“You know, they’re burning me in Mexico right now,” Judas tells Lucifer one day. Xe’s drunk as fuck and so is Lucifer, the both of them unwound and limp on Judas’ couch, their feet haloed by empty Corona cans. Luce is an inch from sleep, but xe forces xer eyes open, slides xer glance over to meet Judas’s half-lidded gaze.
Luce snorts softly. “Happy Holy Saturday, motherfucker,” xe slurs. Judas doesn’t respond. “Could be worse, anyway. Could be burning in hell instead. If there actually was fire and brimstone there.” Xe sneaks a glance at Judas. “I could always set that shit up for ya, if you really want.”
Judas huffs, shakes his head. Then, “They make me ugly as possible, stuff me with candy, blow me up with firecrackers.” He drops his beer accidentally. It plinks onto the mound of cans at his ankles. He stares at it, bursts out laughing hysterically. Lucifer rolls xer eyes.
“Pull yourself together, shithead. You’re not the only one with a bad rap.” Xe reaches down and plucks the Corona up, setting it right. “We’re not in Mexico, so stop fucking whining.”
“No, instead we’re in the wonderful fucking nation of Sweden,” Judas slurs, spreading his arms wide, “where no one makes hideous effigies of me and sets them on fire.” He pauses, closes his eyes. “Belize, Chile, El Salvador, Hong Kong, Zambia. Xe told the whole fuckin world I betrayed xem.”
“I didn’t do shit,” Judas says. He snorts, sinks back into the couch, eyes half open. “Didn’t do shit,” he whispers.
Lucifer grabs a pillow, slams it into Judas’ face, and Judas yells in confusion, falling off the couch. “What the fuck?,” he shrieks.
“Shut up,” Lucifer grunts, “whiny little bitch.”
Judas’ eyes narrow into pinches. He struggles to his feet, barely able to stand, but he jabs his finger in Lucifer’s face anyway. “You can’t tell me,” his voice almost liquid with drunken rage, “that after God kicked you outta heaven, you didn’t sit around crying for months. Years, probably. Whining to every little angel you saw. No wonder why half of them left you.” He spits, unaware of Luce’s darkening face, barrels on. “Yeah, you probably bawled yourself to sleep at night too.” Then inspiration hits, and he straightens up one last time, a greasy smile curving across his face. “Probably fucked yourself to sleep moaning xer name, imagining xem touching your -”
And then Lucifer is up and ramming his body into Judas, and they’re on the floor, fists in hair and jaws and knees swinging and voices roaring, the beer cans crunching wildly beneath them. Lucifer’s hands are around Judas’ neck, squeezing, squeezing, and then suddenly: release.
Luce heaves himself off Judas, wiping a long smear of blood from his nose. The man lies spread-eagled on the floor, breathless and clutching his throat. The Coronas stop crunching.
“Fuck you,” Judas wheezes, “fuck you, fuck-” He lapses into silence, and Lucifer disappears into the kitchen. Footsteps, then the steady shhhh of water running, then the distant crk of a towel being torn from its seams. He rolls over, staring at the dust underneath the sofa, swipes a tear from his cheek angrily.
Judas doesn’t hear xem come back, but when xe speaks, xer voice is soft, but tipped. “I’m sorry.”