Luke sees himself to be above most pleasures in life—riches, romance, intimacy. He gave his life to Bray, his savior, his guiding light in the darkness, and if asked if he has ever regretted the decision, his face will twist into an ugly scowl, a bewildered, slightly-angered pucker, before smoothing out into his usual, solemn expression. "No. Never," he will simply state, an air of finality to his words. He abhors passing comments of "blind subservience," knowing deep in his gut that he had made the right decision to stand tall at Bray's side.
And although Luke does indeed deem himself to be above such pleasures, a profane feeling has crept over him throughout the years he's spent beneath Bray's guidance. A feeling of… desire. Frankly, he finds himself to be quite captivated by his savior (which isn't odd, when given much thought). His leader simply oozes charisma, from the tips of his toes snug in snakeskin boots to the straw fedora perched atop his dreaded locks.
Yes, it could be said that Bray is quite a peculiar specimen.
As Luke watches the man deliver his sermons of wisdom, absorbing the scriptures which spill from his righteous lips, he will catch his gaze wandering over Bray's form. The splashes of ink across his strong arms, the faint smattering of freckles across his cheeks, the stormy depths of his azure orbs which Luke swears house the vast expanse of the universe, a sight which steals the breath from his very lungs. And Luke, he hangs onto every word, every syllable, as if they were the anchor keeping him afloat in the tumultuous waves of the world.
Some find Bray's truths to be frightening, and a part of Luke does not deny this sentiment. However, when spoken by his savior, they're as saccharine as the peaches which grow in the compound's orchard.
Luke remembers the day like a photograph, a yellowed Polaroid traced beneath a gentle touch.
Bray's eyes had brightly shone in rapture, a joyous chuckle bubbling up and out of his chest. "Brother," he began, lips sticky with traces of leftover juice from the peaches they had purchased a week prior, "Abigail—oh, how perplexing she is!—Abigail wishes for us to grow her an orchard."
Luke had cocked an eyebrow, puzzled by the rather odd request. "An orchard, Brother?"
"Yes!" Bray had nodded enthusiastically, extending his palm to reveal the pit of the peach he had just devoured. His smile fell, though, as he noticed Luke's skeptical expression. "Do you disagree? You are free to speak your mind, Luke. Your opinion is invaluable to me."
A surge of pride had welled-up inside of Luke's chest. Bray wanted his opinion? Deep in his gut, he knew that what Abigail wished was for the best, so he shook his head, noting the faint beginnings of a grin twitching at the corners of his savior's mouth. "I agree, Brother," he'd simply stated, and with that, Bray had clapped his juice-stained hand atop Luke's shoulder, the amorous burn a guilty cross for him to bear.
Damned be if Bray hadn't had that effect on him.
The following day had found the pair toiling in the fields just a stone's throw away from the grounds of the compound. The hazy, afternoon sun beat down upon their flesh, glistening rivulets of sweat rolling down their necks to stain the collars of their shirts. Luke wiped at the beads as they devilishly stung his eyes, and through his clouded vision, Bray seemed to positively glow. His breath hitched in his throat as he watched the strong muscles of the other's back ripple beneath his tight cut-off, and he absentmindedly licked his lips, longing for the taste of sweat and salt and Bray.
"A wonderful job, Brother!" Bray had smiled, brighter than a thousand cut diamonds. His sudden exclamation startled Luke out his thoughts, and he watched the larger man blink rapidly as if regaining consciousness. "Is something the matter, Luke?"
The larger man quickly shook his head, not daring to meet his savior's hallowed gaze for fear of tainting the purity of those placid depths. Instead, he scratched at his graying beard as his eyes trailed out over the rows of freshly churned earth, Abigail's wish sown into the fertile soil like a vow.
And now, Luke stands on the front porch of the home he shares with Bray and his brothers, eyes transfixed upon the sacred orchard. The balmy, late-autumn breeze rustles the leaves of the peach trees, their oranges and golds like fiery wisps against the heavens. The trees have long since been stripped of their fruit, plucked ripe and sweet just months prior.
Abigail's wish has been fulfilled for another year.
The faint creaking of Bray's rocking-chair causes him to glance back over his shoulder, a pang of envy tightening in his chest as he watches the younger man's tongue dart out to lap at the sticky syrup coating his fingers. He sucks in a trembling breath, the nostalgic scent of cinnamon and clove flooding his senses as he spies the jar of preserved peaches sitting in Bray's lap. His gaze lingers upon the fruit, the golden slices encased in their glass prison, and his heart clenches.
"Another bountiful harvest," Bray states, and Luke's eyes dart up to meet with the other's sacred stare, his own dull and lifeless compared to his savior's ethereal orbs.
Years later, the cross feels heavier than the fruit bore upon the boughs of their promises.
"A symbol of salvation and truth, as well as fecundity."