sometimes, only sometimes, jason wants to take the same crowbar that demised him and pry out the broken parts of god in him. those parts his mother had told him to embrace because father was forgiving; he’d protect him. now he sits on the worn sofa with his armor and helmet already stripped off; as the ghost, knight, of one he feared to be, he realizes how naive he was.

he looks down at his hands lying on his lap, the booth he booked bathed in the warm glow of flickering candles, reminiscent of a clandestine confessional. on his calloused and rough skin, he sees crimson liquid and sticky staining on his fingertips, like pomegranate. he can almost feel that familiar warmth, but it’s not real, he knows.

his attention is broken when scarlet silk brushes against his knee, which has rasped from kneeling on raw concrete of hopeless prayers. it blocks his sight, prompting his gaze to look up. instead of a jesus impaled to the holy cross, he sees a face kissed by the candlelight that sucks the air out of his lungs. delicate and oh, so soft hands slide on his broad shoulders, the curl of the painted lips fueling his temptation.

it’s divine; he sees the deceiving image of heaven in those eyes. they could make him forget, heave him out of his thoughts and fears that eat his brain alive. but he needs that sickness inside him like a body needs a spine. he may survive without it, but, oh, how deformed and misshapen he'd become.

jason watches the silken robe hit the floor, revealing more of that pure skin he’s so afraid to touch. he can’t do it, he’s already a sinner, not when guilt is gnawing against his stomach and probing the nausea. he watches those unhuman hands approach closer and–

“no–” jason breathes out — too late, because he paid for the whole night already — his hands already keeping the unearthly touch away from his filthy body. “no, put it back on. i- i changed my mind.”