Chapter Text
Gold.
That’s what he remembers most from that day: those golden eyes, shining through bloodstained hair, gleaming in the evening sun as though his honey-brown irises were truly pieces of polished gold, crafted by the best artisans known to man. He vaguely remembers the spear lodged into Jesus’ torso, breaking the rib that was once used to create man and woman all those years ago. He vaguely remembers Mary wailing, crying for God to save her son as the Roman soldiers continue to pound the nails deeper into his flesh. He vaguely remembers the other disciples, staring at him from the front of the crowd, eyes screaming words that he knows they all would never say aloud.
But that gold.
Oh, what a glorious gold! It shone like the rays of the sunrise, breaking through the chill of the night, warming the earth with its love and light. It was addictive, staring into that gold. And he couldn’t look away, not even when Jesus looked in his direction, spotting him at the back of the crowd, hiding behinds the hundreds of people wailing, screaming, shouting to release the son of God. He couldn’t look away when Jesus locked eyes with him, blood streaming down his face, flowing from the thorny crown he bore. He couldn’t look away when Jesus smiled at him, and mouthed those words.
Those wretched words.
The words that would haunt Judas for the rest of his days. The words that Judas curses at, even 2000 years later. The words that bound his soul to this earth, damning him to wander this planet for all eternity, never resting, never tiring.
Those words.
I love you.
—————
Judas awoke with a start, his alarm cutting through the silence that had made its home in his apartment. He rolled over, slamming his hand on the shitty old alarm clock he bought from an electronics store some odd decades back. He grabbed his phone from off of his bedside table, the light blinding him momentarily as he blearily tried to make out the time.
6:00 AM, December 25th. His birthday.
Judas sighed. It wasn’t actually his birthday, nor was it that man’s. He simply picked it as his own due to the simplicity of the date, nothing else. Long ago, the church had decided to change Jesus’ birthdate to the day of the winter solstice, at least according to those damn Romans. They killed Jesus, then changed everything about him. Judas scoffed in his head, cursing them for killing Jesus, as if he himself hasn’t played an instrumental part in that.
A message pops up on the screen
“happy birthday jude! merry christmas :)” is what his manager from the coffee stand had texted him.
Judas set his phone down on the bed and sighed. It had been approximately 300 years since he had first lied and said this day was the day he was born, and it seems it will continue for another 300. Judas sat up, pushing the covers off of him as he prepared to begin his day.
He walked from his small bedroom to his smaller bathroom, barely large enough for him to spread his arms out in. He faced the mirror, gazing at himself as he grabbed his face wash, taking in what he saw. His skin a pale ochre, a mere ghost of what it used to be, almost as if the curse he bears muted the melanin in his skin, removing the warmth that his mother once called beautiful. His hair, originally long, curly, and black, buzzed right to the scalp, with only the stubble peaking through to remind him that he’s not a victim of male pattern baldness as many of his less fortunate kin are. His face, two downturned eyes framing a slightly crooked nose, rough lips adorned by a dark mustache and slight goatee, with stubble growing on the sides of his face and chin.
And those eyes of his. A dark, deep brown, the kind that looks black but shows their true colors in the right light. A stark opposition to the light honey of those eyes, the ones that haunt his dreams.
Judas blinks.
He squirts the face wash out onto his hand, then rubs the soft liquid into his face. He didn’t necessarily need face wash, given the whole immortal thing, but a therapist once told him that having a routine is crucial.
He only saw her three times, back in the 1990’s when he lived in New York City. He had lived there back in the 20’s when he first came over to the “New World”, sailing across the Atlantic on a boat from Ireland. He moved out sometime in the 40’s after the Great Depression had ended. People got too suspicious that even after 20 years, he still looked 30.
Back then, living without documents was easier. In the 90’s, not so much. He was lucky enough to find a therapist that didn’t require a birth certificate or social security number, nor did she charge an arm and a leg without insurance. On their second meeting, she diagnosed him with PTSD, which was apparently a big deal.
Judas didn’t care. He just wanted the nightmares to stop.
The therapist imparted many wise words on him, but the only one he follows to this day is having a routine. On weekdays, he wakes up at 5 am, washes his face, heads to the kitchen and eats his breakfast, usually either cereal or oatmeal, then heads back to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, then gets dressed and bikes down to the rickety little shack that he and other wayward souls serve coffee out of to start his 6 am shift. On weekends and holidays, he sleeps in until 6, then does the same things, except instead of biking to work he just bikes around the block before returning home, ready to do whatever he needs to.
Judas splashes water on his face, washing the cooling liquid off of his face. He dries his skin off with a ratty old towel, threadbare and on its last legs, before heading into the kitchen.
Empty.
Not a single piece of food in his cupboards, outside of a few old cans of chicken noodle soup and some stale saltines that have been sitting there for who knows how long. Judas sighs, closing his cupboards. It’ll be easier to just head to the soup kitchen, he tells himself. If he gets there early enough maybe he can avoid the long lines and the cold.
Judas walks back to his kitchen, quickly brushing his teeth before moving to his closet and throwing on the least hole-y clothes he can find. He puts on his shoes, some ratty old things he got from Good Will a few months back, threw on the warmest jacket he has (spoilers: it’s not very warm), and headed out the door, grabbing his bike helmet on his way out.
He walked out of his apartment and down the stairs, the elevator being perpetually broken like some ironic twist on Big Bang Theory, except this was a run down apartment building full of roaches and lingering patches of asbestos, not a place where theoretical physicists would want to live. Judas approached the bike rack outside the building, his rusty blue bike the only one present on the metal bars. He unlocked his bike lock, strapped on his helmet, jumped on the bike and pushed off, sailing through the early morning streets, pedaling as fast as he could until he reached the tucked away corner where the soup kitchen resides.
Judas could hear him before he could see him. His warm laughter, the sound of light rolling off his tongue, blessing the recipient with words made of glory and pureness.
Judas could smell him before he could see him. That distinct smell, of wood and sand, the smell of the morning dew glimmering in the dawn light, the smell of a mother’s love and a father’s affection.
Judas could see him before he could see him. He saw his skin, a dark tan, standing against his long black hair, waving like the sea. He saw his clothes, a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons loose, revealing a chest smoother than the most precious sandstone, as if the coldness of December didn’t effect him in the slightest; tucked into blue jeans, a black belt accentuating his slim waist, with black Converse decorating his feet, scuffed on the white toes. Golden jewelry adorned him, rings covering his fingers, earrings and cuffs covering his ears.
And in between those ears, was his face. A sharp nose sat above soft lips, surrounded by a dark beard, darker than the abyssal sea. And on either side of that beautiful nose sat almond eyes, the milky white of the sclera becoming a pool for those warm, honey brown irises that swam within.
Those eyes.
Those damned, golden eyes.
The man faced away from the person he was conversing with as Judas approached. a wide smile on his face as if he expected this meeting to come to fruition. Judas came to a stop and got off his bike, debating if he should turn around ride back to his apartment to fight with the rats over the last sleeve of saltines in his cupboard. But before he could even begin to come to a decision, the man’s mouth opened, a tone of happiness laced into his dulcet voice.
“Hello, Judas.” Jesus said, his smile growing wider with every second. “It’s been a while.”