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There he is, Jesus. He's wearing his long blue coat, a little out of place for a day spent distributing meals. He's framed by the snow falling slowly in the dark sky. The dim light of a street lamp casts something around his head that could be a pale halo—and Judas either drank too much or is simply tired.
But he can't be blamed for having strange ideas. After all, last week the newspaper ran the headline “J.C., Prince among Men.” What would the journalists say if they saw their magnificent prince now, his neck bent with the thoughts that plague him in the rare moments when he's alone, his shoulder pressed against a column, as if he'd entrusted his entire weight to those ruins?
There are no princes there. Fuck monarchy anyway.
Judas slips his hand into his pocket, where his fingers encounter soft wool. He swallows and takes a step forward. The crunch of his boot soles on the frozen pavement betrays him: Judas notices Jesus' head move. If Judas gave more importance to himself, more weight to his presence in the lives of others, of Jesus, he would mistake it for a small jolt of anticipation. Perhaps it really is, but certainly the anticipation cannot be for him. Who knows who Jesus expected to be joined by. Probably Mary.
As expected, Jesus slowly turns around and just says, “Judas.” He says it like he’s breathing out the name of a little brat who broke a plate and then pretended nothing happened, hoping to get away with it.
No, man, sorry. Too much beard to be your girlfriend. Judas brings two fingers to his forehead in an insolent salute. He approaches Jesus as Jesus wraps another turn of his scarf around his neck.
Judas' gaze is caught by Jesus' hands on the scarf: large carpenter's hands, furrowed with calluses, splintered by wood, reddened by the cold. Beautiful hands. Judas lingers a little too long on those hands, and Jesus almost notices his gaze—inquisitive, intrusive, dirty. Fuck, maybe he did notice, because in turn his blue eyes, stern as the ocean, move to Judas, and, fuck again, unlike him, Jesus doesn't hide like a thief. He just stares at Judas.
Judas lights a cigarette. If his grip trembles a little, it's because of the cold. “Unbelievable. The Birthday Boy is tired of getting attention,” he mumbles.
Jesus lowers his eyelids and his chest sinks in a long sigh. He seems so fed up with Judas' bullshit. Well, now they're even. Judas is also fed up with Jesus' bullshit (and with his own).
“I just needed to be... Just for a while... You know...” Jesus doesn't finish. He doesn't seem to have the strength to do so. It's astonishing how he can wind down like a broken toy. He's so good at being a superhero that even Judas sometimes forgets that he's just some poor devil like the rest of them.
“... Alone,” Judas finishes for him.
Jesus nods, serious. “All those poor people... all those poor, miserable people... it seemed like there was no end to them.”
Here we go again. Once more, something Jesus says triggers a nasty spark in Judas. He doesn't feel like investigating anymore, not tonight. Enough racking his brains for a justification, for a hidden meaning in Jesus' words that perhaps he, stupid Judas, has not understood. This pious man, this man standing on the threshold of sanctification, how can he say such things? He, whom Judas...
When he first met him, for one wild, dazzling moment, Judas believed he had found his equal. A kinship of spirit. Instead, inexorably, he and Jesus proved to be so different, even in their approach to doing good. No, Jesus is not like him: Jesus says, We will never save the world, but we are here now, let's do what we can. And Judas cannot accept this. Here and now, let's do what we can? What he can do will never be enough—for anyone.
Judas thinks of the grateful smiles of the homeless people they served today, smiles with broken teeth, but genuine and desperately bright. "Mm, yes. All that scum. They just kept coming, didn't they? And they asked and asked, without thinking about us volunteers standing there for hours. How selfish. I wonder if they left their decency at home—oh, wait, they don't have homes."
"Even today, seriously?" Jesus snaps, his beautiful hands clenching into fists.
Judas is the only one who can make him ball them up so quickly, a real record. Everything goes as planned: the wall rises, and that evil thing inside Judas, the one that whispers to him that he was wrong about Jesus, and above all that Jesus was wrong about him, grows and grows.
Fueled by Jesus' reaction, the flame inside him rises, burning him to the throat. “Why not today, J.C.? Is today some kind of special day? Maybe today people who are hungry are a little less hungry, just because there are a few more ribbons, and clean, respectable folks don't want to be disturbed?”
Jesus opens his mouth. He closes it again. Then, suddenly, his eyebrows lower and his whole face gives up. “Please, Judas. I don't want to argue anymore.” In fact, he looks a little pale now. He looks really tired. In the last few weeks, he's worked hard to get that spot for the whole day on Christmas, and... yes, if it hadn't been for him, for his public outbursts that Judas can't stand, and for his reckless desire to talk to journalists and make the Twelve known to the press, things that Judas frankly despises, then... then the City Council would not have agreed. All those... columns, and all that Roman stuff—an ancient amphitheater? Judas doesn't know shit about old history or whatever. The only thing that matters is that the annex building, which serves as a ticket office for tourists and a shelter for custodians, was useful for distributing meals and providing shelter from the merciless cold of that night.
But it couldn't have happened without Jesus' commitment. Not without him putting himself out there, without him deciding to deal with politicians and the press himself. Going against Judas' advice. Fuck, what else could he have advised Jesus to do? Until recently, they were Those Disgusting Communists From the Community Center, but then their image began to change after Jesus arrived. And not just their image.
He and Jesus had argued about this, several times. Fiercely. Every now and then, Judas felt that Jesus was forgetting who he was doing it for. “What, do you want to become a fucking politician too? Are you turning this into your election campaign?” God, he really said that into Jesus' face. Just thinking about it makes Judas feel sick.
He's an asshole. Asshole, asshole, asshole. The deep, merciless ocean of Jesus' eyes is upon him, but the skin around those same eyes is tight and dry. Maybe Mary brought that oil with her...
Judas turns, takes a step toward the building--then is yanked back, what the fuck? Did he get caught on something or...
Ah. Jesus' fist is still clenched. But now it's clenched around Judas' jacket, with a strength that shouldn't surprise Judas. His hands are strong: they work and support, create and rise with authority. But they caress, too. They comfort. They love.
And it's pathetic, really, that every time Jesus puts a hand on his shoulder, or pats him on the arm, or even just brushes against him by accident—yes, it's pathetic that Judas has the illusion of being loved. It doesn't happen often, thankfully for his sanity. Jesus touches him very little compared to how he touches others. It's always Judas who initiates contact, who shoves him while they argue, who pushes him, who taps his index finger on Jesus' chest. But now, now Jesus is holding him and saying, “Won't you stay with me?” He alone is capable of making an accusation sound sweet and weary.
Where else could I go if you hold me like this, Judas thinks. How could I ever leave you if you ask me like that.
Judas sniffs with indifference. He returns to Jesus' side and Jesus nods, as if Judas had simply done what had to be done. Neither of them says anything else. The night is now so quiet that he feels he can hear the sound of snow softly piling up in the corners of the Roman ruins. A dog barks in the distance. The lights in the windows are on, giving the illusion of being able to spy on the golden warmth of other people's lives. From inside the building, someone has begun to sing a carol out of tune.
“Peter,” they both say at the same time. They look at each other and the corner of Jesus' mouth turns up. The bells are ringing, is it midnight already? Jesus' fingers play with the zipper of Judas' open jacket—yes, his hand is still there, has he noticed? The bells ring again, it's almost a liturgical moment, his smile and his hand that won't let Judas go. This has never happened before.
Judas takes one last drag, then drops the cigarette and crushes it with his shoe. If he doesn't keep himself busy with something simple now, he might do something very complicated instead. And very stupid. “You're strange tonight,” he says.
“I'm just...”
“Tired?”
“Older. Thirty-three already. In this very moment.”
So the bells really did ring. Judas isn't hopeless after all. “Good heavens. What are we going to do about newspaper photos when wrinkles start appearing on your pretty little face?”
“I guess I'll start wearing black eyeliner to distract from the rest.”
“Ouch,” says Judas, and he adores him. That overly dapper young man with his stupid upturned nose, who grimaces as if he's swallowed a lemon when Judas provokes him. That unbearable man, who keeps quiet when they call him ‘god’ because he knows it could be useful to everyone for their cause. That man who fell from the sky with great ideals and enough lucid madness to think he could really make them come true, and enough courage to put everything he has on the line. A madman who gives himself without hesitation, a gentle visionary, a revolutionary of another era, a king of the crowds, the leader of the desperate, a shining star in the night of their lives. Judas adores him, adores him, adores him. He feels the wool in his jacket pocket again, and fuck it, if he waits any longer, his heart will explode. “You're an asshole, but as they say, we're all nicer today, right?” Judas makes an ironic grimace and pulls a pair of dark blue wool gloves out of his pocket, exactly the same shade of blue as Jesus' coat.
Jesus' fingers stop. His hand finally falls back down, and Judas' stomach sinks.
A furrow forms on the bridge of Jesus' nose. “Oh. I said I wouldn't accept gifts.”
“It's not a gift, though,” Judas replies harshly. “I'm taking care of someone in need. It's an act of charity. Haven't you seen your hands? Your fingernails will fall off if you keep this up, and then who are we going to vote for in the next election?”
“It is a present,” says Jesus, shaking his head in exasperation. “You gave me a present because today is my—”
“There's no wrapping,” says Judas, and if Jesus doesn't take those damn gloves now, he'll have to bury himself directly under these fucking columns, so Judas pushes them into Jesus's hands. “They're not even new, obviously.”
Jesus looks at them, his lips tight. He seems to be observing an alien artifact. He holds them there, uncertain. “...Obviously.”
“No waste, circular economy. It's just that one day I was passing by the flea market, I saw them and thought of you, so I...”
“You thought of me.”
Now that he hears him say it, it sounds far more compromising than anything Judas could ever have said. “I'm a generous man.”
And in one of his bizarre outbursts during which his whole face contorts into an inexplicable emotion, Jesus says, “Yes, you are. You are.”
“It's... nothing serious. You can give them back, actually. I'm sure someone in there really needs them.”
The earlier surge of emotion is sucked away by an annoyed frown. It's almost comical. “Then I'll accept this gesture of charity,” Jesus says flatly. He slips on the gloves, and damn, they look like they were made for him.
Judas's heart melts now that he knows those fantastic hands will be a little safer.
Jesus begins to pace back and forth, a clear sign that his patience is dangerously close to its limit. Soon he will turn away with the best intentions of ignoring Judas, then he'll reconsider and attack again. But for now, there are only his hands inside the gloves, and Judas' legs which are weaker.
Then, as expected...
“You're impossible, you know that, Judas. Every time I think that... I should be used to it by now. But it's my fault too. It really is! I do nothing but let myself be provoked, I should just leave you alone. That's why I shouldn't do what I'm about to do. But you know, it's true that we're all kinder today, and I have something for you too.”
Wait. What?
This time it's Jesus who, unbelievably, reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out. Judas can't see what it is. It's something small and now it's closed inside Jesus's glove. “It's Christmas too, did you forget?”
Almost. The truth is that, in his mind and heart, that day is now only Jesus' birthday.
“So,” Jesus continues, “you behaved a little badly and you don't deserve it, but...”
“Now you're Santa Claus too.”
"Just – stop! For once, you can avoid having the last word and... ugh!" Now he's the one pushing his gift into Judas's palms. Judas would find it rather funny, but right now he's too busy staring open-mouthed at the small artifact: an exquisitely crafted wooden object, heart-shaped, with many little images meticulously carved inside it. Judas recognizes a magnificent, tiny lion and something that resembles the jagged lines of... his tattoos?
“It's your heart, as I see it,” Jesus says simply, as if he hadn't just uttered the wildest words ever. “I carved it with symbols that I think represent you well. That's the Lion of Judah, which is everything that is strong and noble and protective. I thought it was very fitting, although, thinking about it with a clear head, maybe I should have put a donkey on it. I think... Judas? Aren't you going to say anything? You usually say I'm the one who doesn't talk. You... don't like it? Is this too much? Judas."
As he was speaking, Jesus placed his palm under Judas', and with his free index finger traced various small designs. Judas must have missed something in his explanation. A few snowflakes must have fallen into his eyes. Everything is muffled, as if a cotton veil had been placed over them.
“Now I'm one present behind,” says Judas.
Finally, Jesus covers Judas' heart with his hand, and Judas' hand with his own. Now Judas' heart is warm in Jesus' hands, and Jesus squeezes it gently. “You don't have to feel obligated to...”
“I don't feel obligated.”
“Well.” Jesus inhales, and it's like he's out of tune, as if he's lost the previous rhythm of his breathing. “Well. If you insist.”
“What can I do for you?” Judas says gently. Ah. Not even when he got his first tattoo at thirteen from a guy slightly older than him with tools of dubious origin and no experience; not even when he threw himself into the fray for the first time during a protest and saw a police baton coming down on his forehead; not even that time he smoked something he shouldn't have, and felt sick and dreamed for days of his mother's tear-stained face as she kicked him out of the house, and his father's foot crashing into his ribs; no, on none of those occasions had he ever been as afraid as he is right now.
And the man in front of him, unaware of everything, rubs the back of Judas's hand. “There's something I want.”
“Then ask.”
Those simple words seem to shock Jesus.
Judas is struck by a revelation: maybe Jesus, a sacrificial lamb in the hands of the wrong people, a time bomb in the hands of only slightly less wrong people-- yes, maybe Jesus never really asked for anything.
“I... I've always controlled myself,” says Jesus. “I've always stayed focused, forcing myself to avoid distractions, trying to be a model son.” His voice breaks here. Judas would like to break anyone who makes Jesus sound like that. He can do it, he has experience with bastard fathers.
"I've always thought about what was the right thing to do. I always backed down, I never allowed myself... never... I didn't let myself...“ Jesus shakes his head. ”But I'm so tired, and I want so much."
“What?”
For a crazy moment, Jesus looks like he's about to swear. “Don't you know?”
"No, I'm not as smart as that guy who has all the answers and never gives them. I'm afraid you'll have to tell me.”
“Asshole,” Jesus exhales weakly. Then, with more vigor, “You jerk,” and he pushes him a little, “I don’t have any answers,” he pushes him again, “I don’t. Know. Anything!” He pushes him against a column.
Jesus is shaking now. His hair has fallen in front of his face, his gaze is fiery.
"Sometimes I think I don't know why I do what I do,” he says in anger. Then, he lets out a sob. His head drops forward, falling and falling until it rests on Judas' shoulder. “And then there's you, reminding me. Keeping me grounded, really caring about me, thinking about me... and then, did you really have to be such a special person? The way you give yourself to others, the way you live for others. Your passion, your kind eyes--no, shut up. I'm sorry, you can bark all you want, but you can't hide those kind eyes. And all the love you burn with, can't you see how warm it is? I can't ignore you, I'm tired of keeping you away. I want, I want... And why are you giving it back to me now?" He says this last thing in a very funny way, almost whining like an exasperated child.
Jesus intercepts Judas' fingers as they push his wooden artifact back into Jesus' coat. “Judas, why—”
“Just let me say—”
“I don't care what you—”
“Because it's already yours!”
Now they're both panting. They look like two boxers who've just had a fierce fight. They even have sweat on their foreheads. What a pair of fucking idiots.
“Keep it, keep it,” says Judas, dazed, pressing his hands to his own face. Keep me, keep me.
“Okay, fine,” says Jesus, “Okay. I'll keep it. But please, don't cry.”
“What? You're crying harder than me, your nose is even running, you're...” Judas takes a corner of his keffiyeh and wipes it under Jesus' nose. “You're a mess. I'm going to call the journalists, they should take your picture now.”
“Stop it! It was such a beautiful moment,” says Jesus, grabbing him by the wrists. “You're terrible at this stuff.”
“I know,” agrees Judas. “I tend to ruin things. I'm sorry.”
Jesus smiles with his eyes closed and a tender sadness. “It's okay. The gloves are perfect. I would forgive you anything.”
Judas is lucky his back is against the column. His head is spinning. His legs are between Jesus's, his wrists between Jesus' fingers, his heart in Jesus' pocket. Could it be? Could it be true? “You always forgive everyone everything. You have to stop.”
“Can you... can you stop, please? Doing this, I mean.”
“I can't be anything other than who I am, Mr. Superstar.”
“You could try to... Oh.” Jesus frowns. “We're doing it again.”
Yes, they are. They remain silent for a few moments as the sharp spark between them quiets into something softer. Their breathing synchronizes. Cologne mixes with tobacco. Jesus hasn't let go yet. It seems he really doesn't want to tonight. Judas tries a gentle tug. No luck. Strong hands.
“We could do something, just this once,” Judas suggests. “We could—”
“Kiss.”
“...be quiet. Ah.”
Jesus cups Judas' face in his hands. “I can be quiet, later. Can you kiss me, first?”
Judas looks down. He... doesn't know. It's not that he's not the kissing type, and he'd be lying if he said that the taste of Jesus' sweat under Judas' tongue had never populated his dreams. But those were dreams. It's just that he doesn't know how to love him.
“What will you do if you don't kiss me?” Jesus provokes him. It's as if he's read his mind. “You won't run away and leave me here alone.” The trust he places in Judas is impressive. Not even Judas knows what he'll do, there under the snow on that mad night. Jesus, however, seems to know.
“I'm not the lion you think I am.”
“You liar. You—”
They kiss. It's impossible to say who started it. There is no beginning and no end, just a somewhat painful and imperfect entanglement, but one so great that it fills a lifetime. It fills two lifetimes. Maybe Judas isn't the lion, but Jesus believes he is, and that's enough. It will be enough, at least for tonight. If Jesus wants this tonight... yes, if he's wistful and tired and wants this from Judas tonight...
Jesus asks for a lot and gives a lot; he's voracious and generous. He takes Judas' breath away, but opens his coat with one hand, pulls Judas closer to him, and closes it around him. Keep me, keep me, keep me, keep me...
The stormy ocean calms down. Jesus' lips kiss Judas' forehead, his temple. Even if it's only for tonight, even if it's only for tonight...
“Merry Christmas, my dea--my dearest Judas.”
Yeah, this night is silent. This night is holy.
“Happy birthday.”