think I was born tatted and chain smoking?” he remarks dryly. 

“You never mentioned anything. I didn’t make any assumptions though. I was hoping I could get to know you better tonight.”

Judas can’t find anything to provoke him in that so he takes another sip of his drink. It’s too weird to think about how they got here. 

Annas doesn’t seem to mind his awkwardness or his reticence. He’s also classy enough to not to pry further, or at least satisfied with what he’s got. “Well. We have that in common at least.” 

As he says it, the waiter reappears and stands expectantly with two plates in hand. “The veal is mine,” Annas says cooly, then looks to Judas. “What did you say you were having again?”

Judas rolls his eyes and addresses the waiter directly, “Fettuccini Alfredo. Thank you.”

The waiter nods crisply, departing as quickly as he’d arrived. 

“Really?” Annas raises an eyebrow. “You could have that anywhere. This place is famous for its steaks.” 

“Yeah, if you like baby calf steaks,” Judas snipes, “I got the fancy fucking pasta and it’s overpriced to hell and back, and you’re going to pay for it.”

Annas laughs, unphased, “Trying for some punishment already, are we?”

Judas shrugs. “Never too early to get started.”

They settle into a banter that’s much more comfortable than reliving their respective school days. It’s easier to keep it sexual. It feels more like them. 

The discussion naturally slows now that the food has been brought out. It’s good, obscenely so. The fettucine is fresh pasta, obviously made in house, and there’s a strange affectation to the sauce which Annas (after sticking his own fork in to try it) tells him is truffle. 

Afterwards, while Annas is distracted eyeing up the dessert menu, Judas eyes up the cutlery. There’s four forks, three knives, and two spoons for some reason. All real silver though. He could definitely slip the smallest fork up his coat sleeve. Maybe hide the soup spoon in his inside pocket. He glances surreptitiously at the surrounding staff. Despite the fancy embellishments, they look just as harried as any ordinary hospitality workers. Judas rubs a hand over his beard and reaches out casually with the other. 

“They will notice if you take that,” interrupts Annas. Judas startles, but he doesn’t sound at all bothered. He hasn’t even looked up from behind the dessert menu. “It might be expensive here,” he continues nonchalantly, “But they’re not above counting the spoons. That’s real silver you know.” 

Judas struggles to find his voice, “I wasn’t-"

Annas raises an eyebrow over the top of the menu. “Yes you were.”  

A stalemate ensues for a fraction of a second. 

“You knew,” Judas half laughs, half sighs. Of course Annas knew. 

Annas looks at him wryly. “Yes, I knew. It’s pretty difficult to miss when someone’s taken everything that isn’t nailed down.” 

Judas leans back in his seat, folding his arms back over his chest. “So why not say something?” 

Annas frowns as if it’s obvious. “You said it yourself, you live in a tent. Besides, it makes very little difference to me. But that,” he nods at the silverware. “That will get us both banned. I don’t particularly want to be blacklisted from my favourite restaurant.” He slides the menu to Judas. “Dessert?” 

Judas finishes off his wine as he sarcastically peruses the menu. “Ooh, let’s pay a hundred quid for a single slice of chocolate cake.” 

Annas looks at his own menu. “It’s only thirty?”

Judas scoffs. What a caricature. “No. I’m done.”

“Yes, I think I might be as well.” Annas lays the menu down with a conspiratorial smile. “Besides, I’ve still got plans for what else I might want to eat tonight. Should we say.” He giggles childishly at his own joke. 

It takes Judas far too long to catch on to his meaning. “Well that’s awfully fucking presumptuous.” He’s not prudish by any stretch of the imagination, but he can feel his face heating up. Hearing Annas allude to such an intimate act, even in euphemism,  has him uncharacteristically embarrassed. 

Annas laughs again and looks quite pleased with himself. “The offer stands. Although, you haven’t got much to eat anyway.” 

Judas fixes him with a pointed stare. “If you don’t stop, I’m walking out and I’m going home.”

Still, it doesn’t stop Annas from getting handsy with his (apparently insufficient) arse when they’re in the lift. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Judas had assumed that they would be going to the hotel as usual, but the route is different this time. He almost doesn’t notice, Annas has been distracting him quite effectively in the back seat. As soon as the privacy screen is up his hands are on his leg and they ease into their usual tango.

“I do have some surprises in mind.”

“You are not eating my arse.”

“Of course not, darling,” Annas purrs. He grazes a hand over his chest. “I can do a lot more than that.”

Judas drapes an arm over his shoulder and pulls him closer. “Well, I hope you’re not planning on going to sleep after all that food. I only went to that ugly skyscraper because you promised to wreck me.”

Annas slides a hand under his chin and lifts it up. Judas allows access with ease. “I always keep my promises,” Annas says with his lips nearly touching Judas’ ear. Then he dips his head and marks his neck to prove his point.

The car rolls to a stop and the doors click unlocked. Annas steps out and offers a hand when Judas doesn’t get out.

“What is this?” he demands.  

“It’s my flat. I don’t live in a hotel after all,” Annas makes it sound like he’s inviting him to an ordinary flat and not a gaudy spectacle of a high rise that just so happened to allow people to live there.

“Of course, how stupid of me. I should have known you actually live in a bloody castle.”

Annas grins at him and pulls him out of the vehicle. “Better than a castle if you ask me.”

An ordinary lock and key simply would not do for London’s most elite, certainly not. Only the latest in electronic security locks for these tenants. It even chimes a pleasant melody when Annas swipes his keycard. 

“Hello, Princess!” 

The ugliest cat Judas has ever seen comes meowing out and marches right up to Annas, purring loudly as she sheds long, multicoloured fur all over his trousers. Annas drops to his knees and immediately starts coddling her, cooing about how he missed her all day. It’s strange that this is the same man Judas has been seeing all this time. Then she stares at Judas, her eyes narrow with suspicion. She doesn’t approach him and he doesn’t extend a hand for her to inspect. After a moment of mutual discomfort she turns up her nose and stalks away to lurk beneath furniture. 

Annas laughs and sets his shoes on a shelf. “She doesn’t care much for strangers, or the housekeeping staff. I think I’m the only person she actually likes. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll get us something to drink.” Annas goes to his sleek kitchen and leaves Judas to his own devices in the living room.

Judas slowly paces around the place and notices how he’s gotten less shocked by opulence. Luxury items that used to be foreign to him now have names and functions.

His eyes settle on a small, framed photograph sitting on the coffee table and he has to take a closer look to believe his eyes. It’s a family on a holiday. Annas is beaming out at him from behind the pristine glass. He’s wearing cargo shorts, of all things, and his arm is wrapped around a blonde woman’s waist. And he has a son, and they’re all posed in front of a sand castle on the seaside. The little window into an outside world turns the flat into a liminal space. 

“You could have told me I’m a homewrecker, I don’t care,” he says a bit snidely when Annas returns.

“What are you talking about?”

Judas shows him the picture. “Your wife’s hot, does she know about this?”

Annas nearly doubles over with mirth. “That’s my mum and dad.” He points at a teenage boy sporting a tee shirt with an edgy logo, a home cut mohawk, and more smudged eyeliner than one would think possible. And to tie it all together he’s proudly holding up a battered skateboard, even though one of his wrists is set in a heavily autographed cast and his grin sports a chipped tooth. “That’s me.”

And he goes to pour Judas a drink as if he hasn’t just shattered the illusion that he has been a bland looking man in a suit since birth. 

Judas doesn’t know what to make of this. He never thought of Annas as the sort of person who had ever been a rebellious, countercultural teenager. But it makes sense that a gay, private schooled kid would be drawn to counterculture, just like he had in his own youth. And his parents are right there standing by him, supporting him just like he said they had over dinner. They’re a real family made of real people. The ordinary holiday photo suddenly feels uncomfortably intimate. He wishes they were in the hotel room again.

“Is your dad an ass man too?” he asks weakly.

Annas takes the photo out of his hand and replaces it with a glass of champagne. “That’s enough talk about family for tonight.” He drapes an arm on the back of the couch and turns on the tv. The low budget sci-fi show only makes the exorbitant flat feel more out of place. “I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable, bringing you here.”

Judas downs the drink and helps himself to another glass of champagne. Real champagne, from actual Champagne, France. “‘s no big deal,” he mumbles stiffly. His fingers are twitching for a cigarette right now. The lingering buzz in his skull isn’t enough. He needs more alcohol, or nicotine, anything that will occupy his threadbare nerves. He stares at a framed photo on the wall of Annas shaking the hand of a wealthy Roman judge he’s seen on the news. He vaguely remembers Annas mentioning a bar mitzvah at some point. Seeing him fraternising with Pontius Pilate is unsettling and confusing. 

Annas smiles at him and scoots closer, even though he has a whole sofa’s worth of spots he could be sitting at. “Are you sure? You seem tense,” he asks, heavy eyebrow scrunched over deep set grey eyes. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” 

Judas shrugs, so Annas runs his hands over his shoulders.

“You’re always so highly strung.” He digs his fingers in a little, feeling the knots of stress Judas always carries with him.  

Judas groans and leans into the touch. It’s exactly what he’s been needing. “You have no idea.” 

“May I?” Annas’ hand moves to gently caress his throat. Judas obliges and rolls his head aside. He tenses his fingers around Judas’ neck and rolls them in tight circles. His touch is light, nowhere near enough to interfere with his air supply. Nonetheless, Judas’ breath hitches. 

Annas pushes his hair aside and trails his fingers down the vicious looking blotches he left in the car. His hands are soft yet firm as he smooths the knots in his shoulders. Judas forgets himself and relaxes into his grip. After the day he’s had, he can allow someone to take care of him for a moment. Just a moment. He’ll be aching and bruised again before long. He allows his eyes to slide closed, if only to avoid seeing the very self satisfied look on Annas’ face in the edges of his vision. 

He shivers when a rough fingertip brushes the sensitive spot beneath his ear. The sound of hands on skin makes his problems melt away and he leans back against Annas.

Then his heart jumps into his throat. Annas’ fingers don’t have calluses. His eyes fly open and he slips out from underneath his hands. He smiles at him, but he knows it’s a bit shaky. He forces himself to take a steady breath and puts a hand on Annas’ chest. “How about you show me your bedroom?”

At first glance Annas’ room is exactly what one would expect. One-way glass windows let in natural light and a perfect view of London. Judas is certain that if he looks he could spot the camp. Fancy furniture, minimalist light fixtures, hardwood floors and a shag rug. Judas knows that can’t be all there is to it. A second glance and he notices the strategic placement of rigging equipment. Anything that could be construed as phallic has been shaped like an oversized erect penis, including the bedposts. Leather goods hang shamelessly on the walls, which gives Judas reason to suspect that the elegant trunk sitting open at the foot of the bed contains even more toys. Condoms and an expensive looking bottle of lubricant are already laid out on the bed. Classy.

Judas stares slackjawed and incredulous, but maybe that is what he should have expected from a proud pervert with fuck-you money. Annas smirks as he watches Judas’ reaction. “See anything you like?”

Judas settles on a red silk rope. It’s the first thing he sees in the trunk. Annas nods approvingly. “Remember when you said you weren’t a sub?” he teases. 

Judas rolls his eyes. He’s humoured Annas long enough, it’s time to get what he came here for. “I want you to tie me up. I want you to make sure I can’t move. And then I want you to fuck me in the arse as hard as you possibly can. I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t think. Can you do that for me?” If he can’t, nobody can.

Annas practically purrs, his smile is so incorrigibly catlike. “Safe word is red,” he reminds him.

Judas rolls his eyes. A reminder of how important it is to know his limits and be responsible. How original. “Yeah, obviously I’m not going to forget that.”

Annas weaves the ropes around his body with the skill of a master craftsman. He sticks the tip of his tongue out while he’s concentrating on particularly difficult knots. Judas waits patiently, following instructions without a fuss for once. Anything to get the job done faster. When he’s finished, Judas is kneeling on the foot of the bed. His legs are crossed at the ankles and his hands are strung up over his head. The remaining length of rope has been crossed across his chest to fashion an elegant makeshift harness that holds steady when Annas tugs on it.

Annas steps back and looks approvingly at his handiwork, as if he’s a work of erotic art he’s considering adding to his collection. “Darling,” he crows. “You were made to wear silk.”

He runs his hands over his body, light and teasing. He moves so tantalisingly slowly it makes Judas’ brain itch.

“Would you hurry up?” he complains.

Annas smiles at him, and this time it is cruel and exciting. He always has that look on his face when he’s about to surprise him with something new. His hands skim down his chest and then he pinches his nipples and twists hard. His mouth drops open and his eyes roll back; his nerves continue to pulse long after Annas releases him. “I’m not done yet,” he says simply. 

Judas gasps and lets Annas do whatever he wants to him as slowly as he likes. His soul flew out of him for a moment, leaving him just a body with uncomplicated hurt to demand his attention. He revels in his own helplessness. He’s never felt pain that intense before. It’s perfect. 

Annas presses their mouths together again, flicking dizzying little patterns on his lips with his tongue while he pulls his hair. Judas groans loudly, spurring him on for more. Right when both of them are beginning to moan obscenely, Annas pulls away and disappears behind him. “You’ve been exceptionally well behaved today. I think I’d like to reward that.”

Apparently Judas has not earned the privilege of seeing Annas disrobe in his own home. He reappears completely nude and carries himself like a rather small lion planning to play with its food. He pulls him close by the harness and trails kisses down his body that make him groan shamelessly. He rolls his hips into him and Judas can feel that they are both already getting hot and hard. 

Judas closes his eyes to feel the sensations more acutely. He feels hands tracing over his tattoos and squeezing at his biceps, then creeping down his stomach to his crotch. Annas must be feeling generous, he takes the opportunity to wrap his hands around him and stroke him until he is fully erect and leaking. 

“You’re tight,” he observes after he slides a finger between his cheeks to inspect him.

“I didn’t prep myself this time.”

Annas hums and puts a hand on the soft part of his belly; Judas is reminded again of the vulnerability of the position he has put himself in. “Not a problem, darling. I’ll take care of that.”

Judas finds himself once again simply enjoying how Annas takes care of him. There’s no pain at all, only pressure at his entrance that quickly vanishes in pleasure as he slips in his fingers and gently pries him open. Judas had always assumed that Annas wouldn’t know how to stretch a man out. It doesn’t fit the image in his head of the selfish brute he’s been seeing. His finger crooks in just such a way and Judas’s vision goes black. A stuttery little gasp slips from his lips, a sound much softer and more real than he usually makes. Annas clearly knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Judas pushes back against him. “That’s enough.” 

Judas asked Annas to fuck him hard enough to forget, and that is exactly what Annas does. With so many brutalising sensations demanding his attention, it’s easier than ever to shut everything else out. He sinks into a surreal world of wandering hands carving his ribs, ropes that press into his flesh with every thrust, and his own heartbeat throbbing through his heavy cock. Arms wrap around his body and a hand rests right over his heart. He’s sure it can feel how it strains to beat out of its cage.

Only, it isn’t Annas’ hands that he’s feeling. The hands are large and calloused. And even though his eyes are screwed shut, he sees a face in front of him. 

It’s Jesus’s face, first adoring and sultry, as if it’s him knelt behind him. Then his face changes and he’s shocked – betrayed. He’s crying.

He’s crying over him. The real Jesus is probably just as devastated right now.

“Twist–” he gasps between gritted teeth. “Twist my nipples again,” he barely hears himself say, but Annas gets the message.

Blinding pain courses through his body and for the first time ever Judas screams. It works. The image is gone and he’s panting like an animal. 

Annas stops moving and holds him a little tighter, his thumb pressing little circles into his hips. “Good?” 

Judas nods, his throat hurts too much to answer with words.

Annas briefly presses his lips to his neck and resumes thrusting, gentler this time. It makes Judas want to cry. “Harder,” he sobs– no. He begs. He’s begging now. 

Instead of giving what he asked for, Annas drops a hand down to his weeping cock and closes his fingers around it. Judas is so hard it hurts and he chokes back another sob. He knows this is almost over and he doesn’t want what’s waiting for him on the other side. 

Annas runs his hand to the spot he knows is the most sensitive. He knows his weaknesses and he knows exactly how to use them against him. 

He tries to hold it in, tries to fight for more time, but in less than a minute he spills on his hand and that’s it. He goes totally limp, letting his weight hang from the ropes while Annas continues fucking him into oblivion. He focuses on the dizziness pounding in his skull, chases the euphoria as far as it can take him. He knows it’s all over now.

Annas sounds like he’s exhausted. He’s gentle now, tender even. The image of Jesus flashes in front of Judas’s eyes again, though this time they aren’t closed. He hangs his head and lets it stay down this time. Lets Jesus fuck him in his mind.

Annas gasps, “Judas, fuck.” He clings to Judas and trembles against him while he comes down, pressing his lips to everything he can easily reach. Judas feels his heartbeat slow down against his shoulder and quietly waits for him to pull out.

When his heart slows down Annas comes around front with a warm washcloth and hooks a finger under his chin, gently forcing him to look up at him. Judas looks at him with a dull, glassy stare. Annas’ eyes crinkle at the corner as he cleans the sweat and cosmetics off his cheeks. He forgets to put the cruelty in his smile. 

Then he unties Judas, catches him when he drops like a rag doll, and eases him down to the plush mattress. He works his legs out from under him and steals the throbbing pain from his shaky knees and calves. Judas lets him massage the tension out of his arms; he just slumps forward and stares blankly ahead as Annas soothes his body and speaks quietly in his ear saying something that sounds like it might be praise if he tried to process it. When he starts to shiver, Annas wraps a heavy blanket around him and props him up on silk pillows.

And he kisses him.

He’s never done that. 

It’s soft and tender. There’s none of the usual methodical roughness with which the man usually treats him. He just looks at Judas, and then gently cups his chin and draws their lips together. And when he pulls away he smiles, and for the first time in his life Judas looks in a man’s eyes and sees stars staring back at him. “Darling, how about you stay the night? I could make us breakfast in the morning.”

His blood runs cold as everything falls into place. Now he understands what’s going on. He knows why Annas took him out to dine in a public place, why he brought him into his home, why he just kissed him like that.

For whatever insane, fucked up reason Judas can’t possibly begin to fathom, Annas likes him. He actually wants him. 

He isn’t supposed to do that. Nobody should ever do that. Annas must be stupid, naive or both if he can’t see that. Judas is meant for rough handling and brief, ill-advised flings. Nobody should ever cradle his face, kiss him like a lover, and look at him like that.

It’s unnatural. It’s wrong.  It’s the sort of thing that can break him beyond recovery.

“I have to go,” Judas blurts.

“Oh.” Annas sounds disappointed and Judas feels a twist of guilt as he throws off the blanket and pulls on his clothes with shaking hands. He knows better than to look back. Maybe that’s why he does it, and he sees how Annas has shrunk in on himself. 

“Where are you going?” he asks, heavy brows furrowed in confusion. He looks like a kicked puppy. He’s not the first person to look at Judas like that today. 

Judas fumbles for a lie. “I um. My shift at the soup kitchen is starting.”

Annas looks at the ornate clock on the wall. “At one in the morning?”

“Yeah, we uh. I have to make the bread. It needs to rise so…” 

“Maybe I could visit some time?”

“No.” Judas all but runs out the door, shirt backwards and boots on the wrong feet. The laces slap noisily as he searches for the lift and hurries out to the streets. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

He’s been walking for almost a quarter of an hour before he even realises he doesn’t know where he is or which way he’s going. It’s a part of London he’s never been to before. Made up of identical chic high rise blocks of flats, boring down onto the streets below, making it impossible to know where you’ve been and where you haven’t. 

Judas stumbles blindly in the vague direction of home, only distantly searching for an underground station or bus stop. He can’t focus, can’t think. He’s a nervous smoker by nature but the rain is lashing down in icy sheets, keeping him from falling back on his most consistently stabilising coping mechanism. Without that distraction he can’t help returning to the way Annas had pulled him in gently. How he’d looked at him with nothing less than complete adoration. How long has he been looking at him like that? Judas replays as many of their encounters as he can remember with a terrifying new context. He imagines Annas’ eyes raking over his body. Not glazed over with lust but with affection. 

It doesn’t feel good. It makes Judas feel filthy. When people like Annas treat him like dirt he knows how to sling it right back in their faces. What on earth is he meant to do with Annas’ love? He can’t give Annas something that he simply doesn’t have, something he isn’t capable of feeling. He doesn’t know how to love anybody properly, let alone someone who has never wanted for anything. The realisation that Judas has somehow convinced him he is someone who could be a part of his life hurts more than words can express. 

Roiling guilt, shame, and disgust at his own inability to know his limits consumes every part of him. He should’ve seen this coming and he should’ve cut it down before it even started. Stupid, reckless people get into situations like this. What kind of an irresponsible moron manages to lead on a Tory?

He crashes shoulders with another passer-by. Then again. And again. Each one leaves him progressively more rattled. By the time he reaches the outskirts of camp he’s not even sure how he made it back. The journey is a complete blur.  

And then, between his personal bit of scaffolding and the back of the Smoking Hog pub, the last straw lands on his back. Nestled on the road is a small rickety newsagents. The most recent headline sits out the front in a little metal frame. It’s dark, but the familiar face on the front page has him instantly recoiling. For a moment he doubts that it’s even real. 

“Caiaphas Unseats Cameron: Unexpected Leadership Win for Underdog MP”

The Twelve haven’t kept up with the party leadership conferences because they’ve long decided it doesn’t matter. No matter who’s in power the policies stay the same and the people continue to suffer. It’s just the same strain of repression with a different face. 

Only, this face is one Judas knows. Caiaphas may be a stranger, but the man stood beside him, labelled by the paper as “Loyal Deputy Annas” is sickeningly familiar. 

Judas stops, absolutely frozen. It’s as if the entire world has been upended on top of him. All those blindingly obvious hazard signs- the ones he’d completely brushed past in his stupid stubborn attempts to be provocatively indifferent- reverberate in his ears. 

“The stock- what exactly do you think I do for a living?” 

Shit.  

His stomach twists as he sees Annas’ proud face in the paper again and remembers seeing his profile. At some point “he’ll do for tonight” shifted to “see you next time.” When had he started looking forward to getting a message from him? Was he? Had he felt–

He feels filthy, like he’s been rotted from the inside out. Before he’s even sure what’s happening, he’s bracing himself against the nearest lamppost and vomiting the remnants of the Fettucine Alfredo and the indecently expensive champagne. 

It isn’t like he’s falling for Annas. He’s frivolous and shallow, and he’s been using Judas too hasn’t he? He must have been, nothing else makes sense. But that doesn’t make sense either, not after how he had kissed him. Not after how he had fussed for the past week. 

He hears a familiar voice above the rain and despite their fight he can’t help but feel relief. “Maybe you’re right, I don’t know. It’s not a good time to bring it up, it’s only been a couple of hours. I just- I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Jesus laments. The footsteps stop with a scuff. “… John, I have to go. Yeah, I’ll call Auntie Elizabeth about the passport. Yeah, bye.”

The lash of rain recedes as an umbrella appears over his head and a gentle hand moves his wet hair away from his face. Judas allows the moment to linger. This can’t be Jesus, his mind must be playing tricks on him. But there he is, solid and real. Judas takes a moment to breathe before he waves Jesus off a little so he can stand back up properly. 

And then they’re staring at each other. Unusually lost for words, Jesus opens his mouth, frowns, and tries to start. “Are you… well. Clearly you’re not okay,” his voice trails off, “Judas, I didn’t…” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, rubs it against his jeans as he tries to find something to say, and then sets it on Judas’ shoulder. The warm weight is an unspeakable comfort. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He asks. His voice is sure and kind.

Judas nods. He just wants some hot tea, clean clothes, and to not be alone or criticised. There’s not much point pretending he isn’t at the lowest point Jesus has ever seen. He doesn’t even want to pretend anymore. 

He props his umbrella up on his shoulder and slips his hand into Judas’ so he can pull him to his feet. They walk back to the camp side by side and hand in hand. Judas’ mind has gone completely numb to everything but the rain falling on the umbrella and the gentle but firm pull of Jesus’ hand leading him home.

When they get to the kitchen tent Jesus puts the mini heat lamp on next to him so Judas can warm up a bit, and the warm glow lights up the tent enough for them to see. Judas sits in his usual tattered chair at the table and Jesus busies himself in the kitchen once he’s fetched a towel and a white hoodie with a pale blue hood for him to change into. 

“I can’t find the mint,” he complains, moving pots and pans around with a noisy clatter.  

Judas can’t help but smile. Jesus always wants fresh mint when he makes tea, so he tries to keep a plant around. Problem is, gardening is the one thing he can’t do. The disciples have been taking turns replacing the dead plants before he notices. 

Eventually Jesus gives up and brings the tea without any herbal additions. For a moment they sit in silence and sip their tea, sitting across from each other at the table. 

“Bad luck, that rain,” Jesus says with a weak smile. “I think it’s forecast to ease off tomorrow morning, but-"

Judas cuts him off. It’s probably very rude, especially since Jesus is extending hospitality and an olive branch for the hundredth time. An olive branch he knows he doesn’t deserve, but one Jesus is determined to offer freely anyway.

It shouldn’t be free. Jesus deserves better from him. “I’ve been an arsehole.” Good start. “I’m sorry.” 

“You haven’t,” says Jesus, just a little too quickly. 

Judas gives him a faint smile, raising an eyebrow. 

“Ok, maybe. But only because I left you. And you needed me. I can’t imagine what it must have-"

Judas cuts him off again, averting his gaze with embarrassment, “No, it’s ok. I was mad at you and obviously it was a shit thing to do but.” He fidgets with his keffiyeh, still tucked away in his pocket, as his heart rate inexplicably picks up. “I don’t know. I don’t even think I was really mad. It was more complicated than that. I was…”

Even though Jesus is looking at him with patient expectation, the words just don’t seem to form. 

He shrugs, “I don’t know. Was just being an arsehole. I get so in my head. I think I was more angry at myself than anything.” It sounds stupid outloud. 

Jesus nods, though, slow and encouraging, as if Judas is making sense. 

So he tries to go on, “And I’ve had some. I don’t know, some other shit going on.” 

Jesus nods and listens, hands neatly folded. He knows he’s been wondering what he’s been up to for a long time by now. He can’t keep talking to Jesus and look at him properly, so he fixes his eyes on his half empty mug instead.

It’s deathly humiliating. Even thinking about putting it into words makes him flush. But they’re here now. Besides, it’s not as if telling Jesus can make it any worse. He might as well rip the plaster off. 

“A couple of months ago I,” he scrubs his face with a wince. “I met this bloke.” 

So Judas tells him everything. Not in gory detail, just the facts. He met a wealthy hookup at a fancy hotel. A one night stand became an ongoing arrangement. Hooking up with him made Judas feel more in control of himself, enough control to be likeable, so he kept doing it. The man was everything wrong with the world in a suit, but he came to him willingly. He stops just shy of the events of this evening.

Jesus leans over the table, eyes glowing in the lamp light as he listens. Only after Judas has quietened does he tentatively ask, “Was he hurting you?” 

The question doesn’t upset Judas like it did before. 

“No. Nothing more than what I asked him to do.” Judas shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “You know me, I like a good row. Same thing, but with sex. He was. I don’t know, nice, I guess.” It’s not a lie. He shifts awkwardly as he finally reflects on their relationship with a clear head.

“Yeah.. he was nice. Not just to me, I think he’s actually a nice guy. He let me steal shit from his hotel and didn’t even say anything. I only found out tonight that he was covering for me. Crashed at his place drunk off my arse and he wasn’t even mad.”

He heaves a sigh and rubs a sting from his eyes, “Yeah. No, he never hurt me.” 

Jesus sits silently for a moment, then gets up to pour himself another cup of tea. He sits down beside him and takes a long, thoughtful sip.  “I still don’t really understand it. But I want to. And I trust you.” Those words alone cut the remaining tension. It’s honest. He’s always so honest. “So what happened tonight?” 

“I. Fuck, I really fucked up. I found out he’s important, really important.” 

Jesus reaches over the table to squeeze his hand. “Who is he?”

Judas scrubs his free hand over his face. “The new Prime Minister’s deputy.” 

“Oh.” Jesus starts to raise his mug to his lips, then sets it back down and tilts his head. “Sorry, what?"

Judas buries his face in his hands and groans. “I know. Fuck.” Jesus looks at him with increasing bewilderment. “I thought he was just a rich arsehole with a chain of overpriced hotels. I feel so fucking stupid,” he flops his head on the table.

Jesus pets his back. “It’s going to be ok.” Judas makes a discontented grumble but doesn’t brush him off. “It is!” he insists with a warm smile in his voice and finds his hands. “We can sort it out together.” 

Judas lifts his head off the table and looks at Jesus. He’s got a smile on his face, the one that makes him want to throw everything aside and stay by his side forever. The one that says “I see you. You’re alright.” Without even thinking, he pulls Jesus in for a hug. He’s so warm and firm, and he returns the embrace fiercely. Even after everything, they fit together just perfectly. It feels good. Right. Everything can be mended between them again.

Jesus cradles his head with his familiar, calloused hands. Judas can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Bed?” 

Judas pulls away only a little bit reluctantly. “Yeah, let me go get my stuff.” Then he hesitates, suddenly doubting his forgiveness, “If you’re ok with that.”

Jesus’ sigh makes it clear he had nothing to worry about. “Please. I missed sleeping next to you.” 

“Yeah, me too.” 

Jesus gets a mischievous look on his face. On him it’s cute, teasing even. “I didn’t miss your snoring.”

“Mine? Sure. I’m definitely the problem."

They tuck into bed and banter lightly, both quickly succumbing to the exhaustion of the day. They’re practically clinging to each other on the twin sized air mattress, facing each other instead of spooning this time. It’s a lot nicer than the pile of laundry Judas has been putting his sleeping bag on. He did not think he would find himself here at the end of the day.

It isn’t lost on Judas how intimate their position is, limbs entwined in a way that is hardly typical for men who are strictly friends. Jesus’ head is tucked beneath his chin, and he hums happily every once in a while. It satisfies the last gnawing demon that has kept him up the past several nights. Whatever it is that they have, he finds peace in it.  

He can’t let the night end without being sure Jesus understands. He props himself up on his elbow, getting serious again. “I am sorry," says Judas. “I mean it.”

Jesus smiles at him, sleepy and content. “So am I. So now we’re even.” 

Judas smiles back, until his lips falter. “We do this a lot, don’t we?” 

Jesus burrows further under the blankets. “We can get better, I know we can. We hate fighting, we’ll figure it out. Until then, I’m going to sleep in.” 

Jesus really is the most persuasive man alive, because Judas actually believes him. He can’t help but grin and tease in return. “You? Sleeping in? I thought I’d never see the day.”

Jesus cuddles closer and doesn’t answer. He squeezes Judas one last time, then turns off the lantern.

Chapter Text

Judas squints out over the small stone harbour, shielding his eyes from the rising sun flashing off the crests of the waves. The air smells like warm flowers and fresh salt. It’s a little cold. It’s nice.

They’d left London a month ago, shortly after Judas’ last encounter with Annas. 

Reluctant as he is to admit it, there’s still a soreness there. Not because Judas misses him. God, no. He can’t when he has Jesus’ undivided attention every morning, night, and sometimes in between. There’s too much of Jesus for there to be an absence of Annas. Even the extra time he should have now that he isn’t travelling to and from the hotel just melts seamlessly into his new routine with Jesus. It’s almost as if it never happened at all. 

Nonetheless, when he thinks about it for too long he feels that all too familiar sting of shame building in his chest. He’s sure he hurt Annas. He can hate that he let himself get reeled in by a Tory, and still feel bad for the man that he hurt, even if he doesn’t want to. With time and distance he can see how he might have left things on a far less sour note. But then, he wonders if it matters at all. He’ll almost certainly never see Annas again. 

Besides, Annas has enough money to fill whatever void Judas might have left. He won’t have any trouble finding someone else to take his place. Judas wasn’t even the only man he’d been seeing, Annas had mentioned frequenting highly discreet clubs.

Next to Judas, Jesus closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He looks better, Judas notes. They’d stayed with Lazarus for a handful of days before travelling here, and Jesus had had another one of his episodes, which had left him almost bedridden in Lazarus’ guest room. Co-codamol had not helped like it had before, so Judas had stayed with him the entire time, wondering how the hell he’d managed to leave him like this the last time it happened. 

The group agreed that the episode was most likely stress induced. Sleeping in tents in the middle of London is exhausting, and sharing a house, even one as spacious and comfortable as Lazarus’ mansion, is, up to a point, maddening. And it’s not home. Judas himself isn’t particularly attached either which way to that concept, but he can see how the others become homesick after too long on the road. They miss their own beds, and their wives and children. Some of them are young enough to miss their parents and siblings. 

So The Twelve had agreed to take a sabbatical and reconvene at a later date. Jesus had invited Judas to come with him to stay at his Auntie Elizabeth’s house. For now it’s just the two of them, and Judas can’t remember the last time he has been so relaxed. He actually feels content. The cool, salty breeze and gentle lapping of the tide makes even the bickering seagulls fade into a comfortable ambiance. 

In tune with his thoughts, Jesus turns to him. “I always forget how nice it is here. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” he says with a blissful little curve on his lips.

“Yeah. It’s better than London. Quiet.” Peace isn’t something Judas is accustomed to yet. It’s a good thing Jesus is naturally very chatty or the quiet would drive him mad. Then again, being alone with his thoughts hasn’t been so bad recently. 

Judas reaches habitually for the cigarette pack in his pocket. It’s subtle, he’s surprised Jesus even notices the slight hesitation in his hand as he pulls one out. 

“Are you okay?” Jesus asks. 

“Yeah.” Judas cradles his lighter away from the wind, taking a long unsatisfying drag. “Just been thinking. I don’t know, I feel like I should quit.”

“Really?” 

Judas shrugs. “It’s expensive.” And it doesn’t help. He’s had a lot of time recently to reflect on all the ways he doesn’t confront his problems. Smoking is really just the tip of the iceberg. It’s as good a place as any to start fixing some things. 

“How often do you pay for them?” 

“Too often,” Judas pauses when he catches Jesus suppressing a smile. He nudges his shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jesus beams. “I think it’s a good thing. And I’ll help you, just let me know what you need.”

Judas offers him the box. “You could smoke these for me.”

“What, so we can quit together?”

When they finish laughing, Judas tilts his head down the path, ready to keep walking.

Jesus’ face falls a little. He doesn’t make any attempt to move. Sometimes he’s like this when they’re out in nature. Like all he wants to do is sit still and let himself be absorbed by his surroundings until there’s nothing left for him to do but grow leaves.

Just when Judas is about to break the silence with a joke about how if they sit much longer they might not ever get up, he turns around to face him. Instead of tranquil he looks nervous. 

“Judas,” he chews on his lip. “I’m really glad we’re friends again, but there’s something I think I need to talk about with you.”

Judas’ heart sinks. Good conversations never start like that. “What’s wrong?”

He fidgets with his stack of bracelets and his eyes dart nervously. “Well I wouldn’t say wrong exactly. I mean, I hope not anyway. Um,” he tries to keep rambling, but he can’t seem to find the words. It’s strange seeing a street preacher lost for words, and stranger still to see him looking to him for help articulating his point.

Judas keeps his lips tight together. It’s better than saying the wrong thing.

Jesus takes a deep breath and throws his shoulders back. “When you weren’t around for a while, it gave me a lot to think about. And I was talking to some people about it. And my cousin John said something I can’t stop thinking about.”

Fuck. And everything had been going so well too. Judas gets along with John the Baptist, but John is fiercely protective of Jesus. Jesus calls John regularly, so he probably knows by now that Judas had hurt him. 

“Judas, I don’t talk about you the way I talk about the other disciples. I don’t talk to them about things that I talk to you about. I think what we have is different.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I like you. More than anybody, and not like a friend. And I think I have for a long time now. And I want to try dating you, if that is something you want too.” The sentence is difficult for him to get out. Every word is painstakingly chosen, and he halts before saying the next one. His eyes are fixed on his bracelets as he worries them. 

Judas stares at him in stunned disbelief. “… are you feeling alright?”

“I get it if you don’t,” he says, hastily now. “I know, I’m a lot. And I’m always busy, but I want to make time for you, if that’s alright, and–”

“Why me?” Judas interrupts, and Jesus looks up from his fidgeting, staring intensely with busy fingers. “You could have anybody. Anyone would be easier to get on with than me. You’re a proper ray of sunshine, and then I go and pick a fight with you over some bullshit. How many days have I ruined because I was pissed off and you were nearby?”

“I’m not though,” he protests. “You just don’t see the times when I’m cross with other people. The other day I was so mad at Simon I was about to call him a prat, but then you showed up and all that anger went away. When I’m around you, I forget whatever I’m mad about. And it’s not just that,” he says, sounding more sure of himself now. “You are so good when you aren’t holding yourself back. You’re reliable and you’re witty, and you see things for exactly what they are so quickly. I really like that about you and I want more. And whenever you have something to say I always want to hear it. But I don’t want to fight about it. We can’t keep doing that.”

Judas clears his throat and stares at their intertwined fingers. “Maybe we don’t have to.” He forces himself to look at Jesus’ face. His dark eyes are a storm of anxiety and optimism. He’s never seen that look before. “You’re sure that it’s me you want? You really think there’s something here?”

“I want you.” Jesus places a hand behind his neck and his cold fingers make Judas want to warm him. “I think you know that what we have isn’t like anything we have with anyone else. Do you want me to stop wanting you?”

“No,” Judas is shocked by how readily the answer springs from his lips. “I– I want you.”

“Okay. Now that’s over with,” Jesus exhales and Judas can see the tension leave his body as his breath turns to fog and then to nothing. He places a hand on his thigh and tilts his head to the side. “Can I kiss you?”

Judas nods, still unable to believe that this is really happening, and he forgets to shut his eyes when Jesus brings their closed lips together. It’s barely more than a single second of contact. But that second is more than enough time to learn that his lips are soft and his stubble is pleasantly scratchy. His hair is soft and his breath is warm and humid.

When he pulls back and looks at him there are no stars in his eyes. But maybe Judas has stars in his, because Jesus is studying them like a sailor navigating home by constellations. It’s like he sees a path and how things could be if they walk it together. He sees him, and all the messy, twisted parts, and Judas notices that his own eyes hint at something twisted and troubled behind them. And Jesus sees something else, something that must be good, or beautiful, or at least worth the trouble of loving in some way. That must be what he sees. Why else would he kiss him again? 

He brushes his thumbs over his cheekbones and brings his face to his, this time parting his lips to deepen the kiss. Judas remembers to close his eyes and kiss him back this time. When they part again Jesus laces his fingers in his hair, as if he’s afraid that Judas will run away again if he doesn’t hold him in place. Instead of running, Judas rests his forehead against his and mirrors the touch, leans in to kiss him again. Neither one says a word, letting their hands and lips speak for them. It’s a conversation that has been a long time coming. 

Jesus finally pulls away when a drizzle begins to fall. “How about some tea?”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───  

They change into dry clothes and drink tea in the kitchen, but their clothes don’t stay on for very long. They make small talk and sit close together. The tea warms them, but the atmosphere is not exclusively warm and cosy. There is a new tension between them, one that pulls them together instead of pushing them apart. Still, Judas is surprised when Jesus invites him to his bedroom. 

As soon as the door is locked behind him, Judas picks up where he left off. He’s almost shy as he kisses Jesus’ neck, but each time his lips touch his skin he is forced to reckon with what he has been denying all along. He wants Jesus. He has always wanted Jesus. He has held him so many times to comfort him, almost exactly like this, but with that terrible assumed distance between them. Even now, a part of him is still afraid that something terrible will happen if he holds him so close and allows himself to revel in him. 

Jesus runs his hands over his shoulders and holds him closer, their faces barely an inch apart. He holds him there and studies the expression on his face, then kisses him and slides his hands up under his shirt. Judas gasps in surprise.

“Never took you for someone who would do this before a first date,” he jokes, one hand cradling the back of Jesus’ head. His hair is still slightly damp from their first kiss.

“We don’t have to.” He runs a hand down his arm, fixated on the intricate geometric tattoo sleeve. “But I know what I want. I meant it when I said I want you. I wanted you for a long time and tried not to know it. I don’t need to wait any longer.”

Judas pulls him closer. “You really mean that?” You’ve seen me at my worst and you, of all people.

“Judas, there is so much I want to do to you.” He tentatively squeezes his arm. “But I need you to tell me you want it too.”

Judas stares at him in awe. Jesus is staring at his lips with an unmistakable hunger, one that he has never displayed so shamelessly before. Jesus wants him. Who is Judas to deny him? “I think we put this off long enough,” he takes a stuttering breath and rests his head in Jesus’ hair. He savours the moment, trying to memorise the smell and softness of his hair. “Yeah, yeah I want this.”

Clothes are discarded in a hurry. Jesus watches Judas strip, biting his lip unsubtly. It would almost make Judas self conscious if he weren’t occupied by taking in Jesus’ boxer clad body.

Now that he knows he can have what he wants, Jesus kisses and grabs at Judas with eagerness that borders on greed. He wraps his arms around his waist and pushes him back to the wall. He’s trapped him and Judas has no desire to escape. Judas kisses him back eagerly and cradles his face in his hands, paying close attention to how the scratch of his beard contrasts with the softness of his lips. He groans affirmatively when Jesus slips his tongue past his lips and he enters him for the first time. The flavour of Earl Grey mingles with their breath. 

Jesus’ hands are calloused, but not too rough. Judas melts into them and Jesus flows into his embrace. Jesus groans disproportionately when Judas grabs his arse and he grinds against him, already half hard. He buries his face in the crook of Judas’ neck and his wet lips sucking lightly at his skin floods Judas’ senses. 

“Fuck,” he groans in response and pulls Jesus even closer, letting his weight trap him between his body and the wall. Jesus all but humps him as he grinds against his cock and nips at his collarbone. There’s so much he wants to do to Jesus but he can’t begin to think of what. He’s already overwhelmed by the feeling of their nearly naked bodies tangling together and the heat from their arousal threatening to burn a hole in their pants. He almost forms the beginning of a sentence but loses it when Jesus presses their lips together again. He hopes that he can remember the tiny whines and moans that he swallows as Jesus wriggles against him, and groans when his hands gently pull his ass cheeks apart.

He hooks a thumb in the waistband of Jesus’ boxers. “Mm?”

Jesus drops his lips and gasps, “Uh huh.”

Both of their pants are gone in an instant, collapsing in an undignified heap at their feet before being kicked aside. 

He’s never wanted someone as badly as he wants Jesus. He is completely overwhelmed with need when he sees him hard and elegantly sinking to his knees. He plants his palms against the wall, trying to ground himself against the cool wood panelling while Jesus looks up at him and kisses his hips. 

“Can I? Please?” he asks. As if Judas would ever turn down his offer. He grins eagerly when he receives an affirmative nod. “I’ve been having dreams about this for years now.”

Fuck. Judas won’t last long if Jesus keeps talking like that. 

“Do you want to use protection?” he asks, big brown eyes looking up at him from waist height. “I got tested the other day, so I’m clean.”

Judas sends a grateful prayer to the clinic that had sent him his own results that morning. “Is that why you were so insistent I get checked?” 

Jesus’s face flushes an even deeper red, caught in a self serving act disguised as friendly concern. He nods, eyes fixed on Judas’ bare skin. 

“Fuck. Might as well go for it then.”

Jesus looks impossibly pretty with his lips wrapped around his cock, covering the rest with a lube slickened hand. He’s shockingly good, and gloats a little when Judas buckles at the knees after only a few minutes. He watches his responses with eagerness, quickly learning what makes Judas helplessly vocal. He smiles adoringly around his erection when Judas’ hips buck involuntarily. It’s almost too much, Judas has to look away. “Jesus,” he moans. 

Jesus takes him in even further, now stroking himself as well, and Judas keens at the sight. He has to fuck Jesus. He needs him to feel his cock inside him. “Jesus, you gotta stop or I’m gonna— Aah!” 

Jesus pulls back and wraps a hand behind his thigh. “What’s wrong?” he asks, deep concern creasing his brows. 

Judas carefully drops to his knees and rests his hands on Jesus’ thighs, caressing the soft inner sides with his thumbs. “Nothing’s wrong. I really want to fuck you.”

The way his face lights up when he lays back and pulls Judas down with him awakens a part of him he had nearly forgotten. Jesus is made to be smothered in praise and adoration, and he lavishes all that he has to give on him. Jesus wriggles and moans happily as he covers his body in kisses and caresses. He especially likes having Judas between his legs, kissing and nibbling at the tender flesh of his thighs. Judas only stops when Jesus nudges his head away. “This is great but I’d rather use the bed if it’s all the same to you. 

He looks up at Judas, face flushing, eyes eager and sparkling. Unable to keep the grin off his face, Judas holds a hand out to him. They both stumble a little as they stand, and they laugh at their own clumsiness. 

Jesus fetches a small bottle of lubricant and situates himself on the bed, legs spread wide open as he prepares himself. He lifts his knees and fingers his hole for a while while Judas watches in awe and strokes himself. Jesus gasps and squirms as he relaxes and stretches, watching Judas with similar reverence. 

Judas pushes into him slowly and carefully, watching for signs of discomfort. He only sees signs of rapturous pleasure. Jesus gasps and throws his head back, ruining his ponytail instantly. His hair sprays out beneath him in a mess. Judas fucks to the sound of their moans and the heat and pressure building up inside them and between them. 

He doesn’t allow his eyes to close for an instant. He watches Jesus throw his head back with his name on his lips as his legs tremble around him. He clenches around him and pulls Judas over the edge. Jesus watches him relax above him and gently guides him to lay down on top of him, his head rolling limply to the side as the orgasm runs its course. 

Jesus reaches up and kisses his lips. He’s so warm, it’s as if for a moment Judas has never been cold. They lay together, curled up on their sides, and don’t say a word. They don’t have to. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t been communicated. 

For a moment they stare in each other’s eyes. The stars in his eyes don’t frighten Judas. He wants to count them, and fall asleep beneath them. He finds it quiets the worst parts of him, not because they are being gratified or indulged in some way. They are quiet because he isn’t thinking of himself. He only wants to think about Jesus and how to give him the best of himself. And that means allowing Jesus to do the same. He can trust Jesus to love him.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

 About A Year Later

Annas taps his nails absentmindedly against the glass, letting the ice cubes rattle into one another as the liquid quivers. On the tablet in front of him, a slightly blurry Jesus brings his hands gently to rest on a crying woman’s forehead. She sobs again, violently, before collapsing into his arms with a shudder. It’s a good parlour trick, nothing more. But that’s not what Annas is watching as he sets the video to replay. 

Even when he’s only about ten pixels tall, Judas is unmistakable. He hovers in the background, lifts a cigarette to his lips, glares at someone who tries to engage with him, then turns and walks out of frame. Annas replays the video one last time, making little effort to push back against the resentment curdling in his chest. 

He’d had a vague idea that Jesus’ travelling band of anarchists might have been the same one Judas belonged to. There can’t be that many, after all. But it’s only been confirmed these past few weeks as Jesus’ movement creeps closer and closer towards London. The first time he’d noticed Judas in the background of a grainy piece of CCTV footage he felt like he’d been shot. 

Once he knew where to look, he’d realised the man was everywhere. Loitering at the edges of a protest. Whispering into the ear of another follower on the steps of some town hall. Glowering at a security guard standing too close to their group. He’s never front and centre, always pulling his scarf higher up on his face if he notices a camera. But no matter what, he follows Jesus like a nervous shadow. 

That’s not how Annas recalls him though. Judas was rebellious, of course, and simmering with frustration. But he hadn’t been anxious. Judas wasn’t someone who feared a fight; he was always trying to pick one with him. He had even gotten in a nasty looking altercation during their brief entanglement, and it seemed likely that he had instigated it. Watching him lurk uneasily in the background suggests something significant has changed.  

Annas pauses the video. By the window, Caiaphas stands silhouetted in front of the London skyline. If Annas didn’t know him so well, he’d mistake the way he sips lightly at his drink for relaxation. 

The question of whether Annas should broach the subject to his superior has been keeping him up at night. On the one hand, he has no desire to be reacquainted with Judas. He’d been left more humiliated than he’d ever been in his life. For months afterwards he couldn’t think about Judas without wanting to either rot on the sofa or kick a hole in the wall. Even now, watching him linger behind Jesus makes his lips curl into a sneer. 

On the other hand, this goes beyond him. Beyond Caiaphas, even. The hand of Rome looms constantly over their shoulders, ready to crush them all at the slightest hint of insurrection. As the walls close in it seems increasingly certain that Jesus’ death is the only way out. They need to uproot his movement right at the source; remove Jesus and the whole operation crumbles. He and Caiaphas have a duty to their people. They both know that their political ties with Rome are tenuous at best, more of a peace treaty than an alliance, and the world has seen the Roman empire exterminate subordinate nations for less.

He clears his throat, “Caiaphas, this man, here. I believe I know him.” He points a manicured nail at the screen as Caiaphas comes closer. “Judas. He’s one of The Twelve.”

Caiaphas leans in closer, one eyebrow quirking ever so slightly, “Where on earth did you meet a man like that?” 

“Last year, when Jesus and his followers were camping near Shoreditch.” It’s not entirely a lie. “We weren’t overly familiar. He asked me for a lighter, we had a brief discussion. I believe I covered his cab fare. He would probably still recognise me.” 

Caiaphas nods slowly to himself, deep in thought. “And you think he might be useful to us?”

“Potentially. He seems… Close to Jesus. But he’s volatile. Emotional. And you can see,” Annas clicks to another video before turning the tablet round, “He doesn’t seem particularly happy to be there.” 

Caiaphas scrutinises carefully as he watches Judas fretfully entreating a police officer to leave his rowdy friend alone. The Judas that Annas knew would have sooner let a police officer spit on him than attempt to bargain with one. 

“Do you have his contact details?”

“No. But if we were to somehow reach out to him… I think he’d be amenable.”

That’s not entirely true. There’s a very high chance he’ll take one look at Annas and bolt immediately, like he had done before. But if it were just Caiaphas, or a minor member of their team, or even someone’s distant cousin's secretary….

“Besides.” Annas continues, “He owes me a favour.” Several favours , the amount he had stolen from the hotel had amounted to a few hundred pounds. “He would probably be susceptible to bribery. He seems destitute enough.”

Caiaphas replays the clip a few times, his frown deepening. Then he straightens up, “I’m not sure. It’s a risk. We don’t know that he wouldn’t return to Jesus and tell him everything. He might reject our advances.” 

“I suppose so,” Annas closes the video so he doesn’t have to look at him anymore. “But we’re running out of options.”

Caiaphas says nothing. He just returns to his silent vigil at the window. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Ultimately, Annas never has to do anything. One evening, while they’re working late, his phone rings. 

“Hey, Annas?” a nearly unfamiliar voice says, distorted by a crackly poor quality phone. It’s difficult to distinguish over the roar of traffic. 

It’s too easy to be true. “Sorry, who is this?”

“It’s Judas,” then, quickly, as if he’s worried Annas is about to hang up, “It’s about Jesus. I have something that might be useful to you. I need to talk to Caiaphas.”

Annas stops pacing and stands by the window. He doesn’t answer and stares down at the pavement below, half expecting to see him pacing outside the doors.

“I know-" The audio is cut off by a loud motorcycle engine. “Fuck- This is important,” his voice wavers with poorly concealed desperation. “Please."

Annas’ heart is pounding in his ears. He grips his phone a little tighter as sweat moistens his palms, “Right. How soon can you meet us? I assume you have the address.”

“Yeah,” Judas practically cuts him off in his hurry. “I’m only a couple of streets away. I guess about three minutes?”

“Good. My secretary will see you at reception.” Annas slips his phone back into his pocket, his smile irrepressible as his heart rate continues to pick up. When Caiaphas looks at him quizzically, Annas just nods triumphantly and pours them both a celebratory drink. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Their business with Judas concludes quickly. Annas and Caiaphas work well together, efficiently prying the information they need out of him in less than an hour. It helps that Judas is so obviously distraught that he’s receptive to their first offer. That’s something that hasn’t changed; as obstinate as Judas could be, he always yielded to Annas’ demands eventually.  

He remains too proud to readily accept favours from Annas, insisting his motives are too pure for so-called blood money. He is also still pliable enough to be persuaded.

Annas stays behind to watch Judas kneel on the floor of his office, clutching the red coin purse in cracked hands. He’s snivelling pitifully, as if he had done something terrible. After a moment their secretary approaches him and tells him to leave. 

“Judas,” he calls, making his voice clear and commanding. Caiaphas isn’t around anymore. He can say everything he has ever wanted to tell him. 

Judas completely ignores him and waits for the lady to open the lift for him.

“Judas,” he repeats himself.

Judas rolls his eyes and turns around to face him. “I already told you everything you need to know.”

Annas draws himself to his full height. “I’m not done with you.” He’d said that to him so many times before in the privacy of his hotel.

Judas frowns and a slight flick of his lashes confirms that he remembers the phrase despite how long it’s been. “Okay? Is this going to take long?”

“What’s your hurry? It’s not as if Thursday night will come any sooner.”

His eyes are those of a haunted man, his days old cosmetics making his intense blue eyes look almost lost in his face. “It’s none of your business.”

When Annas follows him into the lift, Judas sighs and turns away from him.

“I saw you as soon as you were back in the city. There’s a lot more cameras around London than you’d think.”

Judas pulls out another cigarette, as if he hadn’t already searched empty pockets for a lighter earlier. “That’s pretty creepy. You should probably get a hobby.” The Judas he had known would have never been without a light.

“I saw how you cling to him.” Judas ignores him and continues looking for a light. “It’s as if you’re his guard dog.” 

Judas crumples the cigarette in frustration and keeps his eyes fixed ahead. A familiar feeling smirk crosses Annas’ face for the first time in over a year. He knew he would strike a nerve eventually. “Some guard dog you turned out to be. Or were you hoping I’d drop you something under the table? Looking for a new master?”

In a thrilling, terrifying flash Judas turns on him and pins his bad wrist to the elevator wall. Is he holding back tears? “You think you’re better than me?” he spits, staining Annas’ silk tie yellow. “You should see yourself, drooling for a scrap of approval from Caiaphas like you’re his fat lapdog,” he sneers, and Annas’ heart is caught in his throat. “Yeah, don’t think I forgot the name you dropped. You’re pathetic.”

Annas gasps for breath and he wonders if he will actually leave this elevator in one piece. He’s saved when Judas’ phone buzzes and he fumbles for his pocket. It’s as if Annas was never in the lift at all, just him and his battered phone. Annas elects not to restrain himself and looks over his shoulder at the screen.

[JC: I didn’t mean to leave you alone. Please at least come home for bed.]

[JC: I love you.]

[J: ill be home soon. ] He hesitates before sending the next text with trembling fingers. [J: x ]

Really? They’re a couple and he’s doing this? The doors slide open and Annas clenches his jaw. “Tell me, do you bite every hand that feeds you? Or is it just me and him?” 

Judas freezes in his tracks. For a moment it looks as if he’s going to say something, then he shuts his mouth and exits the building. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The days surrounding Jesus’ arrest are impossibly intense. Annas has never been so thoroughly wrung out in his entire life. There’s always something else to do, someone else to speak to or to pass on to Caiaphas, always a constant barrage of noise. Even when he’s home for a few brief hours of sleep, the matter sits heavy in his brain. Continually rattling around, refusing to quiet. Things aren’t moving as fast as they could be. Yes, the mob has turned against Jesus, but a vocal portion of his following remains active. Worse, Pilate seems completely disinterested in the case, and without him everything they’ve worked for falls apart. Annas’ every waking moment is consumed by the need to see Jesus Christ eliminated. 

He’s outside the prison with Caiaphas when it happens. They’re midway through hurriedly discussing ways to bring the Roman governor around, when there’s a shout, a familiar flash of green, and suddenly Caiaphas is on the tarmac howling in shock and pain. 

When Annas goes to help him, he snarls at him, blood dripping down on his shirt. “Get off me!” 

Hurt flares in Annas’ chest for just a moment before it’s replaced with a concentrated loathing for the culprit. Judas is writhing in the grip of their bodyguards, rambling like a mad man as they pull him off Caiaphas and drag him away. 

How on earth he’d managed to get so close to them without being noticed is anyone’s guess. At Annas’ command the guards attempt to subdue him, but despite his cries of pain he stubbornly keeps his feet. Annas watches, his skin itching as though he’s on fire. His entire body shivers with unspent rage, some of which has been festering for months. 

When the soldiers force Judas to his knees, there’s a sickening crack of bone on cement as he chokes on a wretched sob. Annas sneers to himself. It's not enough; he deserves much worse than bruised knees. He watches him twitch weakly on the ground and feels nothing but the bitterest contempt.  

In the last week Annas has clawed them all back from the brink of instability with the Roman occupation. If any of them live to see the next year it’ll be because he’s poured his entire life into maintaining the tenuous peace. Because that’s what he does; he works hard. He has a sense of duty, of loyalty. And here’s Judas, the embodiment of everything he’s working against. Annas doesn’t have the luxury of lounging in a tent scrounging at the bottom of society, stealing handouts from those naive and rich enough to enable him. The world doesn’t work that way. 

There’s something else too. Annas holds nothing but disdain for Jesus, but Judas’ lack of loyalty sickens him right to his core. The man seems surprised that turning his back on those closest to him has consequences. As if he’d expected to simply walk out on his boyfriend in pursuit of the next best thing, just as he’d done with Annas. Judas doesn’t deserve grace from him. He certainly doesn’t get to make excuses. 

He buries his fingers in Judas’ hair, allowing almost a year’s worth of unspent rage to direct his movements as he drags the man off the floor. Judas looks up at him with wide, fearful eyes, like a wild animal caught in a trap. Annas’ hand moves to wrap around his throat as he sneers insults in his face. Judas immediately falls silent, submitting to him just like he had dozens of times before. He tenses his fingers around Judas’ neck, choking off his air supply. When he lets go he relishes in the delicious sense of satisfaction he gets from seeing the man collapse back to the floor, finally subdued.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

After the crucifixion, Caiaphas’ office remains a frantic hive of activity. There’s barely been time for celebratory drinks amidst all the press and paperwork. Even so, Annas is surprised when he’s summoned for a meeting at five o’clock in the morning. There was a suspicious urgency to the email, which is only compounded when Annas arrives and sees Caiphas looking uncharacteristically unsettled at the head of the table. 

Annas takes his place. “Has something happened?”

Caiphas sighs irritably, “It’s Judas.”

Annas rolls his eyes, a sneer catching his lips. The image of Judas snivelling on the floor, too weak to withstand the consequences of his actions, is still fresh on his mind. He’s not quite done being disgusted by it. “What’s he done now?” If Judas has done something stupid, Annas will be more than happy to deal with him personally. 

Strangely, Caiaphas doesn’t reply. He just silently slides a file towards him across the table.

Annas flips it open carelessly. A younger looking Judas stares out at him with sullen, bloodshot eyes, half concealed by the word, ‘DECEASED’ stamped in bright red ink. A few loose photographs slip out the back. There’s the edge of a mortuary slab and a greying purple hand attached to a tattooed wrist. 

He slams the folder shut. When he looks back up at Caiaphas he can’t find the words to ask what happened. 

“He was found a few hours ago. Suicide, the damn fool.” Caiaphas rolls his eyes as he taps his pen impatiently, “This will be a nightmare when the press get hold of it. We’ll have to be very careful; an investigation is the last thing we need…” 

His words pass over Annas in a blur. In a moment everything has inverted around him. Judas is dead. Any feelings he’d previously been harbouring have dissipated into a vacuum of numbness. Judas. Dead. The resentment that had driven him feels pathetically small against the enormity of the consequences. He wouldn’t have thought, couldn’t have imagined-

Caiaphas pushes his chair back to stand, grim-faced. “I trust you understand the precarity of our position. We knew Jesus’ execution would be controversial.” 

There’s an unspoken but as he presses his lips together with a short sigh. He turns away from Annas, pacing slowly up and down the length of the office, “As far as the police are concerned, Judas was an unstable man with a criminal record. Now, there might be questions about how well we handled the treatment of a witness like that. Especially after your little stunt during Jesus’ arrest,” he stops moving for a moment, looking pointedly at Annas. 

Then he continues, “But that was the last time we saw him. Outside Downing Street, late on Thursday. The last people to see Judas alive were two of Jesus’ closest companions, who have already confirmed that he’d been erratic and emotional shortly before his death.”

He taps his finger down on the file. As if the fact that it’s there in writing makes it true. Annas can only swallow. His brain is still reverberating with the news. Judas is dead. He’s not sure what to do. What to think, how to feel.

But above it all the meaning of Caiaphas’ words rings crystal clear. Judas is dead, and no one knows they killed him. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

That night, Annas sits at home in the dark with a bottle of whisky. On his obscenely large television, the evening news assaults him, casting harsh white light into his eyes. 

“Officers in London have confirmed that the body recovered at Potter’s field on Friday morning has been identified as that of Judas Iscariot, a key figure in the recent trial against convicted terrorist Jesus Christ. A spokesperson at the MET says the death is not being treated as suspicious. We now go live to our correspondent…” 

As the live reporter gives a clinical recap of the last week, various pieces of footage and assorted pictures pass by. There’s Jesus surrounded by a crowd. An aerial shot of his last protest. Then a blurry photograph of Judas, taken after Annas himself had pointed him out in front of the crowd, during Jesus’ arrest. Then the report cuts to footage from Friday. It’s a distant, zoomed in shot of a small patch of wasteland cordoned off with tape. A solitary police tent guarded by officers sits beside an old rotting tree. 

Annas has to turn the television off. He knows what that’s there to conceal. 

Only after he’s reached the end of the bottle does he open the photocopy of the police report. Judas is still scowling out from the front page. He looks younger, rougher. There’s an obvious volatility behind his eyes that shows even through the stillness of a photograph. 

ISCARIOT, JUDAS. 

Annas never asked for his surname. 

DOB - 21/09/1982

He was not quite thirty. He’d been haggard and world weary far beyond his years, but still brash and impulsive. Maybe if he had been a few years older he would have mellowed out. 

Beneath the rudimentary personal information there’s a list of criminal offences, starting in 1998.

Assault occasioning actual bodily harm (Category C Culpability. Category 1 Harm). Sentenced to six months in Pentonville Young Offenders Institution. 

Sixteen. His hands tremble as he imagines a teenaged Judas, fists bloodied with nobody to stand behind him. Only sixteen years old and already caught up in a cycle of imprisonment and frustration. 

Annas skims the rest of Judas’ life, laid out for him in convictions, overnight detentions and civil orders.

Low-value shoplifting. Anti-social behaviour. Drug possession (Classes C & A). Aggravated trespass. Criminal damage. Vandalism.

There’s a couple of scattered notes from various psychiatrists throughout the years. During Judas’ first trial in 1998, the defence had tried to argue for a lower sentence on the grounds of insanity. Suspected antisocial personality disorder. Low-self esteem. 

The next psychiatrist, the one who had him placed under suicide watch while in prison, described him as cold. Disengaged. 

He wasn’t always cold, certainly not disengaged when Annas had been with him. Judas was fiery, and lived to push boundaries. But on reflection, there was something scared and vulnerable about him too. Something desperate for control and security. It was well hidden, but he had seen it driving him to protect it. 

The absence of Judas feels so much larger than his presence had ever been. They haven’t been romantically involved in over a year, and still it feels as if Annas’ whole life has been torn apart. Judas might have been a traitor, but Annas is now a murderer.  

The whiskey isn’t enough. It takes another bottle of strong wine before he’s able to pass out on the sofa with a well deserved hangover waiting for him when he wakes up. It’s the first of many in the coming months. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Ten Years Later

Annas rolls over to stare at the ceiling. The smell of fresh bread drifts from the kitchen as the first rays of the morning sun begin to shine through the curtains. The usual clamour of family breakfast is notably absent, and the quiet it brings is unsettling rather than peaceful. But it’s the last vestige of calm he’s going to feel for a while. He sighs. Much as he wants to, he can’t stay here forever. He always knew this day was coming, even before the date was formally set. It had never really ended, afterall. Ten years of putting it off hasn’t brought closure. This is the only thing that can make everything right. Still, the idea of surviving today feels insurmountable now he’s at the precipice. 

The warm scent of bread from the kitchen eventually coaxes him out of bed. His clothes are hanging on the wardrobe, neatly washed and pressed. It takes him longer than normal to dress himself. No matter how he adjusts his tie it doesn’t feel right. Eventually he gives up and takes it off entirely. His husband will do a better job than he will anyway. 

His anxiety recedes somewhat when he’s met with the sight of his partner washing his hands in the kitchen. He’s been a warm, stabilising presence ever since they met, and he will continue to be just that today.

He smiles when Annas walks in, but there’s a cautious somberness in his eyes. “Good morning, love. Did you sleep alright?”

Annas holds the loose tie out. “Morning, darling. Not really, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Hm.” His husband's gentle hands wrap the tie around his neck, tugging it into a knot. “Ready for the big day?” He smooths down the front of the suit. 

“The first day,” Annas corrects, a bit ruefully. “The hearing will probably last for weeks.”

“I know,” his husband pats his shoulder comfortingly before moving to set a plate of fresh bread on the table. Annas is almost too nervous to eat it, but the raspberry jam and honey wins him over. “I’m proud of you though. And I know our boys are too. You know, not a lot of kids get to see their dad fix a mistake like this.”

“It was quite a lot more than a mistake,” Annas gratefully accepts the mug of steaming coffee, sweetened to the way he likes it, pushed into his hands. “But you’re right. I suppose it’s setting a good example.”

His husband watches him with concern across the breakfast table. “Are you ready to see Caiaphas?” He asks carefully.

“Is that a joke?” Annas laughs humourlessly. “I thought he would strangle me when I refused to sign his NDA.”

“He’s already a disgraced politician. There’s not much he can do to you anymore.” A cranky meow interrupts their conversation. Princess Jellicle, old and ugly as ever, paws at his lap and meows again. He had almost forgotten to feed her. 

He’s grateful for the excuse to stand up and move around. “Still. I can’t stop feeling like I betrayed him,” he muses as he prepares her daily can of wet food. Princess rubs against his legs, oblivious to the importance of a well-kept suit.

“You don’t owe him a coverup,” his husband insists.

Annas makes a noncommittal grunt. It’s not the time for this discussion. They’ve had it plenty of times before and he doesn’t want to argue about it again, not today. 

Thankfully, his husband seems to recognise this as well. He softens his tone, “At least when he does get convicted you’ll be here with us. That’s all that matters.”

Annas gives him a little smile. “I suppose an electronic tag and a fine aren’t the end of the world.” Compared to what it should have been, it feels like a light slap on the wrist. It’s far less than he deserves. “Where’s today’s paper?”

His husband hisses sympathetically. “Are you sure you want to read it? I don’t know if it’ll help.”

Annas nods. The day feels wrong without reading the paper over coffee. Besides, it won’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know. 

There’s a multi-page feature on the trial, complete with photographs of all the key players so far. Caiaphas looks greyer and sterner than ever as he’s ushered into court by security. Evidently the last decade hasn’t been too kind to him. There’s also a picture of the woman in a white dress who’d testified to the brutality of Jesus’ treatment, alongside a group shot of the remnants of the Twelve, still just as scruffy as they had been the day of the arrest. And there’s Jesus of course. First, looking serenely up at the sky during a protest, and again being dragged through the streets. Annas isn’t sure when the press had switched from calling him a terrorist to hailing him as a martyr. 

Then there’s Judas. He has his own sub-heading,“Suicide of informant Iscariot reopened as part of Caiaphas trial.” It’s not the only case they’re reinvestigating. There’s rumours that Herod will go to prison for the death of Jesus’ cousin John. 

The papers are almost as ruthless with Judas as they are with Caiaphas, perhaps more. As Jesus’ image has been rehabilitated, Judas has been reduced to the ultimate scapegoat. His name is being used as a new synonym for a conniving traitor, reserved for the worst kind of vindictive, self-interested scum. 

Annas already has his statement, his one and only public statement, prepared. After court today he’ll stand in front of as many cameras as possible and drag the tattered remains of his own reputation through the dirt in an attempt to salvage Judas’ legacy. 

“Caiaphas and I knowingly took advantage of a man in severe mental distress, resulting in a gross miscarriage of justice that has tainted the memory of an innocent victim…”

It won’t right the past. But it’s the best he can do for Judas now, as useless as the gesture might be. Judas would probably laugh at him. “You’re such a fucking sap, you know that?” He smiles sadly to himself. At least some people remember Judas as he was. Maybe when this is over he can connect with the remaining members of The Twelve. He’s thought about establishing a charity in Judas’ name before.

He finishes the remnants of his coffee. Then he puts the paper down and squeezes his husband’s hand. It’s time to go.