Chapter Text
Are you sure?
Do you need to ask?
You know what this means.
I know.
Jean…
Please.
The preparation is important. He bathes in a pool of warm water and scrubs every inch of himself clean: beneath the nails, between his toes, behind the ears. He rubs oil into his skin thoroughly until he feels warm and tingly all over. He must be pure for this ritual. At its completion, he will be robbed of it.
He pulls the robes on, letting the dark fabric drape over his too-thin frame. He does not feel beautiful when he looks at himself in the mirror. He feels small, delicate. Like prey, almost. He ties the sash around his waist to hold the robes together and stares at himself. What will Jack think when he unwinds it? He thinks the other man might like it, the way he takes satisfaction in carefully untying Jean from his silks. Like unwrapping a precious gift.
Normally there are people to help with this, attendants that would wrap the robes around him, who would oil his skin and comb his hair. A performance requires an audience, after all. But it will be just the two of them, and they will have to make do. They know the steps. They've witnessed it before. He just needs to be strong and keep a steady hand.
Jean takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and pushes the door open.
The temple is quiet, its occupants slumbering or otherwise occupied. The braziers in the chamber are lit, the stone altar cleaned so thoroughly that no stains remain. Bhaal's ruby gaze stares down at the proceedings from above, and Jean wonders: will Father intervene? Will he attempt to put a stop to this blasphemy, or will he simply observe, punishing them after their sin has been enacted?
He pauses at the top of the steps, silver eyes moving from the symbol of Father looming over him to the altar where Jack waits for him. Jean's breath catches in his chest looking at him, more solemn than he's ever seen the other man, hair pulled back neatly, dressed only from the waist down in dark trousers, feet bare against the stone floor. The sword in his hands gleams on the firelight.
He takes the steps slowly, the black robes trailing after him across the worn stone. It's cold beneath his bare feet. He tries not to shiver. He keeps his eyes on Jack, who watches him in kind. The other man's warm eyes on him makes Jean flush down to the tops of his shoulders.
He comes to a stop before the altar, resisting the nervous urge to speak and ruin the moment, or to reach out and kiss him. Clutching the sword, Jack hesitates before holding it out for Jean to take. It's heavier than it looks: ornate. New. It has never pierced flesh, never drawn blood. That was important, too. Jean holds it in one hand and takes Jack's offered hand in the other, letting himself be guided to the altar.
You know what will happen if we fail.
Then we won't fail.
I can't. Not again. Not—
It won't be your hand.
…Are you sure you can do it?
I can if it's you.
Jean lays back against the stone altar laying the sword next to him. Jack climbs up after, pulling himself atop Jean so that he straddles his legs. For a moment, neither of them move. They observe one another, silver eyes staring into warm brown, trepidation mixing with the anticipation of what is to come. Fear, too. They would be foolish to be anything but afraid. Someone in the temple might discover them and put a stop to it. Father himself could manifest and strike them both down. Jean swallows, lips parting around a shaky sigh.
Finally, Jack does move. His hands reach out to splay across the dark silen robes, then to the sash tied around Jean’s middle. His fingers work to loosen the knot, then to slowly unwind it. He moves slowly, reverently. They cannot rush this, no matter how afraid they may be.
Were this done properly, there would be attendants to assist them: hands to pull the robe open for Jack, to pin Jean’s arms down to the stone altar, to strip Jack of his trousers. But Jack requires no assistance to pull the sash free, nor to open Jean’s robes and expose his naked body to the chill of the chamber. He lays a hand over Jean’s chest, as if to feel his heartbeat through his skin.
Jean wants to touch him. Every inch of his body yearns to press up into him, to sink his greedy nails into Jack’s shoulders, trail kisses down his neck and his shoulders. But he cannot move, not yet. He cannot speak, not yet. His body is a gift for his beloved, to use as he sees fit.
When should it be?
Right at the end.
His back arches off dark silk spread across stone with a soft whimper. Jack pauses briefly to stare down at him, half-sheathed inside of him. Jean digs his heel into the other man's back, a wordless command to continue and Jack does. This part isn't for him. It's okay if each thrust twinges a little, if his back aches from the worn stone, if the room borders on too cold. He looks up at Jack looking back at him, Jack's hands on his pale hips, fingers digging crescent moons into his flesh.
He can feel Father's eyes on them, the only witness to their defiance. Let him watch. Let him quake with impotent rage while Jean moans and gasps and whines for the other man. His body trembles against the stone, teeth sinking into his lip. Just a little more. A little more. More. Jean's fingers curl around the hilt of the sword.
Jack gets his arms beneath Jean and pulls him up off the stone. Jean feels himself pulled tight against the other man and raises the blade.
Do it quickly.
I know.
A part of him thinks he should have let Jack do this. He would have done it faster. But he manages it— thrusts the sword through Jack's back between his shoulders, through his own chest and out his back. His fingers shake on the hilt. Jack's arms hold him tightly, his face buried in Jean’s neck. He tastes copper on his tongue.
It doesn't hurt the way he thought it would.
His hand slides from the sword to cup Jack's face. The other man lifts his head to look at him, warm eyes a little dazed. Jean feels his heart tremble, but then Jack leans in and kisses him gently, clutched tight against his chest, held together by the blade that pierces them both.