When Peter prays, he sometimes wonder if the strength and forgiveness he asks for isn't sent to him because of Jason. However, in pouring over scripture and theology (the latter when he can -- the St. Cecilia's Library isn't too stocked with literature on opposing religious theories), it's not their illicit encounters that troubles him as much as he's pretty sure he's set up a false idol in his best-kept secret. The fact is that he's heard Jason tell him he loves him just as many times as he's heard God's voice declare the same thing by way of a choir of angels tap-dancing. It's easier to love what you can see, touch, hear, and it's harder to resist the more you're told that you have to. His love for Jason is unwavering, even when it's painful; sometimes, he thinks he and God are going to need some couple's therapy.

Of course, until the guilt about the doubt settles in and Peter's on his knees for God instead of Jason.

An arm rests on Jason's shoulder for a moment for balance -- Jason's impossibly soft, strong hand has wrapped around him and he knows he's not going to last much longer. He whispers his boyfriend's name against his lips. The arm draped on Peter's shoulder unfurls Peter crosses it over the back of Jason's neck. He has to brace himself with his right hand palm down on the bed behind him, but then he can trace his fingers through the wet, exhilarating curls near Jason's forehead. A strangled sound grips his throat and he hisses Jason's name again, head tipping back to enjoy the opposing sensations of hands, hair, and dick.