—OPEN POST.

[iuno]

TEXT — COMMS — ACTION — NSFW
( anything is free game, go for it )

Comments

stop. slight au time.

[stilettoes]

home ( noun ) 1. you live on a tiny rock circling a small star in a sea of vastness, ancient vastness, endless vastness, such a wild, burning, chaotic, beautiful vastness. 2. day by day you learn how to make these bones your own. in spite of the heartaches, in spite of the set-backs. wrens sing and you remember love. red sky touches black pines and you understand how it feels to need to keep going forward. there is beauty in the motions and unfoldings of your hands. 3. it shall come when least expected. you dream of the hive and i promise that soon you will wake with a mouth full of honey. surrounded by bright, busy people in a bright, busy city with the knowledge that your soul has found exactly that for which it has always yearned. ( slightly nsfw & 1 & 2 / alternate ending where compromises are made and peter takes up the guise of a part-time consultant when he's in town. things aren't as messy as they could be. the case at hand had been long, not without more than it's fair share of bumps along the way, but it's done and they are satisfied and peter's shuttle for who knows where leaves in less than 10 hours. )

[iuno]

[ Juno still hasn't made up his mind on whether it's good luck or bad luck that things turned out the way they did. surely good luck would have been an outcome where everything went as Juno had planned: he died in the tomb with Miasma, or he left Peter Nureyev so they could both go back to what they deserved, Nureyev to a better life and Juno to the one he made for himself. if that's the case, then bad luck was Nureyev catching him when he tried to leave the hotel room; was the awful conversation that followed, where Juno had to admit that it wouldn't work because there's something fundamentally wrong inside him, that he knows it would end badly because Juno Steel has a life's worth of bad karma queued up for him, that he doesn't know who he would be or what he would be worth without Hyperion under his feet.

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. ]

[stilettoes]

[ peter has seen an awful lot of skylines in his life, ones with sunsets that move so quickly, you're a fool if you blink and miss them, some the color of tar (thick and blue-black and murky, barely any light at all). mars is... fairly normal-looking, though perhaps there's some beauty in it if only because the skyline helps you forget just what's underneath. a skyline sometimes is all you need.

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.

[iuno]

[ if there's one thing he has no complicated feelings about, it's this: he's grateful to be able to see Peter like this. not the man of a thousand faces, the carefully constructed showpieces, but sides of the real thing. that vicious, whip-sharp way he gets when they're pinned down in a fight, his fox's smile turning predatory with the same adrenaline rush Juno knows. the softer image of him now in the light of the sunset, gently worn and tired, something that should make him seem more real but only strikes Juno as something out of a dream.

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. ]

[stilettoes]

[ the tone of juno's voice tastes like something dark and sweet as he leans in a little bit, presses their knees softly together, offers him his hand. peter takes it into one of his own, slowly opening the kit with the antiseptic and a bit of gauze and seeming to weigh the gravity of the wound in his palm with a very serious look in his eyes. ]

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. ]

[iuno]

[ for a moment, he thinks that Peter is just going to run his joke into the ground to be contrary — and then he gets to the end, and there's that little involuntary stutter his voice always does when Peter catches him off-guard with an innuendo. but he laughs under his breath, warmth flaring in his chest like someone's lit a torch. ]

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. ]

[stilettoes]

[ juno catches his eyes as he's through prepping the device in his hand, and for a moment, peter can't help but hold his gaze. ]

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.

[iuno]

[ he whimpers only a little as the needle does its work, tries not to tense up too much or pull away from the sharp pinch of it. there are things he chooses to focus on instead to keep himself still: the smell of Peter when he's this close, the shape of him from head to toe. the gentle, precise way his hands move, that rhythmic press of his thumb and Juno trying to keep his breathing in pace with it. those goddamn garterbelt stockings. christ, he wants to take them off with his teeth. ]

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. ]

[stilettoes]

[ the touch to his glasses is light, a faint adjustment for the better as he sees the machine's way through the worst of the stitching on the meat of his palm. there's a sense of relief in coming to the end of it, the kind where peter blows a stray piece of hair out of his eyes as he stops to check each stitch with a light finger smoothing over juno's skin. ]

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. ]

[iuno]

Yeah, I'm thinking about it.

[ 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. ]

[stilettoes]

[ juno looking anywhere but at the gesture is par for the course, and for a while, peter follows his gaze, to the sun bleeding fire over the window, to the warm hand resting on his knee, separated by the thinnest layer of synthetic fabric. he doesn't move, as if to keep from startling him, tipping his head into the question and meeting juno's eyes with a warm gaze, inching a little closer, as close as he can get ]

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.

[iuno]

[ hearing Peter plead with him so gently makes him flinch as no amount of shouting can do. guilt is such an insidious thing in Juno, thorns and brambles winding around his bones, in his throat, infesting the heart of him. but the sting of guilt he feels now seems different somehow — bright, sharp. the way so many things that are good for you are unpleasant to take in at first, the way sunlight hurts your eyes when you've been in the dark too long.

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. ]

[stilettoes]

You'd better, darling. I'm be rather upset if you were in more than one.

[ 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? ]

[iuno]

[ Peter leads and he goes easily, coming in closer as he's drawn, one hand on Peter's waist and the other braced on the mattress so that Juno can crowd him, leaning over with the length of his body and wordlessly encouraging Peter to lie back. but — I trust you. he can feel the way his expression crumples, either with despair or with love, both of them too often too alike in Juno's heart. a shaky, thin exhale escapes him as he pulls back, just a little, and he ducks his head to hide in the crook of Peter's neck. ]

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.) ]

[stilettoes]

[ i know i don't deserve it.

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. ]

[iuno]

[ it isn't in Peter's nature to be tied down any more than it's in Juno's to be pried free of his self-made bindings, so he knows what it costs for him to make a promise like that, and his heart feels like it's trying to crawl out of his chest. he makes a low, wounded noise and burrows in close, the length of his body bearing down on Peter. his balance is a little thrown since he can't lean on his right hand, but it just means he has to stay near, braced on his forearm and leaning his weight on Peter rather than hovering over him.

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. ]

[stilettoes]

[ the struggle in juno's voice is palpable, makes the air around them thick and almost misty and for a moment, peter finds himself fighting over that lump in his throat that swells to the size of a fist, to the size of his heart. his fingers find the prominent blades of juno's shoulders, thumb over them as he whispers into his shoulder like his deepest, darkest secret. peter will keep it, this very soft confession in the dying sunset, will remember the warmth of the sun against his thighs, the warmth of juno between his thighs, all heavy weight and blood and antiseptic and... juno.

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.

[iuno]

[ there's a hum that vibrates against Peter's neck where Juno's mouth is pressed, patiently waiting; a contented sound for the fingers in his hair, the way the touch draws him in closer. he doesn't bite hard as Peter likes to — as Juno likes to be bitten — but takes his time instead, sucks a mark on the pale expanse of Peter's throat, worries at the skin between his teeth until the spot is dotted by blood vessels, laves his tongue over the hurt. he's been learning indulgence over time, inevitable with the company he has, and although it's a long way off from being something he's comfortable with, this is an area, at least, where he's happy to apply it. ]

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. ]