---

"But John," Peter says quietly, the shadow of the desert sandstone keeping them as cool as it can under the burning sun, "what would Jesus say?"

John the Baptist shrugs, shame having been burned away long ago by the desire hissing in his blood. "If Jesus were here, which he isn't, but if he was he'd probably be jealous of me." He places a hand on Peter's delicate cheek, cleanly shaven--surprising for men like them, wanderers, spreading the word of God.

Peter scoffs, turning toward his palm subconsciously. "You're joking."

"Certainly not," he replies with a brush of his lips across Peter's forehead, his nose brushing against his dark hair. Peter's skin is warm beneath his lips, as if embarrassment stroked its darkened fingers across his skin, warming it solely for him. "Jesus would certainly me envious of me," he repeats. That is blasphemy, no doubt. Well. If God has an issue with it, let Him strike now.

And no strike comes. "He would not. You're overestimating your taste in men," Peter scoffs again, pushing away from their sandstone barrier.

John follows him out into the sunlight, toward the small town waiting for shepherds. "No, you underestimate how attractive you are. Which I'm trying to remedy, but you don't seem to want me to."

"Because it's--" and Peter chokes on the word, turning away even as John reaches for his shoulder. "--it's a sin."

"Ugh, no just--listen, Leviticus was a prick, okay?"

"Pah," Peter kicks at the sand, the town looming before them. "Tell that to God, why don't you?"

Sand skitters behind him as he runs toward the town, leaving John behind in his wake.

-

That night, John met with Jesus, housed in a private corner of a small home, piles of sand their only witnesses. "Jesus, I--there is something I need to ask you."

"Speak," he says with a smile, brushing some dirt out of his newly sprouting child's-beard. "And be heard." John shoves his shoulder, rolling his eyes. Jesus does so love to speak in tongues.

"You're aware of Peter? Your newest Apostle?" Barely as old as Jesus himself, and almost certainly five years younger than John. "I think--there is an issue."

"Oh? What kind of issue?" Jesus arches a dark brow, but the mischievous twist of his lips says he already knows. "Is it about your illicit meetings after dark?"

"Pffffft!" John feels his skin flush. "It's--maybe! They're not--you're such a child!" Jesus laughs quietly into the sleeve of his robe, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"What do you need me to say?" Jesus chuckles. "Do you need my permission to deflower him?" John splutters as he speaks, covering his face with his hands. "Or have you already done so?"

He mumbles into his hands of course I have because of course he has. Peter had been so eager under his hands, so pliant, begging for more as quietly as he could, the eyes of God upon them (and they'd lived, you know, God had done nothing).

Peter had been careful not to speak the name of the Lord whilst he'd bedded him.

"I just--he seems to think it's a sin. I don't know what to tell him. He has problems looking at me now."

"The thing about Fathers," Jesus murmurs, looking far older than his youthful face would belie, "is that they want their children to be successful and happy. Are you happy John? Does Peter make you happy?" John nods, and the light behind Jesus' eyes brightens. "Then who am I to tell you it's a sin?" And then he grins, white teeth flashing like the gates of Heaven themselves. "Fuck who you want."

"You can't speak that way," John says after a heartstopping moment.

"I'm the son of God," Jesus replies. "I can speak how I like."

-

The sunrise finds Peter at the town center, pulling up water from the well and handing out buckets-worth to citizens too small or too frail to raise the water themselves. John waits until the last child drags a washbin away toward home before he steps up to Peter, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Good morning, Peter."

"Good morning, John," he replies. "Have you seen the Son? There's a boy with a broken leg and--"

"Jesus said we were fine."

"Pardon?" Peter blinks, dumbfounded enough not to just brush past John's words.

"Jesus said that there's nothing wrong with you or me or us together. He said we can fuck who we want."

"He can't say that," oh Peter looks so aghast.

"He's the son of God, he can say what he likes." John shrugs, taking Peter's hands into his own. "But I--I just wanted to tell you I--I'm fond of you. I love you deeply. And I'd like to kiss you now, God as my witness."

Peter snorts, rolling his eyes skyward. "He's seen worse of us, I imagine." And then he cocks his head, arching a brow. "Well? What are you waiting for? There's still a boy with a broken leg--"