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There are things he's had lined up to say to Peter Nureyev, if the universe ever gave him the chance. But now, seeing him again, Juno knows he was never gonna be prepared enough to really say them. He's too much, too alive and beautiful and right there by his side, and Juno's overwhelmed.
And even if he could get a grip, it would take too much damn groveling to get Nureyev to meet his eyes, or say his name, or listen even for a second because he's too smart to fall for Juno's bullshit again. He's here because he has a job to do, same as Juno, and they'll work together and they'll go their separate ways because that's how they always end up, anyway. Everything else is just a waste of time.
Juno gets it, he does. But it burns just the same every time Nureyev calls him "Detective", cool and clipped and completely without feeling.
They used to make a good team. Still do, but there's something stilted in the way they try to work together now, each too slow to turn his back on the other. There's trust, there's always trust, because trust is not an option for business partners in their respective lines of work. But it's not the same trust Juno remembers. It couldn't be. He broke that himself, and he knows better than to ask the thief to fall into the same trap twice.
And it's still so strange, standing side by side with man who won't let Juno say his name aloud and facing down the last handful of Mayor Pereyra's goons. Juno's fought alone, and he's fought side by side with a friend, and he's fought side by side with someone he was punching a few minutes before, because the two of them found something bigger and scarier to punch in the meantime. There's a man with an eye tattooed on his chin, and a lady with a blaster bigger than her head, and a tall person in a red bowler hat, and they all want Juno dead, and he can't quite figure out whether or not he should expect Nureyev to cover his back this time around.
He doesn't leave Juno behind, at least. That's more than he probably deserves.
When Juno has the Theia take over for a moment, to peg the lady with the big gun between the eyes with a well-placed stun before she can hit him with something a little more on the lethal side, Nureyev narrows his eyes, but he doesn't question it. Things are different. They were always gonna be different, if they ever saw each other again.
"Don't kill them," Juno grunts over his shoulder, and hears Nureyev sigh in annoyance where he's grappling Bowler Hat to the ground. But then the man with the eye tattoo is swinging a bat towards his head, and he's too distracted to check and see whether Nureyev took his advice.
He's dodging blows with the Theia's help, but they're coming in too fast to let him get a word in edgewise, and it looks like Tattoo's strategy is to tire him out, until someone swings in on a beam of starlight and kicks his legs out from under him. Juno's not above stunning a man while he's down, so the problem is solved in fairly short order, and he finally has a moment to catch his breath.
"I had it handled," he complains, and Nureyev glances at him sideways, sweeping his hair back out of his eyes.
"Oh, yes, that's certainly how it seemed to be going from my perspective. How terribly callous of me, to presume to help you. Obviously you can take care of yourself."
Juno shoves his blaster back into its holster with a little less care than he should, and growls. "Obviously."
"Well, then, next time I'll mind my own business, shall I, Detective?" Nureyev spits at him, his voice so cool that it sends a chill all down Juno's spine.
Juno opens his mouth to say something cruel, hears a clatter from behind him, and turns to look instead.
While they were distracted, Bowler Hat must have staggered to their feet again. There's a knife clutched tight in their left hand, already mid-swing. The Theia calculates the trajectory of the blade in seconds, the perfect arc that will end in the middle of Peter Nureyev's back. There's no time to warn him, no time to think at all, only to move while he still can.
So Juno does the only thing he's ever been any good at, and gets in the way.
His elbow catches the gangster square in the chest, his knee in their side, and the two of them topple to the ground like a collapsing building, slow and inelegant and loud. Nureyev moves quickly, bringing his foot down against the gangster's wrist, hard, while Juno plants his fist in Bowler Hat's face once, twice, the impact rattling all through his chest. Doesn't take much of that for the thug to stop fighting back and settle in for an impromptu nap.
Juno tries to let out the breath he's been holding in while Peter helps him back to his feet, and comes up short. His whole chest is tight, ribs aching and some kind of stitch in his side he can't shake.
"Pity," Nureyev says, and Juno can't understand why his voice sounds like it's coming from so far away. "I had a question or two to ask that one. How terribly rude of them, to keep us waiting like this, don't you think, Detective?"
Nodding vacantly, Juno grits his teeth and conducts a little light investigation, hand skimming over the place between his ribs where the sharpest pain is localized. His head spins a little as he examines the bright-copper color his fingers are painted with once he pulls his hand away. "Oh, god dammit," he grunts, just before his knees give out.
"Juno-what's-wrong," Peter's voice echoes so it takes Juno a moment to separate out the words, to realize the arms wrapping around him are Peter's and reach up and hold on tight to him while the rest of the world slides out of focus. "Juno, you're bleeding!"
"Had that part figured out already, thanks," Juno tells him, and his lungs are burning, feels like they must be filling with his own damn blood because he can taste it, bitter and salty-sweet at the back of his throat. He chokes it down, still clinging to Nureyev, the two of them sinking to the ground like it's rising up to meet them halfway, presses his face right into Peter's chest and drinks in the smell of his cologne like it will make up for all the air he can't seem to drag into his chest. "Goddamn…Bowler Hat had a knife on them." His words are muffled by the silk of Nureyev's shirt, but it's not like they matter all that much anyway. Just meaningless sounds.
Only sound that seems to mean anything anymore is his name, in Peter's breaking voice. He always had a knack for making it sound like some kind of song, the kind of name that belonged in streams, or stories, or ballads. Name worthy of a goddess. He pulls Juno's coat to one side to look at the wound, and makes another sound, a choked-off gasp that Juno can feel all the way through him. "Juno--"
"That bad, huh?" He can't hold back a humorless laugh, but it comes out all wrong, whispery and strained, leading into a watery cough that feels like it's splitting his chest in half. Juno grits his teeth, and curls in on himself a little tighter.
Nureyev shifts to allow him movement, holding Juno practically in his lap, pressing his hand down over the stab wound and winding his other arm around Juno's neck to cradle his head. The pressure aches, but less and less with every passing second. He grimaces and shifts his head to look up at Peter, who's busy schooling his face into a practiced façade of calm. "I've seen worse," he lies. "Don't be so dramatic, Detective, hmm? You'll be alright."
Those eyes of his haven't lost their shine in all the time he was away. Still so bright that Juno can almost believe him. He smiles without thinking, moving one of his hands from its vice grip on Peter's shoulder to brush over his face, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, those sharp teeth peeking past his lips--
"Nureyev," he sighs.
Peter shushes him, shakes his head, shifts to move Juno's hand down to cover his own, over the wound. "Keep pressure on that for me, now, Juno, just for a minute, I'll get us some help. You'll be fine in no time. You'll see."
And if that's his plan, Juno understands perfectly. He's seen enough of it to know watching death is too much to ask of anybody. It's an unbearable burden, seeing something end and then continuing on after like a part of you didn't die along with them. Far too much for Juno to ask of this man, from whom he's already stolen everything that matters. Asking him to stay would be selfish, and cowardly, and--
--and damn him, Juno's never claimed to be selfless.
"Don't go, Nureyev--" he repeats again, while the thief digs through his pockets for his comms, ignoring him. Juno groans, another cough wracking his body, wet and agonizing and unending until he finally manages to gasp out a "Peter."
Peter's arms wrap around him again, tighter this time, and Juno feels his silk-soft lips skim over his brow for a moment before he rests his forehead against Juno's, the frames of his glasses knocking against his cheek. "Juno, Juno, shh, I'm here. I'm here, love."
His chest already feels like it's caving in around his heart, squeezing hard enough to burst, but for just a moment he's lost in it, just gone completely, and nothing matters, not the false eye whirring in his head or the acid rain starting to scorch the ground around them or the blood spilling out of Juno too fast to dam up.
There's a lot of words Juno holds back, living from day to day, things he can't let himself speak aloud or even think in the privacy of his own head because they'd rattle the foundations of his world too much if he gave them half a chance. But Peter Nureyev said he'd never come back, and he's here, and Juno can't see himself ever getting another opportunity. "I'm sorry. Nureyev, I'm sorry."
"Don't," Peter says, tight and clipped and ragged around the edges, but Juno can't stop the words from coming, they're pouring out of him like blood from a wound.
"I missed you, every day. Every day. Please, you gotta believe me, I missed you so much I could feel it, right here in my chest, like I left part of me behind with you and I was just hollow. Nureyev--Peter--"
He tries to catch Peter's mouth with his own, to close that little distance between them, but he can't manage it without Nureyev's help. Its barely a kiss, just a messy, frantic instant of contact, the barest brush of their lips against one another, and then Peter pulls away, his face still and set, his eyes shut firmly like he's in just as much agony as Juno himself. "You seem to be developing a habit of leaving me behind, Juno Steel," he whispers, voice raw. "I wish I knew how to hate you for it."
Juno's hands are slow to obey him, his grip on Peter's collar too loose and his limbs too heavy and numb and cold, but he keeps holding on for dear life anyway. Peter's bright eyes meet his and he doesn't know what else to do to fix the thing he's broken. "I love you," he says, giving up the last of what he has to give, the thing buried deepest in the broken pile of things he missed his chance to say. Letting go of it feels like untethering a balloon, watching it fly up beyond his reach to some cold death among the stars. "I love you."
He tastes blood at the back of his mouth again, thick and bitter as bile, tries to keep it from staining his teeth but he's past the point of knowing to hold things back now.
Peter sucks in a breath that's high and ragged, and then his lips are on Juno's face again, just catching the corner of his mouth. "If you die on me here and now I'll drag you back from the Beyond just to kill you again," he vows, pressing down hard enough against the wound in Juno's gut that he can't hold back a pained groan. "Do you hear me, Juno? I mean it. Stay."
There's a part of Juno that wants to rally at that, but it's buried so deep under the rest of him, the part that wants to curl up tighter and let Peter Nureyev surround him until he vanishes entirely, and he can't make his hands move. "I don't…know how," he admits, in a small voice.
"Try, love," Peter pleads. "For me."
And the promises Juno makes have always had a way of going unfulfilled, collecting interest and coming back to bite him later on, but every pattern has to break down somewhere, right? He nods, and it's a pitiful little motion but Peter seems to understand the meaning behind it. His face is gray and his bright eyes rimmed with red, but he offers Juno a shaky smile. "Good. That's good."
It's that thought that follows Juno down into the rising dark. He can't manage to fit his mouth around the words, but he tries, again and again, until even the last echoes of thought slip away from him. I'm sorry. I love you. I'll stay. I'm sorry. I love you.
I'll stay.
I'm sorry.
Peter, I'm sorry.
For a while, there's blissful nothingness, and then gradually, a return.
First, a sensation. Pain. Every part of his body that isn't numb or stiff or too heavy to move is searing with agony.
Then a thought. What the hell did I do this time?
Juno breathes in, slowly, even this simple, automatic process a grueling fight against his own aching body. His ribs protesting the swell of his lungs, his throat too raw and tight to let the air pass through, a bitter, chemical scent on the air he manages to drag into his chest. He recognizes the smell before he can remember how to open his eyes.
He lies there a minute or two longer, categorizing the sensations as they come, making a list of observations that serve no particular purpose. Rough cotton sheets. Stiff, and papery, and unfamiliar. Not that Juno's a lady of luxury, exactly.
Somewhere, in the distance, the faint sound of footsteps. Rhythmic beeps and whirrs. And closer, a soft, whispery snoring.
Juno blinks his eyes open, and shuts them immediately against the blinding light of the fluorescent fixtures hanging over his head. A quiet groan slips out from between his clenched teeth. The nearby snoring falters, for just a moment, and then resumes.
Juno shifts by careful degrees until his face is turned to the side and opens his eye again, staring at Peter Nureyev where he's folded in on himself in a plastic hospital chair, his legs swung over the side and his head tucked low, arms wrapped around his own waist like a makeshift blanket. His glasses are hanging half off his face, and he's traded out his silk button-down for a Hyperion General tee-shirt in a size too large for him.
Over his shoulder, out the window, Juno can see the faint buzzing glow of the city at night, splashes of neon and chrome and distant starlight through the shimmer of the dome. He watches for a while, but his eyes can't seem to stop drifting back to Nureyev.
He looks ragged, the way Juno feels, his elegant long-limbed body drooping with exhaustion, his eyes smudged with old mascara and deep dark circles, his dark wavy hair dull and disheveled. But he's here. Close enough to touch, if Juno could manage to move a muscle without the Theia pulling his strings.
Like he was sleeping light enough to sense any change in the atmosphere of the room, or like the heavy ache of Juno's thoughts was somehow audible to him, Peter shifts awake, and stretches, and turns to meet his eyes, and freezes.
He's quiet and still for a long moment, and then all the breath rushes out of him in a near-silent gasp, and all at once Peter's unfolded from his chair and bending over the hospital bed, his hand finding Juno's hand and clasping his cold, numb fingers.
Lips parting and then pressing together again, like he can't risk speaking aloud, Peter holds Juno's hand tight in his own and looks at him with tired, shining eyes, stares and stares as though he expects Juno to disappear any second.
Juno looks up at him, and licks his cracked lips, and says, quietly, "Hey."
Something shatters in Nureyev's face, and he folds again, his head ducking out of sight below his shaking shoulders. The thing that's already sore and aching in Juno's chest twists, and he turns his face away to hide from it. Peter follows him, though, an instant later, straightening up and pressing a kiss to Juno' hand before shifting to card his hand through Juno's hair, press his palm to the side of Juno's neck where his pulse is quiet and labored but there, still there. Brush his thumb over the stubble at Juno's jaw, a few days worth of prickly growth. Juno's lost in the flood of sensations, but he can't tear his eye away from Peter's face once again, staring in wonder at the bright tears tracking down his cheeks, or the tremble of his mouth as he murmurs Juno's name.
"Love you," he mumbles in return, and it’s amazing how easily the words can spill off his tongue when he has to wrestle for every full breath, but there's a truth in it he'd be hard pressed to deny.
And when Nureyev echoes it right back, a shaky, "I love you, oh, Juno, I love you," said close enough that his warm breath ghosts over Juno's ear, his lips pressed to Juno's cheek--
Well, there's a truth in that, too.