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{take me up tight
strung up like a kite
dumb, wicked, and white
love me in spite}
Peter Nureyev's slender fingers trace the curve of Juno Steel's lips, chipped nails (but nevertheless painted - a deep pink designed to compliment his Duke Rose suit) digging into the taut muscles of Juno's back. They're far too skinny for any of this, Nureyev had been unfortunate enough to see himself in the mirror of the hotel room, and, well? He’s bruised, crusty with dried blood, splotched with months-old makeup that somehow hadn’t been worn off in the weeks they’d spent in the tomb (spectacular, he’d have to find the brand again, before he and Juno embark on their intergalactic adventure). There’s no way he’s at his best, even with the protein bars he’d dug out of the glove compartment, but Juno’s not doing much better (red dust clinging to his coat, a patchwork of fresh scars, stitches that are just starting to heal over. Nureyev kisses them, brushes his fingers against them with the utmost delicacy. He’s so goddamn tired of feeling stuck, tired of living like a corpse and tired of not telling Juno he loves him. So he doesn’t, he drops a wall for a minute to face his detective, his fearless Juno. It was reckless; rule seven hundred and forty eight of thieving: never present a weakness to your opponent, never hand something over without a back up plan. Nureyev sleeps better that night, better than he had in years. The release of being tucked between Juno Steel’s heartbeat and the security his arms provide. Near euphoric from the neon lights and Juno’s skin against his, Peter lets himself sleep.
{and if I betray our lonely nights
spent out like a light
with no kiss goodnight
would we ever fight when I'm away?}
Peter Nureyev tries his best to let Juno be, to let his detective die behind his eyelids once and for all. To let himself remember the tears in his eyes and ashes in his mouth, the indentations of plasma shackles around his neck. It would've been easier if Juno had blown to pieces, stripped down and shattered. Missing Juno Steel would be easier if he was dead, if those weeks with his fingers in Juno's curls were the beginning of the end. Certainly, he wouldn't have felt so stupid for mourning him, for falling for him in the first place. It's early morning when Juno Steel closes the hotel room door too forcefully to be accidental. Peter keeps his eyes closed, clearing his throat in preparation to tell Juno off for waking him up. Or, he would have, if there were anyone to tell off. He’s not used to waking up left alone, he’s used to deftly leaping through a window. He’s used to one last, seductive note in scrawling script. He’s used to lipstick marks and folded pieces of paper. He’s not used to the already fading smell of Juno Steel on his sheets, fingertips numb where they’d clung to his lady. Peter Nureyev keeps his eyes closed, keeping the image of Juno (a broken and bleeding man, locking him out one last time. The airlocks, his blood smeared on the door, Peter’s shredded knuckles). It would be easier if Juno Steel had disappeared, stripped away, atom by atom. He could file it away, right next to Mag. A very special, undisturbed box, where Nureyev could let the memory rot in peace. It would be easier if Peter could’ve taken it back, could’ve picked up his name and his foolishness and left it before Juno could leave him. But Juno Steel is alive, and as Peter Nureyev opens his eyes, there’s a flash of headlights. He trips over himself for one last look at Juno’s death-trap of a car.
{did your mother always seem to hate me?
I'm sicker every day
and now I'm terrified of talking to my friends}
It’s petty, and spiteful, and awful, which is why Peter does it. He’d hitched a ride to Olympus Mons, hand selected the bouquet himself. Dahlias for Juno, for betrayal and travel and commitment (or lack thereof, in their case). A faded red, enough to remind Nureyev of Juno’s suit and the color of his blood. Roses for Peter, for all the sleepless nights, for being a fool, for the last kiss he never got. Red and white, blood and lipstick against clean bandages and the sheets Peter had tangled himself in. A card in his curly, messy handwriting. (Nureyev knew Juno kept a collection of Peter’s notes and doodles in his pockets; it would’ve been endearing had he not vanished from their hotel room like the Martians had disappeared from the planet). It’s cruel, which is why he’s standing here, knocking at Juno Steel’s door. Peter Nureyev hasn’t regretted much, hasn’t allowed himself to. He regrets this, he regrets leaving so soon, he regrets not sticking around to see the look on Juno’s face. He’s nothing if not a fool, praying that he’d hear Juno’s footsteps running towards him, instead of away. He’s a fool for wanting to be a part of Juno’s catastrophe, to be chased down by Juno Steel when he couldn’t be enough to make him stay in the first place. It’s selfish, but Nureyev doesn't mind. A viscous vying for Juno's attention, in any way he could get it. Peter doesn't let himself think about how egotistical it all is, doesn't let himself wait for Juno to catch up.
{only to stay still
dreaming of our first born
and your hair covered in popcorn
You never leave
You never leave
You never leave}
Peter Nureyev is frighteningly used to feeling like he was about to faint at any moment, but it came with the territory. He’d left Hyperion City with a bottle of pills in one hand and a death sentence in another, just trying to kill time before it killed him. Nureyev hadn't been… right since tomb, and in the months since, he's been adjusting (less time stealing jewelry, more in various hospitals across the galaxy). He's never worried about it before; if he played his cards right (both figuratively and literally), Peter wouldn't have to think too hard about the handfuls of pills or bi monthly infusions. Debt hadn't followed him home, he'd been willing to sell himself a little more than necessary, cross boundaries he didn't think he would. Truth be told, Nureyev had been running from it in more ways than he'd care to admit. And then there had been Miasma. As if months off of treatments hadn't leached more off than he'd expected, there had been the dead, Martian air, the dust in his lungs, Miasma's syringes sticking from his neck, all of the blood he'd lost (that would never come back either). His carefully plotted diet had been the greatest loss; Juno had accidentally snagged the sticky note with the names of his supplements on it, but at this point Nureyev's too cloudy to try remembering it. It's the worst flare he's had in a while, but if his bank account has any say in the matter, it will be his last. He files it away for later, and pushes ahead. Peter Nureyev is still adjusting to the rush of it all, the scrambled jobs to pay his bills, to add to the growing constellation of his forearms. He's swallowed every pill on the market, done every infusion, gone through treatments that had left him crying out for Juno Steel, of all people. He must be losing it, mind and body, both at once. Peter's still unsteady, every opportunity falling through (some days he's too exhausted to move, too shaky and chilled to lift a cup of tea, much less steal the mountain of jewelry it would take to buy his way out of the mess he's gotten himself into). If Buddy Aurinko is his ticket out of early death, so be it. He'll play her games, jump through every hoop she offers him. Meanwhile, he'll scrape together enough to make it the months she predicts it will take, enough to keep his worn out heart beating and his work careful and lucrative. Nureyev will file all of the headaches and exhaustion and fever chills away for later, sort things out when he can't avoid it any longer, like right now. Leaning against the hood of the Ruby Seven, out of breath and shaken, Peter thinks he's seeing things. He adjusts his mask quickly, trying to resemble someone who isn't dying. His breath catches in his throat, but he doesn't let it stop him.
"Hello Juno, it's been a while."
{you leave me up tight
strung up like a kite
dumb, wicked, and white
love me in spite}
Being the worst detective in the galaxy, it takes Juno Steel weeks to notice anything is wrong. Notice the rattling cup Vespa shoves at him every few hours, notice that most days, when they’re not on a heist he’s let his makeup kit gather dust, Peter’s given up on the fancy outfits, given into Juno’s sweats (which he doesn’t even notice are gone) and a hoodie he can’t remember buying (it reads “New Brahma High”, Steel doesn’t lose the irony on this one, it gets him some raised eyebrows). It’s only when Nureyev falls asleep clinging to Juno’s shoulder during one of Buddy's movie nights. After Juno, he'd become all the more cautious of what he falls asleep next to, or who. In their long history of half-baked apologies and sidestepping the important conversations, Nureyev had clearly set his boundaries (rule number seven hundred and forty nine of thieving, he thought bitterly, never fall for the same trick twice, never fall in love with or asleep on Juno Steel). And now? When he's being carried to bed, when Juno's muttering to himself, trying to figure out whether it would be appropriate to lay down next to him, trying to figure out what's wrong, Peter can't help but feel anything but warmth. When Juno shifts in bed, Nureyev's grip tightens instinctively; when he hears hushed voices (Juno's and Vespa's, a cup of pills and a glass of water), he stirs, downs the pills without much of a fuss. Vespa leaves quietly, the door sliding shut behind her.
"When were you going to tell me?" His voice is soft, fingers in Peter's messy hair, tracing the outline of his jaw.
He doesn't bother looking up. "I assumed that by the time I was dying you would have figured it out."
"Nureyev."
"Don’t.” Peter is whispering, breath against Juno’s collarbone. “Please dear, I need the rest.”
“Honey.” Juno’s cradling him now, kissing his forehead. “You’re going to be okay, we’ll talk tomorrow, I’ll make waffles.”
Peter Nureyev smiles against Juno’s chest, and for once, he falls asleep first.
{if I betray our lonely nights
spent out like a light
with no kiss goodnight
would we ever fight when I'm away?}
His eyelids flutter to the beeping of machines and his detective gone, Peter Nureyev stares at the post-it notes Juno and Rita had taped to the ceiling before he’d set off with Buddy, Vespa, and Jet (“Good Morning!” next to a sloppily doodled sun, “I’m alright honey, and I’ll be home soon. I’m sorry to leave like this, but it will all be alright soon. Your fool, as always. - J.S.”). Glasses off, Peter can’t see them clearly enough to read, but he doesn’t need to. Nureyev has them memorized in the same ways he’s memorized Juno’s skin, the ways he’s memorized Juno’s voice, the look he gives Nureyev when neither of them know what to do. His head is pounding, as always, but with the fact that he hasn’t died in the past six months, Nureyev has no reason to complain. Rita checks in often enough, in between communications with the rest of the team, her vivacious spirit dimmed by changing IV bags and stumbling heartbeat monitors. He hears her chirp to Juno over comm, and he’d relieved not to have to talk to him. Any day now, it’s a small comfort. Even if Juno comes home empty-handed, with his tail between his legs (which Nureyev suspects he will), he’ll have a few days of warmth, a few days left with Juno Steel, and somehow it’s enough. Somehow, he’s exhausted by the ceiling and drifting out to tide again, taking in a deep breath before letting it out, long and calculated. Peter Nureyev lets himself settle in, fall asleep, confident what he’ll wake up to will be worth sticking around for.