Work Text:
Simon reaches out and touches his cheek. It’s abrupt but featherlight, and Jack stills, unable to blink or look away as Simon makes his skin tingle by tracking the line between cheek and nose. He touches Jack’s lips, and they part on instinct. When he pulls away, Jack swallows, exhaling out at the loss.
Only then does he suggest fixing Jack’s disguise; it’s the feeblest pretext, and he even makes a joke of it. Jack acquiesces and watches him dip his fingers into the rippling pool. It’s so quiet. No one around.
“Worried warrior,” he christens Jack, before going about the task.
Jack relaxes into it, letting Simon muddy his face up and even smear some into his hair. He’s silent, working intently like it’s a matter of great importance simply because it is to Jack. His pupils are huge. Memories flood in. Good ones
After a few minutes, Jack licks foul-tasting dirt from his lips and breaks the reverie. “Are you a priest, then? ‘Benevolent priest’ if we are giving ourselves medieval roles?”
What he says makes Jack’s stomach drop. “No. I don’t think Jesus knows who I am. I’m a sinner.” He’s staring at his knees, withdrawing, folding in on himself. Simon’s tone is one of utter self-possession.
“No,” Jack attempts, shaking his head. “No, you’re…” So good. So shining good.
He kisses him instead, and even if he must taste of dirt, Simon exhales in shock because it’s not a Christmas vac but this is happening anyway, and then sighs (groans), and cups Jack’s face, pulling him closer. It’s clumsy but so familiar, gentle and sweet, but they settle into it, pausing only to take sips of breath. They only jerk back minutes later at the rustle of leaves. A fat juicy pig, Jack hopes, but he’s so lightheaded he can’t recall why.
Simon’s shaking. “We are sinners, but….”
“No. No one has to know. Don’t ever tell anyone.”
“We will, though. We always will know. I was going to say ‘but… I know we can’t change. I’ve accepted it.’” These words take Herculean effort, Jack can see.
He knows the truth of them. “Maybe this,” and he looks broadly at the rushing river, the green trees, the shimmer of heat, the fetid presence of life which surrounds them, “is hell.” His voice comes out a giddy whisper.
“Then I want to stay.”
They don’t sleep until dawn.