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Peter has made a habit of waking up first.
He’s not sure how he does it, actually, because he’s never set an alarm, but his internal clock is uneasy now. Mornings mean fingers stretching towards the other side of the bed to make sure Juno is still there, even though this is Juno’s apartment, and usually Peter is the one leaving.
He’s careful not to wake Juno up. Peter’s quiet insecurities don’t need to exist past sunrise, past the conversations they’ve already had. It would only serve to make everyone feel worse.
Peter wakes up before the sunrise really makes it into Juno’s apartment. There’s no beams of light coming in through the tiny window just yet; the sun needs to be a little higher to get past all the buildings around them. Peter turns over, careful not to make the bed creak (not an easy task, given how cheaply made it is— he’ll have to convince Juno to get a new bed frame, and probably a new mattress too), and it’s just light enough to make out Juno lying next to him, not quite light enough to make out his features. But he can hear Juno breathing, slow, steady, still sleeping.
Peter probably isn’t going to get back to sleep. Or, he probably could, but he doesn’t really want to. There’s something extremely peaceful about lying here, awake, watching the amount of light in the room grow. Later today Peter has to leave Mars, but before that, they can have breakfast, and before that Juno will wake up and they can be awake together, and before that…
Sunbeams filter in through the blinds. The light is bright, but as long as Peter doesn’t look directly at the widow, he’s fine, and he’s too busy absorbing every detail of Juno’s face to look out the window anyway. He does this most mornings. As though he’s never seen Juno before.
Sometimes like he’ll never see Juno again.
Juno is breathtaking. He always is, of course, but they’re both very busy people, and Peter doesn’t always have time to dwell when one or both of them is about to die. Mornings like this though, he has a little extra time to memorize what Juno’s face looks like now, in the quiet before the day has started, to remember what he looked like two days ago when Peter landed on Mars, to remember what he looks like when he’s laughing, when he’s tired, when he’s righteously angry…
Divine is the first word he thinks of, and Peter smiles to himself.
Juno stirs, but doesn’t open his eye. Peter shifts himself, this time letting the bed creak, if only just so Juno knows he’s awake too.
“Morning…” mutters Juno, and Peter hadn’t noticed he was collecting tension in his shoulders until he releases it. A bad habit. One he doesn’t want to keep doing. Juno is here, so there’s no reason to…
“Morning, love,” he says, only just slightly louder. Juno smiles, the slow, barely there kind that only exists in moments like this. Under the covers, he intertwines his legs with Peter’s and pulls him closer. Peter reaches out an arm and wraps it around Juno’s waist, moving closer himself, until they’re barely inches apart, limbs tangled together. Juno finally opens his eye, and his smile fades to a look of quiet resignation, more distant than Peter would like.
“When do you have to leave.” It’s barely even a question, it’s so flat.
“Late afternoon.”
“We should probably get up.” He makes no immediate move to do so, and Peter smiles.
“Oh, probably. Busy day and whatnot.”
“Right. And I should… go into the office.”
“Mmmm, probably that too.” Peter traces circles on the small of Juno’s back. “But it’s still fairly early to start the work day isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” says Juno. “Don’t you have to get ready to go?”
Peter laughed. “I may take longer than five minutes to get ready, but I certainly don’t take from sunrise to late afternoon.” They’re nose to nose, and Peter can see Juno’s gaze fall to his lips for a second before looking at his eyes again. “The world is barely awake, Juno, we have no reason to go anywhere.”
Sometimes, mornings are a gamble. Juno sometimes is unwilling to stay in bed for very long; Peter suspects a combination of general restlessness and guilt over that one specific morning. Juno sometimes insists on getting up and starting the day as fast as possible, as though he can pretend he never had to go through the process of starting the day at all.
Today, though, Juno moves just a little closer and kisses Peter. It’s lazy and slow, but Juno raises a hand to Peter’s cheek and hold him in place like he’s afraid to let go. Like if he lets go then they have to get up.
Peter curls his arm tighter around Juno’s waist and kisses back, content to stay here forever, if Juno wants. He smiles against Juno’s lips, and Juno lets out a breathy laugh that Peter feels more than hears. Chest to chest, fingers on bare skin, everything feels slow, like the universe is aligning to let this moment last as long as possible.
“Peter,” breathes Juno, and his voice sounds like music, not because it has any melody or sing-song to it but because Juno is saying it, and it’s raspy and quiet and beautiful, like the lady it belongs to.
“Hmm?”
Juno pulls back, just a little, and says, almost inaudibly, “I love you.” It still sounds sleepy, but no less sincere because of it.
It isn’t news. They’ve said this in many different ways, many different times, and it’s offhand and quiet and it shouldn’t be a big deal but it makes Peter’s breath catch anyway.
How lucky Peter is.
“I love you too,” he says, and it doesn’t feel like enough, so he traces kisses along Juno’s jawline as though he can re-say it with every touch. As though it’ll help him tell Juno he’s heavenly, that Peter’s so in love with him it’s dizzying.
They’re in bed so late that Juno has to call Rita and make up some excuse for why he wasn’t in while Peter runs around Juno’s apartment trying to make sure he has everything he needs, but Peter thinks it was worth it, and judging by the way Juno kisses him goodbye, Juno thinks so too.
•••
The next time Peter is on Mars, the sun is up before he is. Automatically, he reaches his hand out for Juno, eyes still bleary from sleep. Instead of just encountering Juno’s back, or his arm, Juno’s hand finds his, and Juno intertwines their fingers.
“I’m here,” says Juno. Peter can hear the guilt, just on the edge, but mostly, Juno is trying to be comforting. Peter wipes the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand. He’s not sure who’s grasping hands tighter, him or Juno, but it’s a lifeline. Does Juno know? Has Juno always known? Peter is silent for a second.
“I know,” he says, and he does. He does know Juno is there, he does know Juno is going to be there. He trusts Juno Steel. He knows. He does.
Juno reels him in and buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck, and Peter wraps his arms around Juno. It’s unclear who this is supposed to be comforting, but either way, Peter doesn’t want to move.
I’m here, says Juno again, and Peter replies I know.
I’m here, I know, I’m here, I know, I’m here, I know, I love you. I love you.
•••
Juno makes a habit of waiting for Peter to wake up, or, on the days he can’t, waking Peter up so they can get up together.
Eventually, Peter stops needing to reach out and check that Juno is there.
He still reaches for Juno, but this time, it's because Juno is reaching back.