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What had worried Juno wasn’t that Peter hadn’t shown up for their talk; he did that sometimes. It wasn’t that he had been stiff with Juno all day or the slightly-frantic way he moved his hands or the way that his voice sounded a little more pitched down than usual; it was that he was doing all of that and wearing a shirt that was buttoned up all the way up. Even through every persona he put on, the man always loved to show off his collar bones. It wasn’t like Nureyev to be self-conscious, especially about his body.
At first, Juno figured he was just having a bad day. But then a bad day turned into two days, then a week. Even Vespa was starting to notice that something was off. He was worried, but it didn’t feel like his place to pry.
Then, one night, as he was grabbing a drink from the kitchen, while Rita was off forcing Jet to watch some rom-com she’d made Juno watch 1000 times, he heard the clack of stilettos deliberately striking the floor. Juno spun around faster than he should have. (He should have known that Nureyev wouldn’t have made that sound on purpose: Ransom didn’t make noise when he walked.) But he was excited, and he couldn’t really fault himself for getting that excited only to see Buddy open the door, looking tired herself.
“Mind passing me the gin, darling?” she asked, sliding into a chair. Juno grabbed the second most expensive bottle of the stuff from the bar cart, plopped a few ice cubes in a glass, poured her a drink, and sent it sliding across the table to her.
“What’s got you out this late?” Juno asked, sitting down across from her.
Buddy sighed, taking a long sip of gin. “Just running over some plans again. Nothing to worry about.”
Juno could see the bags under her eyes, her fingernails worn down to the beds. He considered prying again, but when he looked into her half-lidded eye he could see something strange: she was telling the truth. She had been running over plans, or her own speeches, or something along those lines; she just looked… exhausted.
“You should get some sleep at some point,” he said.
“Mmm. I’ll consider it,” Buddy replied. “Perhaps I’ll ask my doctor. And why, Juno darling, are you out this late?”
Juno picked at his fingernails, then stopped; he was trying to break himself out of the habit. Instead he clasped his hands together tightly and looked in Buddy’s general direction without making eye contact.
Tell her you’re just getting a drink, a voice in his head instructed. She doesn’t need to know everything.
“Honestly?” he said. “It’s about Ransom. He’s been... off lately and I don’t know why.”
He was about to continue, but Buddy threw back her head and laughed, a beautiful, tinkling laugh that filled the small room. “Oh, Juno,” she said, reaching out across the table to touch his hand. “Thank you for noticing, but we’re all concerned about Ransom. We were worried something was going on with you two , in fact, and it’s a small relief to hear that’s not the case.”
Heat rushed to Juno’s cheeks. “I guess you’re right. He hasn’t exactly been subtle, has he?”
“Ransom, I’ve found, is rarely what you or I’d call subtle.” Buddy took another sip of her drink. “And I suppose you’d like my advice on how to fix things with him.”
Juno scoffed. “Advice? That’s not why I--”
Buddy waved a hand, dismissing any reasons that Juno didn’t actually want advice, or didn’t want to treat her like a therapist, or whatever it was he would say. “Talk to him,” she advised. “Goodness knows none of us can, not like you. Great relationships are built on communication, darling, and that means communicating when the chips are down, not just when everything’s roses and candy.”
Juno made one more attempt to interrupt her. “I said I didn’t need any--”
“Ask him what’s wrong,” Buddy concluded. “And tell him you won’t take ‘nothing’ for an answer.”
“I…” Juno sighed. “Thanks, Buddy. I’ll talk to him.”
“And do let me know what he says.”
Juno gave her a look, and she covered her face with her palm. “You’re right. Not what he says, exactly. Just tell me if he’s going to be okay.”
Juno’s expression softened. “I can do that.”
The next morning, he dragged himself out of bed early with Rita’s help, and knocked on Peter’s door. No response. He knocked louder, then louder still, then banged on the door with all the force his arms could muster and shouted “PETER RANSOM” so loudly that it prompted a crash and a growl-yell from Buddy and Vespa’s suite: “Juno if you do that at this time in the morning again I’ll put your insides on the outside.”
There was stumbling inside Peter’s room, and the door opened to Peter in a hastily thrown-on silk robe. He narrowed his eyes at Juno, and gathered the robe around his shoulders. “Someone had better be dying--”
Juno cut him off. “It’s ten AM,” he stated as calmly as he could muster. “I’ve never seen you asleep after seven before this week. I want to talk, Ransom.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” snapped Peter. “I’m quite fine. Or I was, before someone interrupted my--”
“Peter ,” Juno said, just above a whisper. “Something’s wrong, and I need you to talk to me about it. I’m not leaving here until you do.”
Peter sighed. “Can I at least make myself decent first?”
“Take your time.”
The door slammed in Juno’s face. He sat down, back against the door, knowing how long Peter typically took in the mornings. Twenty minutes later, it opened a crack. There stood Peter Nureyev, hair slicked back but combed , shirt buttoned all the way up and tucked into a pair of black slacks, looking for all the world like absolutely anyone other than Peter Nureyev.
“Come in and tell me what all this is about,” he huffed. “And then let me get on with my day.”
Juno followed him in and closed the door behind him. “Nureyev…” He sighed. “You’ve been acting weird for a week now. What’s going on?”
Nureyev smiled. “I do appreciate your thoughtfulness, as always, love, but I can assure you that it’s nothing.” He sat down on the bed. “I am perfectly fine.”
Juno lowered himself into the small, ratty armchair that had come with their quarters. “It’s not what I’m asking,” he pressed. “I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you. You’ve been… off. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t say I know what you’re talking about, as nothing is the matter.” Nureyev sat on his bed and took out his sketchbook, choosing to draw rather than look at Juno.
“Nureyev, you’ve been dressing more modestly than a nun.”
“Must I always bare my skin for your approval, detective?”
“Ugh,” Juno sighed. “You — you know that’s not what I meant. You’ve just been… acting like something is up and I’m worried about you.”
Peter didn’t respond, instead choosing to stare at Juno with an unamused expression, as if he was waiting for more.
“I’ve never seen you go this long without wearing eyeliner.” Juno was pleased to see the shocked expression that greeted him in response. Normally, he’d let himself be smug about finding the thread that would unravel the whole thing, but this was too important. “Not that you don’t still look good, it’s just that —“
“Hush, Juno.” Peter’s voice was quiet. Juno could almost see the blush through his foundation. Peter was looking back at his sketchbook, but now he twirled the pen between his fingers like a knife.
The silence that enveloped the room as Nureyev tried to figure out what to say felt like an ice bath: cold, still, and shocking. Juno could practically see the gears in his head turning.
“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I know something is wrong, and no amount of denial is going to make me think otherwise. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s ok. I’m here if you want someone to talk about it with, though.”
Peter sighed. “If you absolutely must know?” He paused, actually waiting for an answer.
“I‘d like to.” Juno looked at Nureyev, desperately trying to read his face. Over the past few months, Juno had learned to read Nureyev like a book, but he was keeping his face surprisingly stoic, as if he knew Juno could read him and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“I’ve been feeling... dysphoric... lately. I don’t know what set it off, sometimes it just… happens and doesn’t go away.” He held up his hands. “Before you say anything, I know it’s ridiculous, I completed my transition decades ago. I don’t even think about it most of the time. This just happens sometimes. It’s no cause for alarm.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Juno softly.
Peter finally met his eye, and Juno continued. “I wasn’t going to say any of that. It’s okay to feel dysphoric, no matter long ago you “finished” your transition. Hell, I feel it too, and I’ve been out for twenty years! You’ve seen me like that; I’m a mess and Rita has to literally drag me out of my room to make me eat anything.”
Juno laid his hand next to Peter’s, an invitation if he chose to accept it. “Is that why you haven’t been sleeping? It’s been keeping you up?”
Peter laughed airily. “You are a detective,” he said, accepting and laying his hand over Juno’s. “I just haven’t been able to get comfortable. And once my body stops objecting, my mind begins to run away from me.”
“That makes a lot of sense.” Juno traced his thumb along the knuckle of Peter’s thumb. “I deal with that… far more than I like to admit.”
“I’m sorry for being so despondent. My mind has not been the clearest lately,” Peter chuckled.
Juno laughed, too. “Are you kidding me? I’m always like that! Why are you apologizing?”
“You are not always like that,” Peter said. He wrapped an arm around Juno and pulled him in to kiss him on the top of his head. “You’re wonderful, Juno. Would you like me to list the things I like about you, or perhaps--”
Juno sighed, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “I see what you’re doing. This isn’t about me right now, it’s about you.” He paused. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Peter. “I already told you how I was feeling. There’s nothing else to say.” He meant it. If there was anything left to say, he’d filed it deep in the back of his mind; it certainly wasn’t worth talking about right now, not with Juno.
Juno shook his head. “Nureyev. Sit down.”
Peter sat, obediently, on the edge of the bed, their knees almost touching. The room was barely big enough for the one armchair, let alone the armoire and vanity Peter had stuffed in too.
“You know you’re allowed to be sad with me, right?” Juno continued. “Just because I’ve got, well, whatever the hell’s going on with me, doesn’t mean that you can’t be sad in front of me.”
"I know, I know.” And that was true. Peter trusted Juno, although he knew Juno shouldn’t be trusting him. “I don't know why, but I feel so awful doing it,” he admitted, not realizing he felt that way until the words were already halfway out his mouth.
Juno met Peter’s eyes. “I know I’m the first person to know your name in, well, a while, and... how long has it been since you’ve done this kind of thing? Have you ever done this kind of thing?”
Peter didn’t understand; this line of questioning felt so sudden. “I… no, never. I feared it would compromise my safety.” There had been lovers before, paramours, many of them falling for his many personae. But none knew, cared for, saw Peter Nureyev . “But why do you ask?”
Juno looked at Peter so intensely that Peter had to look away; it was like the lady was seeing right through him, through his flesh and muscles into the bones and guts. The ugly parts.
“Well first of all, I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s... terrible. And of course you feel bad doing it, Nureyev. I think everyone does. And it’s not something you’re used to, either.”
“And second of all?” Peter prompted, twisting his fingers anxiously, a habit he thought he’d gotten rid of long ago.
“Second of all, just because it hurts doesn't mean you need to keep your feelings bottled up. It's not healthy.” He gesticulated like he was searching for a way to explain what he wanted to say until he found it. “People are like balloons. They can take a lot and expand and grow and change. But they’re not infinite, you know? They can’t handle being blown up too much or they’ll pop. You’ve got to release the pressure.”
“Mmm,” said Peter, feeling for all the world like an overfilled balloon.
“And I won’t claim to know anything about how brains work physically, because I don’t, but these things... they’re like training a muscle. When you break your arm — really break your arm with the bone through the skin — you have to wear a cast and can’t move it for a few months. When you get it off, it’s really hard to bend and unbend your elbow because the muscles have gotten weaker. But that’s why the doc gives you those exercises, right? If you just do it a little every day, soon you’ll just... be able to do it.”
“I — I see,” said Peter. His mind was racing a million miles a minute. What Juno was saying made sense, but, “But that doesn't sound like a very fun process for you to be part of. And I don't need—”
Juno cut him off again before he could apologize further, make more excuses. “Jesus, Nureyev, I’m offering,” he said, the soft tone of his voice mixing with exasperation. “I am doing this of my own free will because I — I care about you a lot.”
“I understand, Juno,” replied Peter. “I'm not sure how long it's been since I've heard that. From anyone.” From anyone but the likes of Ms. Zolotovna, or the likes of the marks who came before her, he thought.
Juno’s voice softened. “Just... know that you can always talk to me, ok? I know it’s been kind of painful these past few months, forcing ourselves to talk like this but you don’t need to wait until after dark to do it. If you need me you can just... ask. God knows I’ve talked your ear off about my troubles before.”
“But it feels different when it’s you,” said Peter. “I don’t know why.” His brain immediately came up with a million reasons: because Juno was a lady, because Peter was a well-arranged disaster, because Juno had seen Peter’s baggage and had all the reason in the world to be scared of him, because--
Juno reached forward and took Nureyev’s chin gently, moving his face close to his so he had no choice but to look him in the eye. “Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.
And in that moment Nureyev couldn't help but to say, and feel, "I trust you, Juno. I'm… I'm afraid, but I trust you."
“Then trust me on this: you can talk to me when you’re sad or angry or jealous or dysphoric. I want you to talk to me when you’re happy and loving and excited and nervous. I want you to talk to me whatever you’re feeling. I’m here for all of you, Nureyev. That’s why I’m here with you and not with Glass or Rose or any of the other faces you put on.”
Nureyev’s eyes stung, and for the first time in a long time--how long?--he didn’t use any of his practiced tricks to keep the tears at bay. A single one pooled in the corner of his eye, shone there like a tiny diamond. He smiled.
“I care about you too, Juno,” he said, face still inches away from him. “I really care about you.”
Juno swallowed, closed his eyes, and leaned his forehead against Nureyev’s. He may not have been ready to say it just then, but he certainly knew what he was feeling. They stayed there for a long time, two rocks leaning against each other in a sandstorm, precarious but never falling down.