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He is on his sofa.
Juno Steel is on his sofa, and he doesn't remember lying on his sofa, and his leg feels like it is being stabbed by a thousand tiny knives, and he is confused because there's a hand running through his hair and one against his cheek, and both of them smell like lavender oil and pencil sharpenings and not-cologne.
Logically, he knows that the hands belong to Peter Nureyev, and he knows this because the hands are cool and spidery and gentle in a way that nobody else has ever been with him. Like he's a tired bird being cradled in a safe roost, like his bones are works of fragile blown glass, pearly and hollowed and filled to the brim with nobility and loyalty and that hardened resolve of his and all manner of other things, a single summary of the better parts of human evolution in a living, breathing, bleeding terrarium that Peter can admire and tend to and watch it all grow out.
Like he is something iron-hard to be gentled and melted until he is soft as silk, and can flow into most any shape he likes. Soft and silken as he may be, Peter never tries to mould him into a form he finds pleasing (one day he will say this, and Peter will said it is because he finds all of Juno Steel's forms pleasing, and Juno probably won't believe him but you can damn well bet he'll want to.) Peter doesn't chisel and chop and whittle as he pleases, until there's barely any Juno left inside. He merely kneads, as if to stop whatever litany of misery and blame Juno has most recently become from setting too far into stone. Kneads the way a cat does with its paws, and that makes Juno think that Nureyev is maybe not trying to mould him, but simply trying to make a home with Juno, on him, in him so he can excavate a warm hollow in Juno's heart - one that was there long before the intervention.
And all of this is very nice, but it still doesn't explain why he is here, and Nureyev is there, and his hands smell like carefulness and quiet rather than cologne. While the cologne cloys and captivates, the gentle, pearly gradient of the lavender, the stripped resiny rawness of the sharpenings - they make him feel more awake and alive than he has in a long time.
With this newfound rejuvenation, he squirms a little, tries to sit up, only to be eased back down by one of the hands, which has apparently moved to his chest. He’s been stopped just in time, apparently, because now there are little origami airplanes darting around the very edges of his vision. That Peter. Always one step ahead.
“Wow,” he says, but he isn’t sure if Peter hears, because he looks confused – “y’sure know how to make a lady feel like dynamite, Nureyev.” He still isn’t sure if Peter hears – but even so, it remains true, because now his head is in Peter’s lap and hey, Peter’s on the sofa too, that was fast, did he fall asleep or something? He tries to repeat himself because hey, that was kinda important, but now Peter is shushing him and – and stroking a thumb across his forehead and it’s all so soothing that he could just-
The next time he’s fully awake (ish,) he’s ill. Infection, he assumes, because now the leg is numb instead of prickly and that usually means painkillers and then he loses his train of thought. (That makes it sound like said train wasn’t already going at 200 miles an hour and full of screaming, angry passengers – a few of whom can be named as fear, doubt and self-loathing. But hey, he’s sick, not all of his metaphors – or his observations – are gonna be up to scratch.)
It’s quiet and the lights are dim and he thinks he can hear Rita in the other room, probably on the phone to Frannie, but it doesn’t matter because Peter’s gone and he left and now the inside of Juno’s head is like grainy marble wrapped in cotton wool again and he doesn’t even know what that means but hell, he knows how it feels.
And now he’s getting up, and then he’s falling down, because, surprise, his leg can still hurt after all, and then he’s on his hands and knees while his limb screams and his mind screams and he himself feels like screaming because Peter is gone, Peter is gone and he’d tried to save Juno and if Juno’s hurt despite Peter’s efforts then that must mean that Peter is hurt worse, or maybe dead, and he thinks he remembers Peter being there last time he woke up but he can’t be sure because everything is still fuzzy, fuzzy like when your eyes get tired or the camera won’t focus on the stars outside or you get a thought that sinks like a stone in the lake of your stomach and makes everything swim around the edges.
He’s gasping, panting, almost crying, because Peter left and then he left and now Peter’s gone and left again and it serves him right but it doesn’t serve Peter right and that’s why he’s still going to cry like he hasn’t in a while. Peter’s gone and he doesn’t understand anything and now Rita’s coming in, phone in her hand and a look of abject terror on her face, and then he’s getting up, and now he’s falling down again, because anything that can make Rita look so goddamn scared is gonna meet the nasty end of his gun, and oh, where’s his gun, and oh, there’s Peter.
And now Juno Steel is confused all over again because Rita’s scared and Peter’s here and his gun is missing and Peter’s warm, too warm, warm like a fire, blistering like a furnace.
“Juno, love, are you alr- your le- fever-” Everything is garbled, and now he’s being lifted gently up, held to a strong, lithe chest, one that smells like salted caramel and green tea, and then he’s being lowered back down onto the sofa, whining at the loss. He’s not quite as hot anymore, but he thinks that he’d rather feel fire than know the ice of Peter’s absence again. Rita’s gone now, it seems, and he misses her but he doesn’t miss the look that was on her face. Peter’s going somewhere, and oh no, not again, and he paws outwards blindly until he finds silk – the edge of a shirt – and he’s pretty sure he whines, but he’s regained some dignity and he hopes that he didn’t. But if he did then it isn’t so bad, because now Peter’s back and he’s kneeling down and kissing Juno’s forehead and murmuring things that could be reassurances or endearments or even insults and Juno wouldn’t care which because he’s here and his voice is calming and soothing – like a pillow with a freshly washed linen case instead of a too-heavy duvet that smothers and sinks down on you.
Not that it would make much difference, because he’s sinking anyway. Everything is blurring again, including Peter’s face, so he tilts his head a little and takes in its loveliness one last time before he’s out again.
The last time, he wakes up and he stays awake. His senses stagger slightly as his eyes open – everything is picked out in a gritty sharpness that has become foreign to him over the last few – hours? Days? (He assumes it is another day, even though Juno Steel does not merely assume things, he observes and works out and tries, and tries, and tries, until he can’t try anymore, and then he fails.)
It feels like a new day, because the light is white and unfiltered, the moon reflected from a mirror, and it glances off the black ice slickness of the countertop, carrying a coolness that the breeze snatches from it as they cross one another in the opening of the window. Perhaps it is appropriate, because Juno is the light – cold, searching, glancing off any other surface like a bullet – and Peter is the wind. Brisk, encapsulating, never quite possible to catch or hold in the hand.
Except they are holding hands. That’s new.
Juno stares down at the hands, because up to this point his true thoughts on this have only been something along the lines of whereisPeterwhyisPeterhowisPeter in a fever-induced stupor, or buried so very deep he couldn’t delve down deep enough to find them without growing to fear the dark water and abandoning it.
It’s nice.
Peter is curled around Juno’s back like a perfectly fitting shell around a snail, and he looks tired, bags under his eyes and glasses missing, folded and left on the coffee table, and it’s weird because normally Nureyev doesn’t do tired, doesn’t do messy. He’s seen the man in his underwear, he’s seen him do many a ridiculous thing, but that doesn’t count as messy because that isn’t what Nureyev does when it comes to messy – for him messy is a genuine smile, indigo-circled eyes, a gently-snoring ball on the couch that is compacted completely out of its usual lithe shape. He smells like crisp autumn air and soft winter jumpers and there’s just a hint of something piny, and that makes sense because Peter is an evergreen who never dares to drop his leaves, but Juno stiffens because it’s then that he realises that these scents, though confusing, are one of the most honest things he has of Nureyev, because they aren’t Glass, aren’t Rose, aren’t anybody else – they’re Peter’s scents, and that makes them all the more comforting, and that’s why as Nureyev begins to stir, Juno is content to make himself a soft weight in the man’s arms once more as he hears a sleepy murmur.
“Ju-”
“It’s alright, Peter. I’m right here. Go back to sleep.”
The other man looks set to protest, but he is tired – so very tired – and after a foxlike yawn (but not a wild fox, the kind that roamed streets and paced roads on Earth – more like a Fennec fox, to Juno. Slimmer and more alert and considerably fluffier,) he settles back down, nestling his chin into Juno’s hair and shuffling to curl more closely around Juno.
“Hm. Peter. Always – always wan’ed you t’call me Peter…”
Now Juno is tilting his head up and to the right, and then he’s planting a shy, soft, slow kiss on the edge of Nureyev’s jaw.