Chapter Text
So, he panicked. Sue him.
In all the time he'd had since he left Nureyev in that hotel room all those months ago, he'd imagined scenario after scenario of their first meeting. Eyes catching across a crowded room, a ball they both attended for a case and a mark. In the middle of a shootout, Juno catching sight of a flash of a knife or a tuft of perfectly-styled hair. Hell, even just running into each other on the street - Juno turning a corner and there he is, in all his glory.
This? This hadn't even cropped up on his radar.
He remembers the feeling of Nureyev in his arms, warm blood soaking his jacket, and he feels sick.
You wouldn't want your thief to suffer because you weren't trying hard enough, would you, Juno?
The memory hits him like a train out of nowhere and he makes some incomprehensible sound from the back of his throat, rests his head in his hands.
Take a rest, Juno. I'll be fine.
Fine. Yeah, if you call bleeding out in the middle of the Martian desert "fine", Peter Nureyev's doing great. Hell, even better - he's lying in bed in Juno's shitty apartment, recovering from a gunshot wound that should have killed him. The only reason he isn't dead is because Rita knows how to heal from personal experience. He's put that woman through too much, he knows, but in the moment he can’t help but be the most selfish kind of grateful he ever has.
Juno Steel is a lot of things, but a healer isn't one of them.
He can still see him lying on his desk, near-unconscious and completely incomprehensible except for the fact he was in pain, Juno was causing him pain, as he felt around for the bullet in his gut and Rita squeaked instructions. His office stunk of blood and disinfectant for days afterwards, a sickening play-act of the cologne that had haunted him for weeks.
He runs a hand through his hair and sits up straight, holding onto the bar with white knuckles. He should get home. He owes him an explanation, probably, but he also owes him care. He knows this. He knows.
He tries to stand up twice before he can actually will his body to move, and then it passes in something of a blur. He walks from the bar to the apartment and finds himself standing outside what has become Nureyev’s door, hand raised, waiting for… something. Some divine intervention, a soft call from inside or for the door to open for him. Nothing happens. He shifts from foot to foot, hand still raised. Takes a deep breath. Knocks.
“Come in,” Nureyev says, softly, and Juno feels his traitorous heart ache. He sounds pained. Understandably.
He pushes the door open and steps into the room, forces himself to close the door behind him gently. His throat feels tight.
Nureyev is propped up against the pillows Juno had brought in from his apartment, hair limp and skin pale and eyes dark and he’s every inch the man that stole Juno’s heart right from him chest so many months ago.
“Hey, Nureyev,” he says, his voice rough, and Peter smiles.
“It’s nice to see you, Juno,” he says, and he’s so goddamn earnest that Juno can’t take it. He breaks eye contact, burning a hole in the floor instead. There’s a silence between them that lasts for a moment that feels like a year and eventually, he can’t take it anymore.
“Nureyev, listen, I’m --”
“Juno, I’m so --”
“Sorry,” they blurt at the same time, and Juno’s gaze snaps back to Nureyev’s. “What?” he says, eloquently.
“Ah…” Nureyev shifts uncomfortably. Juno’s at his side in an instant, all awkwardness forgotten as he helps him sit up straighter. “Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse from disuse. “Juno, I’m… sorry. About the aftermath. I gave you an ultimatum, and it was unfair of me, especially considering --” he cuts himself off, laughs humourlessly at himself. “Considering what you’d just been through. It was irresponsible at best.”
Juno stares at him. What? “Nureyev, I --”
“No, don’t. You don’t have to forgive me, Juno, I --”
“Goddamnit, Nureyev, would you let me talk?” Juno interrupts.
“Sorry,” Peter says, but he can’t seem to stop the dopey grin that slides onto his face. Must be high off the painkillers, Juno decides.
“Listen, I…” he groans. “I’m not good at this. But, we both did things we shouldn’t have. We both fucked up. No sense in -- beating ourselves up over it.”
Nureyev stared at him, and those eyes pull him in again like they have their own gravity. He’s so beautiful.
“You’ve changed,” Peter says, and that smile is still on his face, less dopey and more… proud, whispers a little voice in the back of his head. If he lets himself believe it, no one has to know.
“Yeah,” Juno laughs. “I guess you could say that. Some shit’s gone down since I up and disappeared on you, Nureyev, you can say that much.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, settling back into his pillows, and Juno raises an eyebrow, a grin on his face.
“What, you want me to tell you a bedtime story?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Peter says, matter-of-fact, arms crossed primly.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
“Not if you’re the death of me first.”
So Juno tells him, and Peter listens.