Revelations (12 page)

Of course he won’t fall, for he is perfect. In every way. I’m there for him, nonetheless.

Jesus is at the end of the ladder now; he turns and holds out one hand toward me, beckoning to me. I am there—I am always there for him. I reach for him, my own hand yearning toward his, and just at the point where our fingertips barely graze one another, he begins to fall backward, in a long slow-motion drop I am powerless to stop. Why should I worry? The water will catch him, it will cradle and receive him, and I will be just behind him in the blink of an eye. But in that self-same blink of an eye, he has disappeared from my sight and he is gone.

I’m going in after him now, the muscles in my legs tightening as I prepare to dive in, frantic with worry that if I don’t hurry, I’ll lose him. Perhaps forever.

Before I can dive, I feel a hand upon my shoulder. I whirl about defensively, expecting the worst—aka Lucifer—but find myself face to face with his father instead. Jesus’ father, that is. Of course I recognize him, having two thousand years of familiarity with him. A handsome man he is, just like his son. Some might say even more so, but I’d disagree. Of course, that’s just my opinion, which tends to be rather biased.

He locks his dark eyes onto mine, and in that stentorian voice he uses when he wishes to get my attention—I know, you’re thinking that being who he is, that alone should do it, right?—he says to me, “Go to him. He needs you.” And then he too is gone. Instant adios in the blink of an eye.

I sit up with a start, my heart beating far too quickly, its rhythm a choppy staccato against my chest. It feels ready to explode, there in the darkness of the communal tent. Instinctively I reach for Jesus, for he was there when we fell asleep last night. He is not there now.

“Go to him.”
The words echo in my head, and I waste no time debating their meaning with myself. I yank on my robes and depart the tent without a backward glance.

Despite the darkness, and the lateness of the hour, and despite the way my heart is hammering in my chest so that I can barely breathe, I have no difficulty in finding him for I’m so very attuned to him I could never lose my way. For he
is
my way, and ever shall be. I’m so relieved to see him I fall beside him onto the damp grass. My arms go about him protectively, overwhelmed by these feelings that bombard me, these emotions that impel me to be with him. All I want to do is to hold him close. He is so fragile, I can’t bear it, and I never stop to question what it is I’m doing—it feels too right.

“Judas,” he whispers, raising his face toward mine, and his eyes seem…

happy…to see me…Dare I think it, dare I hope? I love him, love him so very much, and have for so many years. I just need to admit it, tell him how I feel, and see if he feels anything of the same for me. That’s all. Sounds so easy, but can I do it, at long last? My heart is swelling now, almost unbearably, and my trembling hand strokes his face softly.

“Has something happened?” I ask, my concern for him undoubtedly spilling over, even as his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes of his, meet mine, and I can’t help but notice there’s something different in them. Something unguarded, almost vulnerable. Has it always been there and me too blinded by self-pity to see it? Or has he kept it hidden before? Or perhaps something has precipitated it? As he looks into me, a warmth steals over me and my breath catches in my throat. Oh dear God, is it possible? I have to know. I must know.

Our lips come together as if of their own volition, and there is no doubt he’s feeling something too, this is no fluke, no mere accident. His arms wind about my neck, and I pull him closer to me, the scent of him filling my nostrils, my desire for him only building the longer we kiss. No brotherly kiss, this one. Nothing fraternal here. There is no way to disguise this as anything but a kiss between lovers. Or would-be lovers. But my traitorous mind—damn, why do I have to be so logical at times—intervenes, and I realize he hasn’t answered my question, and dammit, why do I really have to know, right this minute? Is it because I’m afraid that whatever it is, I am but an outlet for his upset, for some sort of frustration he is experiencing?

Although I should know better than that, we’ve been through tense situations before. Many times. Many, many times. And I don’t think that is what this is.

But still, I have to know. Pulling our lips apart has to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and yet I do it, ignoring the inner voice that warns me I may be ruining everything, just keep going. I can’t, I won’t have him if it’s not for the right reasons. I just can’t.

“Has something happened?” I repeat, my hand still stroking his face, my thumb brushing across the corner of his mouth, unable to stop touching him, unwilling to stop touching him. “Please tell me…”

He reaches for my hand, lays a soft kiss upon my thumb. I am almost undone by the wave of emotion that flows through me at this simple action, and I almost forget what it is I have said. Almost…

My mind begins to work, perhaps belatedly, as I try to imagine what it is that has him so undone. His father? No, his relationship with him is not of a sort to produce such a turbulent reaction, I know better. Sure, sometimes they get into deep philosophical debates. Heaven and hell. Life after death. The Cards versus the Cubs. But most of the time they pretty well see eye to eye. God couldn’t ask for a better son. No, that isn’t it. (Yes, I was kidding about the baseball thing. Or was I?) And of course it isn’t his mother, she’s perfect, like Jesus. One of the apostles? No, he wouldn’t be so upset over one of them, he would simply deal with it, not to mention they never agitate him in that way. Only me. And much as I despise Mary M, I don’t believe it’s her either, though I’d be more than happy to pin the blame on her. But not this time. Not right now.

So, who does that leave?

Of course, I should’ve known. If my libido weren’t so tied up in knots, maybe my brain would work better. It’s that fucking snake in the grass. It has to be.

Which also explains why Jesus is even out here to begin with. I should’ve questioned that first, but I was too preoccupied with other things. Obviously.

“What did he want?” I ask directly. No sense in beating about the bush. And he doesn’t pretend he isn’t aware whom I’m speaking of. My fingers find purchase beneath his chin, tilting his face up toward mine, as I try to get him to calm down, to take a deep breath. To talk to me…first. Perhaps I’m assuming there will be a second part to this agenda, but something deep inside of me says there will be. It feels as if everything is falling into place, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, or the cogs and gears of an intricate machine perfectly aligned for the first time, and beginning to move in sync.

“It doesn’t matter, Jude,” he replies automatically, too quickly for my taste.

Which tells me volumes.

“It does to me,” I insist, and I softly brush my lips across his. “What did he say?” I can feel his moan as well as hear it; it goes straight to my heart, and to my stiff cock. I force myself to take a deep breath, to hold my ground.

“He always makes promises, you know that, Jude, and I never accept what he has to offer.”

That’s it then. Lucifer has offered him something different. It’s just too obvious to me. But what? What can that snake possibly offer the son of God? The very idea is ludicrous. He has everything he could possibly want, or need, he…

It hits me in a flash, then, even as it dovetails with my own desires and wants.

What I want that I can’t have must be the same thing that Jesus wants and can’t have, and the wily Lightbringer has not only figured it out but offered it to him—

namely, a longer life, with me as the bargaining chip, the deciding factor, the icing on the cake. And the knowledge is not only stunning to me, but it fills me at the same time with an elation such as I’ve never felt before. Dare I say it aloud? Dare I name it? I do dare.

Jesus loves me, as I love him. It must be. It has to be. But I need to hear an affirmation of his feelings, this is my own imperative.

“He told you that you could have me, didn’t he,” I murmur softly, watching his expression as he nods. I knew he would not lie to me; it is not in his nature. “I’m not his to give, I’m yours, and yours alone,” I promise him solemnly, “now, always, and forever. For as long as we both shall live.” Before he can even voice the words—I’m only too well aware that isn’t very long at this point—I have stopped him, my lips on his, and there is nothing more to be said.

The longer we kiss, the deeper the kiss becomes, as if we are pouring our very souls into this one act, making up for two thousand years of denial, two millennium of desire brought to a head in this single moment. Our lips part gently, our mouths unabashedly exploring one another—taste and touch and scent. One hand caresses my cheek, the fingers of the other slipping into my hair, oh God how good that feels, while his own cheeks are satin beneath my fingertips.

I reach for my robe, managing to remove the garment without disturbing our current occupation any more than is necessary, but then I find I must. The time has come to rearrange ourselves, a momentary pause to catch our breath as I spread the robe beneath us, covering the damp grass. I’m more than passing aware of the parlor tricks Lucifer can and does conjure out of thin air, but I want this to be as real as Jesus and I and this moment, our moment together. Even if my heart warns me it may be our one and only such occasion, I want it to last forever.

We fall backward now, onto the robes, and he lies beneath me, allowing me to take the lead, as he has no experience in this particular arena, while I have more than I really wish to admit to. None of that matters to me, though, the rest were simply means to an end. Practice if you will. Life lessons learned that I may tutor him now, for although he is my spiritual teacher, my guru, I am the one that can claim expertise, and I am more than happy to teach him what I know. Anything to please him. Everything to please him.

“Teach me,” he echoes my own thoughts, his words sending vibrations rippling through me in erotic waves, “make me yours, sweet Jude…” Our eyes meet, I need to know everything he is thinking and feeling, when all I can see is his love, and all I can feel is his life, and I know this is so very right, it is meant to be. And in the back of my mind, unvocalized but noted, I cannot help but feel his father has sent me to him,
knowing
how I feel,
knowing
how his son feels—for he is all-knowing, is he not?—and that he approves. Of him and me. Of us. Of this. At least I hope so.

My fingers work to rid us both of our clothing, discarding it but keeping it near at hand, for later. For now there is no need. All I need is him, my sweet Jesus, and I have him. He is mine, and I am his.

I pause for a moment, to admire the view, for although I have seen his naked body many times, over the years, there is something quite different and very breathtaking about seeing it from this position—vis-a-vis, me on top—and under these circumstances. He is, without doubt, the most perfect man I have ever seen.

Those that have portrayed him in films have always gotten it wrong, most of them presenting him as some sort of Anglo-Saxon god—blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin.

Seriously? He is dark of hair and eyes—beautiful almond eyes that hold the light of the world in their depths. Golden of skin. And his mouth is soft and sweet and finely shaped, and so very kissable. I can testify to that kissability personally.

“Is something wrong?”

My lips curl up in a small smile at his anxiety, lost as I am in my tour of admiration. I have ceased to breathe, my eyes simply taking him all in. The wonder of him, in its entirety. Up close and personal.

“Far from it,” I reply, “everything is perfect. You are so beautiful, I just…” My voice falters for a moment, and I swallow down the knot in my throat that threatens to choke me—whether of emotion or fear, I can’t be sure and I don’t wish to analyze it right now. “I just…love you so much,” I finish, sounding far too weak for my own taste, “and I’ve wanted to be with you for so long…” I can’t keep going on in this vein, or I know I’ll start to cry, and this is not a moment for crying, this is a time for rejoicing in our love.

“I love you, too, Jude.” He smiles, his fingers tracing a path about my lips. “I never realized before just how much you mean to me, how special you are to me.

I’ve been so foolish, trying to hide from myself how I feel about you because I didn’t understand, but I’ve never felt this way before, not about anyone else, ever…”

“Sssh, it doesn’t matter,” I shush him, my heart expanding with his words, and even so I find myself compelled to speak—yes, I know, I pick the wrong damn times to be chatty, don’t I?—to ascertain before we go any further that this is what he truly wishes. I know I’ll be the first, an amazing thought in and of itself, and I feel almost giddy at the idea he’s saved himself for me, and me alone, and I don’t care how egotistical that sounds, I think I’m allowed a little bit of back-patting after all the shit I’ve had to put up with for all these years. I’m not the bad guy here, I’m truly not, but somewhere along the line, I’ve managed to win the heart of the man that is undeniably the hero of this tale, and that, let me tell you, is a damn heady feeling indeed. To think Jesus actually loves me as I love him—mind-blowing. “Are you sure this is what you want?” I know it’s what I want, but I’m trying not to be selfish here, for he is a virgin, and I’m afraid to hurt him. In more ways than one.

Yes, I’d be disappointed if he said no, or changed his mind, but I’d still love him. Forever.

“You’re what I want, Jude,” he says simply, “I want you. I trust you. And I want to be with you.” No more needs to be said, for he has spoken. My heart rejoices in his words. And my cock is more than a little thrilled as well.

Now the question is, where do I begin? Despite all the years I’ve spent dreaming of this moment, of being in just this very position with Jesus, I seem to have neglected to formulate any sort of a game plan for what I’ll do now that I’m here. I don’t want it to be painful, but pleasurable, for both of us. Damned short-sighted of me, don’t you think? I know I think so.