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The garden was a held breath, silent and still. Jesus removed his sandals and felt the cool earth rise to meet his heels. Stones dug into his skin as he walked.
There had been so little rain here — all was dry, gasping for relief. He knelt before a tree whose branches reached into the air as if in supplication. Oh God, will there be water today?
The ground scraped his knees, and when he touched the roots of the tree with his hand he felt the soft agony of death in flaking wood. Moonlight slipped through the patchwork of branches above him.
He heard footsteps on the nearby path, muted, as if someone was trying to go unnoticed. His own heartbeat marched with each footfall. He allowed himself a brief moment of terror, gasping at the pang of it.
“Lord,” someone said.
It was Judas’ voice, hushed beneath a sudden gust of wind. It thrilled Jesus to hear it, even now. He remembered nights with their bellies full of wine and the fire crackling low between them, when Judas told them stories that he wove from things half-lived and half-imagined.
“Lord,” Judas repeated. Jesus heard him draw closer.
Somehow, turning to look at him was one of the hardest things Jesus had ever done. When he did, he saw Judas standing where the last root of the tree crested above the ground. His face was shrouded in darkness, his eyes downcast. “My friend,” Jesus said. His own voice sounded far away, like was listening to an echo of himself.
Judas approached and knelt beside him. He’d always taken up so much space, limbs long and shoulders broad. Most people had to crane their necks to look at him. His smile stretched like eagles’ wings. But tonight Judas felt small next to him, and distant. An ever-outstretched palm suddenly curled into a fist.
And now, not for the first time, Jesus wondered whether either of them ever had a choice. He was always meant to land here, on his knees in a garden far from home. He could never quite picture who might be here with him until the day Judas sought him out and said that he believed. Jesus remembered placing his hand on Judas’ arm and thinking, I’m so sorry it’s you, hoping he was wrong despite the sinking dread that promised he was right. I’m so sorry.
“What are you doing out here alone?” Judas asked. His voice shook slightly, and Jesus found himself wondering if he was cold.
“I’m not alone,” said Jesus. “You’re here.”
He heard Judas exhale, a rush of air that seemed to wrench his entire body forward until his forehead touched the ground. Jesus felt what he always did when he saw a human being in pain — a great, violent pulse of love that made his lungs feel too big for his body, that hurt more than any suffering he could imagine. He placed his hand on Judas’ shoulder and felt him trembling beneath his palm.
“My friend,” said Jesus.
Judas cowered closer to the earth. “Leave this place,” he said. “Lord, leave and don’t look back.”
Jesus didn’t respond. He squeezed his hand, let it trail down Judas’ arm until he gripped his elbow and drew them both up to stand. Their eyes met for a moment — how many times had they looked at one another, across a sea of people waiting for a miracle? Over a meal shared on a dusty blanket on the side of the road? Hours ago, when Jesus knelt with a cool, clean cloth in his hand as Judas slipped the sandals from his feet?
Jesus had just enough time to notice how brightly Judas’ eyes were shining before he was being kissed. Judas’ hands tangled in his hair, his knee pushing against the front of Jesus’ tunic until it slipped beneath it. Jesus gasped, and in the blissful seconds between his inhale and exhale he felt his mind go completely still.
He’d been kissed before, and each time there had been a nagging guilt that rang in his ears until it became his father’s voice. Jesus felt it rising like a cresting wave.
No, he thought. Not tonight.
He parted his lips, and Judas groaned into his mouth, a sound punched from the core of him that Jesus felt in his throat. Judas pushed him back against the tree, one hand snaking down to touch him beneath his tunic.
“Wait,” Jesus gasped, yanking his head back. He took Judas’ hand in his, brought it up and cradled it between their chests. “Wait, wait.”
Judas shook before him, his lips catching against Jesus’ neck. “Lord, lord,” he chanted, voice breaking. The shock of the kiss was fading, and Jesus was reminded of how very like his friend this was, how Judas often sprang into action under stress — with heated words, with a ready fist. Maybe that’s why his father chose him. The thought filled him with rage, white-hot and blinding. It threatened to consume him.
He turned Judas’ hand until it pressed against his own chest, above his heart. “Breathe with me,” said Jesus, more for himself than for Judas’ sake. “Can you do that?”
Their foreheads tipped together, and Judas sighed, nodding slightly. Jesus took a deep, audible breath. He let his eyes drift closed. Judas’ exhale curled like smoke against his lips.
“I wondered, at first,” Judas whispered. Jesus felt the words vibrate through him. “If you had one of these.” He patted his hand on Jesus’ chest, in time with his heartbeat.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” Jesus said, and before he could dwell on the hurt of that he inched forward and kissed the side of Judas’ mouth, then his lower lip, the point of his chin beneath his beard. Judas’ other hand still cradled the back of his skull, but now it dropped to the juncture of his shoulder blades, down to his lower back. Judas pulled him in, gently, their chests rising and falling.
For a time they stood exchanging breaths, the garden heavy with darkness, until Judas pressed his hips forward and the hard line of his cock brushed against Jesus’ thigh. This, too, Jesus had done before, in moments of frantic rebellion that felt like brushing the sun with the tips of his fingers. He recognized his humanity here, fitful with longing. He clung to it now — Judas rutting against him, reaching down and slipping his hand under Jesus’ tunic, grip dry and firm.
Their lips found one another again, and Judas’ tongue swept into Jesus’ mouth, lightning-quick. Jesus felt scorched by it, even as he thrust up into the fist around his cock. He moaned into Judas’ mouth, hands clutching the rough fabric that spanned his upper back. Judas held him up against the tree.
There was nowhere for them to be but here, in no other time but now. Judas sped up his hand, and Jesus knocked his head back as his mouth dropped open. Strands of his hair caught in grooves of wood.
“My lord,” Judas said. He rucked up his own tunic, and suddenly he was stroking them together, his thighs bracketing Jesus’ hips. It was awkward for a moment, the angle all wrong. Then Judas placed his free hand on the back of Jesus’ thigh, guided him to wrap his leg around Judas’ waist. His palm was huge around them.
Jesus arched into his touch, dragged his lips across Judas’ cheek until his teeth grazed the shell of his ear. “Please,” he said, his voice tight. He felt something in his chest shift, a pathway from his sternum to the place where Judas held them. Joy raced along it, and sorrow, and pressure that strained into Judas’ hand. “Please.”
He couldn’t remember a time in the last three years when he’d said that word, for better or worse. He’d heard it daily, outreached hands tugging on the fraying edge of his robe. Now he said it over and over, let it build with him as a scream lodged in the back of his throat.
Please. I deserve to feel something good, he told himself, as Judas shuddered against him.
He panted against his mouth. Jesus held his face in his hands, shouting as he came over Judas’ fist. Judas kissed him and kissed him, his hand slowing, his chest heaving.
I deserve it, Jesus thought again, and swallowed around the voice that whispered “you are but bread, given for them, given nothing in return.”
Judas wiped his hand on his tunic and held him, gathered him close. Jesus felt cold air wrap around his ankles, slink up and settle between his thighs. There was no sound in the garden — just their breathing, deepening, slowing. Jesus tasted salt on his lips. His eyes were still closed.
“Kiss me again,” he said, hand on Judas’ cheek. “Kiss me again when the time comes.”
“Lord,” Judas began, but Jesus traced his lips with his fingers and pressed them gently against his mouth.
“I love you,” Jesus said, turning as he slipped out of his arms.
He heard Judas step towards him, then stop, then scream until his voice was hoarse, until his chest crackled.
Judas finally withdrew, steps stumbling and quick.
When all was quiet Jesus opened his eyes, turned them to heaven, and knelt.