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Life as a failed messiah is far more rewarding than Jesus could have ever expected. He is more alive now than he ever was before. He’s allowed himself to grow into himself and build a life that is almost unrecognizable compared to the tight restraints he thought he would always live within. His life is his own and it is worth more than it ever was before. And he gets to share his life with someone who loves and understands him as much as he has loved him since he met him. Their love is deeper than love he has ever shared with anyone else. But his life did come at a price.
He used to love the spring, and he still does. Of course he does. All of his favorite colors and smells come out in the spring, the consequences of his actions aren’t the season's fault. But he dreads it too. When the days get longer and the crocuses peek through the earth for their brief visit, Passover is coming. And for the month leading up to it, the nightmares make themselves at home again.
It’s much better than the first year after he abandoned his duty in the garden of Gethsemane. For months sleep would evade him, and when it found him it brought vivid nightmares that felt more like memories of the life he was supposed to live. When the nightmares persisted he would evade sleep until he could barely recognize himself in the mirror. It was Judas who brought him to bed and asked him to stay there. He was the one who held him when night terrors made him thrash and groan.
Usually that kind of support isn’t needed anymore. Usually he can manage his own rest with meditation and strategic naps throughout the day. Usually. Nights like tonight are an exception.
Tonight, the same day he saw the first insects greeting the spring, he is hurled into the waking world desperately clawing at an imagined weight on his chest, gasping for air to chase the feeling of water from his burning lungs. He can still see the holes ripped in his hands and feel the ghastly pain shooting through his limbs from his feet. When he touches them they feel hot and sticky. It always feels so real. He’s hallucinating, he knows he is. It’s just a trick, part of his imagination is still trapped in the nightmare world and that’s all there is to it. The pain is as real as the thoughts of violence and reckless impulses that invite themselves into his brain from time to time. It feels integral, but it isn’t really a part of him.
He doesn’t want to wake Judas up. He still feels a little bit of shame for bothering him, especially since it’s nice to watch him sleep. He wishes that this was a night where seeing his slumbering face and listening to his breathing is enough to impart that same peace to him. But he still can’t breathe and the wounds won’t go away.
He’s been with Judas long enough to know that he doesn’t have to go through this alone. Judas doesn’t want him to. It’s better for both of them if he wakes him.
So he tries not to look at his hand when he grabs his lover’s shoulder and means to gently shake him awake, but he digs his fingers and startles him awake instead.
“Mm?” Judas blinks and takes in his wide eyes and shaky breathing. “Hey,” he says softly and runs a hand over his hair. He takes the time to tuck it behind his ears. “Nightmare time?”
Jesus gulps and holds out his trembling hands, knowing that Judas can’t see the bloody mess he’s looking at. “They won’t go away.”
“Give them here.” He holds out his hands and Jesus lays his aching wrists on his open palms. Judas knows exactly what he’s seeing. They’ve been through this before and they’ll do it again. He runs his thumbs over his wrists until he finds the spot that’s hurting him. Gradually, Jesus’s breathing settles to match the rhythm of the familiar caresses.
“Is it here?” He covers the place where Jesus flinched the most. Jesus swallows and nods. Even though he can’t see them, he can still feel them, and the strain in his arms and chest has barely begun to dull.
Judas gently lifts one wrist and presses his lips to them. Jesus almost sobs with relief as the shooting pain fades, and when Judas kisses his other wrist the imaginary gaping wounds are gone. He leans forward and rests his head against Judas’s so he can kiss his cheek when he’s caught his breath. The scratch of his beard grounds him a little more. “How’s your shoulders?”
“Not great.” Jesus tries to laugh but there’s no mirth in it. They hurt just as much as they did the night before. Judas nods and retrieves a wooden box from under the bed. Jesus had made it from scraps so he could have something nice to keep some hemp seed oil and the tonic he’s been prescribed for nights like this. He gags when he takes the medicine. The herbs are bitter, but it does help. He takes a sip of wine from the box to take the worst of the taste from his mouth.
“Go ahead and get comfortable,” Judas instructs as he warms the oil in his hands. “Is it just the shoulders tonight?”
Jesus shakes his head. “Everything hurts.”
“That’s okay,” he reassures him. “We’ll take care of that.” His hands, always soft, are exactly the touch Jesus needs. They glide up his back and his arms and mold the muscles back to how they’re supposed to be, loose and relaxed. The familiar touch of his most loved one, the oils, and the herbal concoction all work in tandem to bring weight back to his eyes and still his breathing.
He falls back asleep while Judas works the aches from his thighs, feeling loved instead of afraid and making a note to bring Judas as many peaches as he can carry as soon as they’re in season. In the meantime he’ll pick up some preserves in the morning. It will be a month before the worst is over. But the time will pass. It’s his time, he’ll find a way to enjoy it. Maybe he’ll build a birdhouse tomorrow.