Work Text:
Tom had kissed him, before it all went to shit.
A gesture of loaded symbolism from a christian man who desired to create a martyr out of him. He kissed him, denoting him as the saviour—he kissed him: Harry was burnt on the stake with holes in his hands, holes in his feet; there was a hole in his chest. Every inch of his body had screamed and cried as he burnt mercilessly, but that didn't really hurt.
No, what hurt was is heart… his heart, it had been like it had been torn out of his chest. Feelings exploded outwards expelling into the empty air—he was losing it.
Sacrificed as a saviour, like his death meant salvation. He was dying for Them, but Harry was seventeen and he'd been fooled and misused like a pack of condom for a lifetime. He was seventeen and he knew pain better than he knew happiness. He'd thought it was his time to reap joy, but he supposes he was never meant to live past childhood.
He dies suffering—not physically, but deep inside. He dies with his heart made of gold, love, and abuse.
.
.
.
And He returns. Godly, divine, and in pain. Three days, three nights, three. He wakes up and he screams, because the pain is physical and Harry knows he is back against the divine will. He is no christian, but He is now something else and all he knows is agony.
He would say He was in Hell, if He could manage to think.
Harry roars, crawling out of a stony place—a cave. He cannot see anything, but he pushed and pushed and pushed until he was out and the sun was blazing. His skin melted like molten lava, and he choked on the feeling of his throat rolling with it, reforming. He came back—and He came back wrong, body of wax, hair the wick. His melting fingers grasped against the heating up stone, searching for hold and finding none. But it was fine. He crawled, infinite wax body leaving behind parts of himself as he tried to leave.
"I knew it," a voice breathed out, "I knew it would work."
Harry looks behind him, horror growing in His chest, and sees.
His lover, His Judas, his Tom.
"What did you do to me?" he gurgles out, spitting out red wax and trying and failing to stand on melting legs.
Tom merely smiles, kneels, passing a hand through his wicked hair, wax sticking to his hand. "I made you eternal, oh, loved one, oh Jesus,"
"That's not my name," Harry grinds out, "That's His name,"
"But you stole his story, darling, so now, we are them."
"His… story?"
Tom keeps smiling, even, it widens. This is the kind of monster he fell in love with, and he knows the sight of a grin is one to cower away from. But Harry could not run, even if he wished it so.
"There are power to words, Harry. You'd think I'd Believe in mere children's story? I was read the bible, and I recognized that it was telling a grand narrative—a powerful one. One that I just needed to harvest the power of for myself."
Harry stares stares stares.
Wearing the skin of his lover, Judas—green like the devil—looks like a roman painting the way his expression is almost sewn into his face. "Why would you choose the traitor?" he asks, wobbling voice as he gets used to these fragile vocal cords. He crawls, lifts himself as high as he can, raises his chin defyingly, "Judas is only human,"
"Look at yourself," Tom laughs, still kneeling, almost reverent like this, but Harry knows better. He knew better. "And you are only a third of the equation, Jesus,"
The son, the father, the holy spirit.
"No…" Harry says, realization dawning on him.
I'm here, a voice whispers: the wind, holy spirit.
"And here," Tom says, bright and shining like the sun.
Harry's hair feels like it is burning and his thoughts melt with it, boiling away without care. Tears of wax drop to the floor, not from his eyes but his skull. The world is blinding and he cannot see anything, he cannot see anything until he can again, and Tom is standing, now, in divine white, light following his every step.
"I am Judas, I am him, and I am Him, because I created you, my son: my lover."
Harry, if he could, would vomit bile. But wax comes out—a mocking green, jealousy. Jealous of this? This sickness? "You made me like this," it is not a question, "weak and easy to manipulate, make me into something else when you get bored. Playdough of your flesh, a dark ritual? And now you are God?"
"You don't truly wish to know how," Tom delicately says, pulling his strings as he steps from behind and gently helps his melting wax self stand. His feet are without form, more like stumps of clumps made of the slick liquid. The sun hits them both, but only Harry is affected.
His lover is father, was it always such? Or was this solely on his rebirth?
Harry cannot bear this knowledge, cannot bear this weight, cannot bear seeing the twisted monster of amalgamated mythology—he doesn't want to be a supporting role to Tom's story. And so, brooches of gold manifest on Tom's outfit as Harry turns and clings to this thief. The man smirks unknowing that Harry is building a myth of his own.
His feet of wax find form into the holes they previously held, and they do not heal, melting playdough blood escaping from his feet. Pierced.
Tom is his father, his lover—and now, his mother.
Because he takes the brooches, unties them in a quick move, and blinds himself.
Harry is taken to eternal darkness, and in it, he will never be blinded to His:
Lover
Father
Mother
—take your pick—again.
In blindness, he sees all.
Omnipotent.