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—OPEN POST.
TEXT — COMMS — ACTION — NSFW
( anything is free game, go for it )
TEXT — COMMS — ACTION — NSFW
( anything is free game, go for it )
TEXT — COMMS — ACTION — NSFW
( anything is free game, go for it )
TEXT — COMMS — ACTION — NSFW
( anything is free game, go for it )
hi im greedy and want more have a fun prompt
pax im love you
[ as much as he'd like to be able to say otherwise, it isn't unusual for Juno to end up with a case where someone tries to tell him the occult is involved. maybe it's a good thing that those cases tend to fall into his lap, because he actually solves the case and doesn't let himself get sidetracked by superstition and he doesn't believe in goddamn ghosts. they're not real. every "occult" case he's ever taken has just done more to prove that the occult doesn't exist. even Annie, the one time Juno was willing to believe because it just made sense to him, that what he'd done was so awful and he deserved to suffer for it so much that—
well. it doesn't matter. Annie wasn't a ghost either. there's no such thing.
what there is, is this: an empty house and the client's permission to search the place unhindered. he doesn't know if the client really is that superstitious or if they're just playing up the act to look innocent, but they claim to be so afraid of their haunted home that they're willing to give Juno free rein if it means they don't have to set foot inside until the job is done. Juno is supposed to solve a murder that happened in the house just last week, and apparently, put the spirit to rest. yeah, right. ]
There are no ghosts. Not anywhere, because they aren't real, and especially not in this place. We're not here to exorcise some mystical evil, we're going to search the house top to bottom without anyone looking over our shoulders and trying to cover their tracks. [ it's not the ideal stage for a murder case, getting called in when the body is this far beyond cold, but when does Juno ever get an ideal situation for any kind of case. ] Most of the important evidence is cleaned up in the first twenty four hours after a murder, but most people are also sloppy enough to miss something.
:* !!!
Are you kidding me.
[ his voice is a sneer, entertained and ambivalent about what he's being told. ]
Everyone knows ghosts are totally real. If kids like me can be born, what's stopping ghosts from forming in the wake of our passing? [ um ] You scared, or somethin'? Trying to tell me off to make yourself feel better? Here, I got this, you just stay put --
[ empty house, crime scene, digital alarmtape still wound about the perimeter of the house; it yields to Bakugo as he steps through it, because he's been given the clearance. he and his "mentor", who's trying to lecture him on ghosts and ghoulies being a falsity, when there's mutant creatures running amok in the sewers. just because Bakugo hasn't had the time to go down and investigate that claim for himself, doesn't mean he doesn't believe that they're there. he strolls up to the door, and gives a haughty knock. bam, bam, bam, with the flat side of his fist. waits for all of two seconds, and then pushes the door open with his foot.
inside, it's dark. cold. quiet. ] Ladies last. I'll make sure you don't get gobbled up while we're workin', teach'.
[ SOMEONE HAS NO POLICE PROCEDURAL TRAINING BECAUSE THERE HE GOES, HEEDLESS OF THE PROPER ORDER OF THINGS ]
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it's too late for that, and right now, he just has to deal with the unlucky lot that he's been handed, which means cursing and following Bakugo inside to grab him by the collar of his shirt before he can run off in some rich person's house. ]
I don't care if you think ghosts are real, Katsuki, I'm telling you how we handle this case. [ being too physical with Bakugo will just end in a fight, so he's quick to let go of his hold and step away from him. ] This is an investigation, not a ghost hunt — because there are no goddamn ghosts.
[ he says he doesn't care, but he's still going to insist until the end, when it turns out that — surprise, surprise — he was right all along.
as an afterthought, he goes to close the door behind them, glances at the security system while he's there; he wonders if they can get a log of everyone that entered the house leading up to the murder, see if anything stands out. it's a week-old murder case, he'll take anything he can get. he also doesn't want to turn his back on Bakugo for more than thirty seconds at a time, so he'll leave that thought for later. ]
Look. Every "occult" case I've worked has been a lie someone made up so that I wouldn't notice the blood on their hands. Anyone who tells you their house is haunted is either crazy or guilty.
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[ Juno might be quick to release him, but the message has been sent, loud and clear. Bakugo's elbow, his whole arm, swings back and whiffs through empty air, lashing out without a second thought to his actions. while he cannot connect with anything ( someone's light on their feet for a quirkless weirdo -- ), he hopes it televises his own mood. the things he will and won't put up with. he might be a child in the eyes of the whoever put him in this program, but there's no such thing as childhood in this place.
and there's no way he's going to put up with being hauled around by anyone, let alone Juno. ]
Listen. I can do the job that they asked us to do and handle your ego on the job that you think we ought to be doing.
[ he's as tall as his "teacher", give or take an inch, and he'll only grow taller as he gets older. on the steps, poised like he is, it's easy to lean the width of his shoulders in menacingly, posturing with sudden calm, sudden clarity. recognition of their mutual disrepect and some sort of mirrored self-loathing. there's little affection in his heart for people who don't know their rightful place ( following him, not trying to lead him -- ), but Juno is more than that. less than that? he's something, all right. ]
You don't look people in the eyes often, do you? They were sincere about what they were sayin'.
[ that's the question he asks. blunt, sharp. like some prying, wicked instrument that's meant to get up between the ribs and flay someone open; Bakugo makes a show of flexing his fingers, and then slipping his hands into his pockets. fine, he can Not Touch Anything, but like hell if he's going to stick around in the foyer while Juno investigates every bookshelf and corner. they were told that the worst of the hauntings were in the kitchen, there: where the client said that the murder took place.
that's where HE'S going, first and foremost. teacher or no teacher. ] And hey -- touch me again and I'll blow your damn hands off.
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christ, the kid really is too much like he was — the only reason Juno moves back in time is because he'd been betting on that, knew that he would have taken a swing at anyone who got that close to him when he was a scrawny, snarling brat. he could probably avoid the landmines of Bakugo's temper if he tried, thought about it in terms of what used to get to his own short fuse. instead he thinks he might be deliberately setting him off. like he might get some kind of vicious satisfaction out of digging his knuckle into those bruises and he's still fucking surprised when it just hurts.
he follows Bakugo through into the kitchen and wonders how a kid can come out of a life like the kind they've both had and believe in anything, much less ghosts. the people he knows who buy into shit like that, they go all the way with it; people like Mick Mercury who'll latch onto anything because it keeps them going and it means being in denial about how bad their lives really are. Bakugo... he doesn't understand where it's coming from with Bakugo. ]
Sincere doesn't mean anything. That just brings the possibilities down to crazy and/or stupid. If they're superstitious, then it's both. [ and then he pauses a moment; considers. instead of starting to pull the room apart as he usually does, he leans against the wall and crosses his arms. ] But if you're so sure you know best, then go ahead. Take the lead on this one, Ace Detective.
[ there's no time pressure and no life on the line. he can let Bakugo spin his wheels as long as he wants and it'll still be making some kind of progress towards collecting whatever scraps of evidence there are to be found here. ]
stop. slight au time.
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bad luck is the outcome he got: both. he keeps Peter Nureyev and he keeps Hyperion City, and every second he isn't distracted by work or the warm-bright happiness of having Peter with him, he waits for the guillotine blade to drop — to cut right through this fragile thread holding it all together, and when it falls apart Juno will be heartbroken and vindicated and utterly unsurprised. sometimes he thinks that all they're doing is delaying the inevitable, a terminal patient hooked up to life support just to drag it out another few months. and it means he's always holding back to some extent, watching for the flatline, and he knows that's a self-fulfilling prophecy but he can't help it when things are going this well.
right now, though — right now Juno is light and giddy, or as close to it as he ever gets, with a finished case behind him (really finished, not the kind where there's the shadow of something bigger behind it and he can only be frustrated about what he didn't do right) and Peter coming back to his apartment for the both of them to unwind, clean themselves up, relax, and. well. Juno isn't thinking about ten hours from now, when Peter will be gone and this will all feel very different. he knows it's there; everything he's feeling right now is only held up by a thin layer of ice, and underneath are the same dark, bottomless fathoms as always.
he'd left Peter to the bedroom while he went to fetch first-aid supplies from the bathroom cabinet, and he comes to join him a moment later — stops in the doorway to find Peter half-undressed. clears his throat and tries not to stare too much but god the man is a sight. Juno has never done anything in his life to deserve this. he steps into the room so cautiously that the floor doesn't even creak. ]
Hey. [ it's strange, how different the apartment feels with Peter in it. there's no oppressive atmosphere, no weight in the air; it's peaceful and quiet and it settles over Juno so gently, softens his voice, stills his usual restlessness. he holds up a half-empty bottle of whiskey and smirks: ] Found the first-aid kit.
[ ha ha, he's so funny. there are, at least, some bandages that he tosses onto the bed like an afterthought along with an automatic needle and thread — something he only acquired at Peter's insistence when he got tired of Juno simply wrapping up his injuries in a dishtowel — but the decision of whether or not those are needed is something he leaves for Peter to make. Juno is a firm believer in the medical practice of sleeping it off. never mind that he won't be sleeping for a while once Peter is gone. ]
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especially if you intend to ignore the slowly purpling skin in pockets and the smell of blood (he doesn't kill on the job with juno, not if it can be helped, if only because he knows him well enough to see where the line is drawn and he knows just who deserves it and who doesn't). he's spent the past two weeks on mars, longer than he's spent on most small jobs, but juno steel isn't a "small job" in fact, he's hardly a job at all. it's a tenuous agreement at best, borne from soft kisses in the dark, hands clutching still-warm and kiss-bruised collarbones while a tired mind clicks and clicks and clicks.
a month rolls by, and somehow it works. at least for now. it leaves peter breezily pleased, shirt-sleeves rolled and trousers folded neatly over the back of a chair, a view of hyperion just beyond a smudged window. he slides his fingers under the pane and pulls up, letting the stale air out, breathing in the strange humming scent of neon. in looking up, he admires the way the skyline bleeds from one color to the next, hazy ever so faintly along the atmosphere, shimmering.
he could get used to seeing something like this more than once.
juno walking into the room means he only turns a little bit, poised in the window like a painting with his hands gently braced on the frame. he tips his head, gaze coming from the side. peter nureyev knows how he looks, every portion of him staged, but somehow loose at the same time, like he's never out of practice, and actor until he sleeps, a man of curtain rise and fall. he smiles to his eyes. what a fool in love he is. ]
Unusually bottle-shaped, but I suppose it'll do.
[ he could be whoever juno wanted him to be, but always it seems juno wants him to be himself in the raw.
it's strange, to be himself: no act, aching shoulders, spine that likes to dip a little instead of holding itself impossibly straight, hair coming slightly undone and lipstick that's more stain than creamy pigment now, worn away by the day.
he moves from the window to join the rest of their makeshift first-aid kit, reaching into the pocket of his pants for a moment and rifling briefly for a small kit that won't cover any of their wounds bandage wise, but has enough antiseptic to do away with anything that might result in a hospital visit. together, they should be covered.
peter seats himself, feeling the dip of the mattress as he folds one leg over the other and pats the space beside him. ]
Come, and bring your liquid first-aid with you.
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he can't take his eyes off Peter as he moves to join him on the bed, and — god, maybe he's just sentimental because of the deadline hanging over his head, he suddenly doesn't care about the garter belts or the posing against his window at all. (or, well. not that he doesn't care at all.) it's just... Peter. his smudged make-up and dishevelled hair, the halo of sunlight against his back.
but Juno isn't good at — a lot of things. least of all those warmer things, affection and kindness and... love. it's been a month, there's no denying how fucking much it's love. so he doesn't have any pretty words for the feeling that fills his chest like air, and he doesn't drop a kiss on Peter's brow when he sits with him on the bed. but he sits close enough for their knees to touch, and he looks smaller, maybe, the way he does when he lets himself be softer in his perpetual exhaustion.
he drops the bottle on the bed too, and then he offers his hand, the worst of his injuries. always ready to catch a blade with his bare palm rather than think far enough ahead to avoid it completely. his head is bowed forward a bit, voice low and rough with tiredness, and no less warm for it. not like sunlight, but like whiskey. ]
Give it to me straight, doc. Am I gonna make it? Will I ever dance again?
[ playful. when was the last time that Juno was ever playful before Peter Nureyev? not sharp and barking out bullshit for sheer defensiveness, emotional deflection, trying to fool himself into thinking he's not scared. just... saying things because they might make Peter laugh that soft, musical laugh of his, or smile in the way that makes his eyes curve with mirth that hums in his voice. ]
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Well, that all depends on the kind of dancing you're aiming to do.
[ peter eyes the wound slowly, glancing up a bit. ]
Two-step, perhaps? Waltz? Martian Fox Trot? Or...
[ it will sting, juno should know that, but it's as fair a warning as peter will ever give because when you grab a knife straight on that's about all the warning you deserve. peter's mind rushes to soft and tender words as he starts to clean around the open edges of the wound. a brave and battered detective catching the silver edge of a knife in the dark without hesitating. admirable, but peter does wish he'd ducked. or dodged. he tilts his head a bit, as he pulls back to check the extent of the wound. ]
Tango?
[ he leans in, carefully to dab softly at the irritated border of where knife had met skin. ]
Uranian, Ionian, Jovian, Horizontal...
[ he puts the now red and pink gauze in his lap, reaching for the automatic needle and thread with a bit of a sigh, as if this is all a very normal conversation to have after nearly being gutted on a case. he works with a clinician's hands (he's masqueraded more times as an MD than anyone properly should without at least ten malpractice suits--thankfully, he's a quick study with steady hands, and after too many close calls early on in his career, hospitals are one thing you can't afford to go to without all the trouble of scanners).
only as he's threading and prepping the handheld machine does he look up again with a smile, a soft nudge to the knee. ]
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Can't help but notice you're only listing partner dances. You trying to tell me something, Peter?
[ he's hopeless when it comes to small gestures, even more so next to Peter, who is so thoughtful and affectionate in so many little ways that it hurts. Juno is a grand gesture person, a "die for you" person because he doesn't know how to make himself worth that love any other way. but — this is something he's been trying, something even he can do. just Peter instead of Nureyev sometimes, when things are soft and clear enough that the name doesn't feel clumsy in his mouth.
at least, for all his self-destructive heroics, he's a decent patient; even if only for Peter, who is brisk and efficient and knows Juno will behave best if it's done without needless dithering. he keeps still while Peter works, only jolting with a hiss through his teeth at the first sting of antiseptic. no other movements, no word of complaint, when he almost never stops complaining the rest of the time. but this is a consequence. Juno takes consequences into himself as easy as breathing and just as thoughtlessly, which is why he always gets hurt again. he copes with the pain. it never occurs to him not to get hurt in the first place.
and he certainly doesn't regret this one at all, even as he steels himself for the stitches, watching Peter pick up the needle. the knife was meant for Juno, but still he was between Peter and a blade — he wouldn't dodge that, wouldn't take the risk. grand gestures. an airlock between them and a cost that's worth it. (Juno avoids talking about it, but he knows Peter hasn't let it go; he sees the way he looks at him sometimes and it makes his teeth ache because he knows that if he gives voice to any of the things inside him they'll be too real and too much and he won't be able to shove them down where they need to stay.)
he caught that knife and Peter is here, awash in light, knee-to-knee with him and smiling. which means he did it right. he stretches his fingers just briefly and then meets Peter's eye to give him the go-ahead for the stitches. ]
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Perhaps I find it difficult to believe that a lady such as yourself dances alone.
[ his voice tips low and there's a smile on the edges of his lips, half sly and sweet, wholly tender. he looks back down at work and begins to gently align the machine with where he'll begin sewing. he lets the needle and suture thread take where it needs to take, cupping juno's hand from the bottom to steady him out as he works.
a soft press of his finger: brace yourself. the first knot is always the worst, the rest just becomes rhythmic. but the threading starts, peter keeping his eyes firmly trained on the work at hand.
the moment is still vivid in his mind, sharp, the way juno had reached out like lightning, seeing the blood well past his knuckles giving peter just enough time to dip under in his fit of anger and elbow a set of ribs built wide like a barrel, hold a knife to the man's throat while juno stunned the other two with a reflex like nothing else. wound aside, he'd been quick to move despite the bite of metal to his skin.
peter doesn't need to wrap the maneuver around his brain. he'd caught the knife and he'd caught it regardless of trusting peter's own ability to twist and to move. he's grateful but he's angry, the latter of which he keeps to himself as the small line of sutures and knots begin to make themselves known. he moves it slowly down the skin of juno's palm, creating a series of gradual, circulation motions made by the thumb on his free hand as it goes.
he can't stay angry for long, but he can mention it later when he's not trying to stitch together his stubborn detective. he doesn't even look up, glasses tipping a bit down his nose as he leans in to be sure the machine doesn't grab both sides of the flesh too tightly. ]
Maybe it's an invitation.
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Come on, you should know a lady like me only dances alone. [ with the hand not currently being sewn up, he carefully adjusts Peter's glasses, moves them back up to the bridge of his nose. ] But I could maybe make an exception for the right gentleman.
[ they shouldn't waste time on this when there's so little of it left (he knows Peter promises to return and he should trust that because he's kept that word before but he just— he can't imagine sailing out into the galaxy and wanting to come back to Hyperion City, to Juno Steel, so he feels like he's about to see the end) and he supposes that's his own fault for taking the blow. there's an apology for that under his tongue that he can't quite get out. not for putting himself at risk, but for taking up the hours now. ]
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Ah, picky, I should have known. But of course, it's only natural.
[ he speaks sweetly, rounded, voice low and not quite as clipped as it might be were he fitting into a role. no. here he's just... he's just peter, and it feels good. he looks in the bathroom mirror and while it's temporary, he can be peter nureyev. the thought warms him, renews his focus as he removes the needle and thread with care to manually tie off the excess and clip it. bandages coming next after a little more antiseptic. the process is nearly mechanical, peter's fingers deft and making sure that nothing is out of place. if he's to leave juno behind for however long he has to, he wants to be certain that at least this first application of bandages stays for as long as it can. the thought alone makes him already homesick.
who'd have thought it, peter nureyev: homesick, but home isn't quite a place so much as someone's eyes, the familiarity of their mouth, the sound of their voice rasping in the early evening after work. ]
Well. Perhaps you might consider filling that ever so exclusive place on your dance card tonight.
[ he takes juno's hand, bandaged and clean, and lifts it to his mouth to kiss his fingers softly and leave them there, presses to his lips as he grins fully now. ]
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[ when Juno wraps bandages, he winds them quickly like he's taping something up, either pulls them too tight or leaves them messy and loose. compared to that, Peter's wrapping is almost artful; they seem like they'd stand out as the tidiest thing about Juno Steel. it's a stupid thing to feel fond about, but he does. stares at the bandages for too long and only looks up when Peter lifts his hand. (he's going to be so careful not to mess those up, he knows it, like clinging onto tiny scraps of Peter Nureyev is going to make the ache less awful.)
he looks away when Peter's mouth brushes against his fingers and clears his throat, always too embarrassed by sweet gestures to hold eye contact through them. instead, he watches the setting sun out the window, and the hand that Peter isn't holding captive comes to rest on a stocking-clad knee. Juno's thumb starts to tap as soon as he's touching a surface — a restless gesture, the back of his mind counting down the hours left, sand filling an hourglass.
but he does bring his gaze back around to ask, a little softer: ] How'd you come out, anything you need me to patch up?
[ can't kiss Peter senseless until he's sure. ]
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Of the two of us, I believe you're in much worse shape, [ quietly ] a bit of bruising, nothing terrible. I've had worse. [ he's honest about it, bringing juno's hand from his lips down to rest against his hip where the tenderness is starting to bleed through--a bad roll after being thrown back, an ache along his spine from meeting the wall too roughly, probably something tender at the base of his skull from the snap back reaction. he'll feel it in the morning and the color may darken, but it's nothing he won't be able to cover up.
he touches the knuckles on juno's other hand with barely the pads of his fingers, smoothes the edge of his thumb over the side of his hand. peter regrets the amount of time they have left, but there are only so many ways to wring seconds in between appointments, twist and wrench them into hours enough.
but they're not enough, probably won't ever be enough.
times like these make peter curse his line of work and the fact that he can seldom stand being anywhere for longer than a few weeks at a time. mars is the only exception despite the dust and dirt and heat and neon. it's alive in a way that juno steel is alive--persistent and hungry inside, cavernous in all the ways peter wants to start to encompass and and fill. ] The only thing you need to worry about is making sure you keep out of enough trouble for the stitches on your hand to take. [ under his breath, a firm squeeze of a touch to juno's wrist: ] Please.
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no one has ever managed to convince Juno to take care of himself for his own sake. if it's for Peter's sake, he can't bring himself to refuse. he still remembers too clearly the sound of his voice with the airlock between them, the desperate begging: open this door. that same thread of despair now, because the stitches are a terrible reminder of how many times Juno has come close to something worse and escaped by a hair's breadth for sheer luck. with Peter gone, there will be no one here to pull him out of the fire and patch him up again. he knows that, and he knows Peter is thinking about that, maybe has been for days leading up to this. ]
Okay. [ he leans in to kiss him just once, maybe trying to press the words into his mouth in the hopes that they'll taste sincere. ] Okay, I promise. Easy cases, no stupid reckless Juno Steel bullshit. I'll be so careful Rita won't even recognise me.
[ Peter has almost lost him twice before because of Juno's choices, and Juno doesn't have the force of will to do that to him again, to keep trying to pull away from him. it's going to destroy them both if Juno doesn't stop. they're too bound up in each other; every time he makes a half-hearted effort to break that, it only leaves wounds on the two of them. he doesn't think he can entirely make up for that, but the least he can do is meliorate the damage he's done.
he sweeps his thumb back and forth over Peter's hipbone, a touch so light that his finger trembles, and watches the movement like he's trying to memorise the shape of it. in the back of his mind, he fumbles for more reassuring words. he's never needed them before. ]
I'll be in one piece when— [ he manages to say when instead of if, but his voice catches and that exposes the fear eating away at him over this: ] when you come back.
[ it still sounds like if to him. if Peter makes it halfway across the galaxy and somehow doesn't ask himself why the fuck he would come back to a place like Mars for someone like Juno. neither of those have anything worthwhile to offer, certainly not compared to the glittering jewels of planets and stars that are apparently out there. the part of Juno determined to sabotage himself hopes that Peter doesn't come back, that he succeeds where Juno failed. the rest of him is in love and terrified. ]
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[ a threat that's hardly one, uttered in the narrow space between them as peter lifts his hands to rest them on the sides of juno's neck, thumbs against the pulse echoing along his jaw. there's something so flimsy about it, how it flutters and presses up along his fingers, reminding him of just how alive he is, how close he is.
but he knows that once he leaves, it's a toss up. juno will do what he feels is right, perhaps not what's best for him, but for everyone else. so he impresses it upon him as much as he can. you mean something to me, and it's hungry and frantic sometimes, fingers clutching and words mouthed along skin. you mean so much to me, let me come back to you here. because peter has never wanted to return somewhere so desperately before. here on mars, dried out and red and cloudy with neon and silt, is a home in the middle of an intersection, small and dimly lit with humming bulbs and windows that lock poorly and in the midst of that is juno.
and? peter has too many reasons to come back to juno and him alone. they'd fill up vast volumes upon volumes upon volumes. it's a frustrating sort of love, the kind that makes him nearly sick with it as he leans in and presses his mouth against his, catching that uncertainty, the hairline fracture in his voice as he fumbles over the one word. when, when, when. peter wonders when he'll be back in a moment like this. weeks? a month? he'll do what he can to keep juno from waiting too long, do what he must to come back because this?
oh it's worth it.
he kisses him like an echo of the one just prior, shallow, like a tattoo of a promise all along his lips, and then again, a little deeper than before, sliding a palm around his nape. when he pulls back, he doesn't say it, but he means it in each movement as he slides just one hand down along juno's arm to rest it in the crook of his elbow. come and give me a proper goodbye.
in the dimly lit room, he kisses him again, leans and touches lips to the corner of his mouth, then to the center of his lips, murmured: ] I trust you.
[ what's love if not trust first? ]
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Shouldn't. [ small and wretched; it's a tired argument, one that Juno isn't trying to start now and knows he won't win. it's just a compulsion to warn him every time, the disclaimer attached to that trust. but then he shakes his head, lifts it, kisses him like an apology. ] I trust you too.
[ he hadn't intended to say anything. actually, he was doing everything he could to bite the words back, to grind them in his teeth because he has no right to ask Peter for anything and less than that to leave him with any kind of guilt. but he can never keep his mouth from running around Peter. the warmth in his face, in his mouth sealing over Juno's once and then again like he just couldn't help himself, in the amber glow of sunset on his skin — Juno is so in love and that feeling flares up with fervour, burns up that self-destructive impulse, and he's muttering the words against Peter's jaw, maybe to himself more than anything: ]
Please come back. I know I don't deserve it but please—
[ he must be the worst person in the galaxy, to ask for this after nearly abandoning him twice over. to say I trust you and in the same breath have to beg. (it doesn't occur to him at all that it means something else coming from him; that it matters for Juno to ask someone to come back for him, to want it so much that he'll say it out loud.) ]
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if peter could, he'd kiss the words straight out of his mouth, pluck them straight from his head before they could manifest in the air. instead, he keeps close, lets his fingers wander and trail up the line of his shirt, along the cut of his shoulders, his throat. juno asks him to return in such a low voice he probably doesn't believe he will and that might be what hurts the most, a finger pressing in an old wound, a bruise in the shape of a man.
he closes his eyes and turns his head, eyelashes brushing against the line of juno's cheek, nose pressing into his warm skin. even if this was all they did, he would be content with, sitting here and reassuring juno that regardless of how far he went, he would always return to this rusty red planet that's gone and made him sentimental. ]
Shh, [ a plea, low, between his teeth. peter holds himself silently a moment, before closing his eyes and soothing a thumb back and forth against his jaw. he feels the words bubbling up in his throat, dangerous words that he's let slip a few times already, words he half doesn't want to have to say again, so instead he whispers it out. ] I will always come back to you.
[ juno pushes and strains, presses against him and pulls close simultaneously in such a way that it makes every inch of peter ache for him. ]
It'd take quite a force to keep me away, [ the words slip regardless, close, secreted away between the both of them. peter leans, a leg lifting just a little to rest against the bend of juno's knee to get that much closer, twining them moreso than before. ]
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he'll come back. he's done it before— but he had to, didn't he, to stop Miasma as much as to save Juno— no, he will. because he's better than Juno. right now, he can believe that, even if in a few days the doubt will hit him twice as hard. what matters more is the moment he has here, long-limbed and tangled up beneath him, the last time Peter Nureyev will be himself this openly for a while. Juno should make it worth it. ]
I'm gonna miss you. [ his throat closes around the words and it hurts something awful, worse than the stitches throbbing in his palm, worse than the knife. it's so difficult to say that it makes him angry; it shouldn't be that hard, why does he always have to be like this? he has to swallow hard once, twice, three times just to get anything else out, and it feels like pulling out shards of glass with his bare hands: ] Every goddamn day.
[ he's talking to the space over Peter's shoulder, the curve of his neck, a thousand years away from being able to say anything like that to his face. he can't even bear moving in to kiss him yet with that confession still hanging around his neck, so instead he sets his teeth against the long line of Peter's neck, nips at the skin there and plants a kiss to apologise for it. ]
Should I leave you something to remember me by, or is that going to be a pain for you?
[ there's always make-up, sure. but Peter's cover is what keeps him safe in any role, and Juno won't be around to get in between him and anything that means to hurt him, so asking permission is a small price to pay. ]
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the teeth are what rouse him, pinching his skin in a way that makes him arch deliciously upwards in a stretch he's been needing since they set foot back in juno's apartment. he sighs as that, sighs even louder when juno kisses that very bruised and worried spot that he knows is going to pink and then purple and then yellow and fade. but it will take time, and peter will have this memory in the form of a bruise of twisting together in the martian sunset and languishing in one another for a few hours more.
he tips his throat up like an offering, laughing bubbling up visibly in the knot in his throat. ]
I have necklaces that will cover it just fine. [ a hand slides up juno's shoulder to cup the back of his skull lovingly, thumbing against his hair, fingers stretching up to guide him. his smile is sly, bleeding into his voice as he goes on, encouraging. ] Don't stop there.
[ he knows just the necklace he could wear, the high collared kind of course that will press beautifully against the bruise left by juno's tongue and teeth, a reminder of what he has.... what he has back "home."
no.
home.
god he'll miss this home. he'll miss juno, every morning waking up to him, breathing him in, loving him slowly in the morning light until they absolutely need to get up like some hazy dream. he breathes in sharply and moves beneath him with an encouraging push of his hips. mournfully: ] Feels as though I just arrived... and now I'm leaving.
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You're telling me. I keep trying to figure out where we wasted all that time. [ he's not done leaving bruises yet, just pausing to speak against Peter's throat, lips brushing over the hard line of cartilage. he presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw, briefly. ] But you've been getting stir-crazy, so.
[ he can't be the optimist here. he's trying to keep guilt off the table as much as he can, but he can't say: it's okay, you'll be back before you know it. looking to the future isn't what he does, and the one time he did, it almost ended in leaving Peter in a hotel room. Juno's future first involves day after day of waking up without Peter in his home, the same cold, empty place it was before, Hyperion feeling a little more like a grave, red sand filling it in. that's how the future works. you don't get to skip the bad parts.
a few dark spots blooming on either side of Peter's neck are enough for Juno, and he shifts back up to kiss him, hips bearing his weight down to meet the way Peter arches, sliding against him with a sigh of pleasure just to be so near. ]
We have comms. [ it sounds like he's trying to reassure himself as much as Peter. ]
[cat crash emoji]
oh... you know ;)
he's a fixture here, perched on juno's shoulder like an incorrigible, clawed little thing, presence wrapped around his brain like a weighty, luxuriant shawl.
and then he finds something: ]
( Hot... Rebecca? ) [ a warm chuckle, all-encompassing. a squeeze. ] ( Juno, should I be jealous? )