Archive of Our Own

It was to no one’s surprise that Juno Steel already had a will. 

This wasn’t exactly groundbreaking news, he’d always been that type that had a bit of a death wish and even less of a will to live; which made a functionally terrible combo for anyone that wanted to live past age forty. Which, at the rate Juno was going, seemed like he was really pushing it.

So it really only seemed natural that Juno Steel, of all the people, would have a will ready to go at all times in the event that he should die in a flaming blaze of glory. Personally, he liked to imagine it’d be a rooftop battle, between him and the faceless big bad he’d dream up in his head, and it’d be a dramatic showdown. Juno’s coat fluttering in the wind as the villain tried to make their escape via some sort of expensive hovercraft and right as the villain was about to get away? They’d both shoot. And they’d both collapse to the ground with a dull thud.

Dying as a hero. That was the dream. 

A dream he thought about far too often. Especially on those nights like tonight, where he was sat alone at the bar, practically stewing in his own existentialism. He’d been here for god knows how long, expecting to go home with someone earlier in the night but instead just ended up getting a bit too tipsy on cheap scotch and soda. A situation he found himself far more often than he’d like to admit, but he found the warm hum the alcohol allowed to wash over his body a comforting one. Like a ratty old blanket, he thought to himself bitterly.

However, the downside of the alcohol was how easily those little things he tried to set aside often seemed to just find their way out. The same way bile crawls up the back of your throat and burns. The little things like all the times he could’ve just dropped dead before, all the times he’d hoped this would be his grand “hero’s death”, the many moments he watched someone die and wished it could’ve been him instead. And how every single time he found himself left with an eerie sense of disappointment.

Rita always hated it when he got like this. It wasn’t something he really said out loud in front of her, or at least tried not to, but she always seemed to have that sort of psychic sense for it. It was though she saw even the slightest twitch of his brow, the crease of a frown line, and she just knew Juno was already miles deep into his own self loathing. And she simply wouldn’t have it.

It was never something quite spoken out loud, it just seemed to be something they both understood. Or, at least, Rita understood and Juno unknowingly perpetuated. But nonetheless, more than anyone else he had ever met in his life, Rita was doggedly persistent in making sure that Juno Steel was not just going to sit around and feel sorry for himself. No sir. Because Juno Steel, above all else, was a good man and boss and also her best friend in the whole wide world (besides Franny) and she damn well was going to make sure he didn’t forget it.

Juno Steel meant something to someone and for that reason, he needed to stop worrying about all the times he should’ve been and could be dead and start worrying about the concerns of the living world.

It was a nice sentiment, certainly. One he might even like to believe a few scars and a few more unnecessary deaths ago. However, in his alcohol heavy mind, he knew well enough that he was just one of those people death seemed to follow around like a bad gambling streak. And sooner or later, his streak was going to end up with him on the receiving end. At the very least, he could hope that he died for something good.

His brain swirled with the thought. About death and what he’d even have left if he died. He wasn’t exactly a wealthy man, having what basically amounted to the contents of his safe and whatever garbage he kept in his apartment. Which frankly, was more comparable to a college student’s room in a hostel. But even then, it didn’t sit right with him. The idea that when he died, all the things, even the junk that just sat in his apartment unused, would be returned to the government of Hyperion City to do with it what they saw fit. Hadn’t they already taken enough from people? Why in the hell did they need to pocket the funds from selling his shitty old lamp anyway?

He couldn’t help but laugh under his breath at the idea, that that’s how it would be when Juno Steel ended. His memory would live on in the remains of his beaten leather couch and ugly hotel style paintings he only got because Rita said his apartment was “so sad lookin’, boss.”

Rita. The only person that cared about him and refused to let him just push her away like all the rest. Hell, he would, and often did, trust Rita with his life if it came down to the wire because he knew, without fail, that she was always going to be there. And whatever happened to him? She deserved better than to be stuck in his own failure.

Without even thinking about it, he had already taken a pen from his pocket and was putting it to a water ring stained cocktail napkin. 

I, Juno Steel, of sound(-ish) body and mind,

leave 100% of my assets, both monetary and material, to Rita [????] 

(my secretary)

 in the event of my hopefully super cool death.

The handwriting, while sloppy, seemed legible enough in his drunkenness; so he nodded to himself, satisfied, and tucked it away in his coat pocket. 

When he found it the next morning, he hardly even questioned it. Sure, he squinted at it a bit, gave it a once over, but decidedly still agreed with the sentiment of the thing. Even if handwriting was damn near impossible to read with a mid-morning hangover and a side of sleep deprivation. Thus, he neatly folded the napkin into a square and tucked it back into his front inner pocket–easily accessible but hopefully not easily disintegratable–then went on about his day.

In a weird roundabout way, it gave him comfort to know that at least something was certain for him. Even if everything humanly possible went belly up, at least something, or someone, was still taken care of at the end of the day. He was doing something good and in a way where he couldn’t possibly screw it up for once. He was taking care of his people. Well, person. And in those moments, where things were getting dicey, he would run his thumb across the outline of the old cocktail napkin in his pocket and remember exactly that. That he will have at least done one good thing in his life, even if it was after he died. Which, that had to count for something at least, right? 

It wasn’t a source of comfort he made known to others though. In fact, he had made a pointed decision that it was probably better that Rita especially didn’t know at all. He could only imagine the breakdown she would have, which would then be immediately followed by chewing him out for being so stupid and how he needed to stop thinking like that and take care of himself for once. Not an unfamiliar lecture, but certainly not one he cared to repeat. 

Besides, it was called a will for a reason. Meaning, it will be no one else’s business what it said until he died anyway. That was the point, wasn’t it? 

However, much like many things in his life, that all changed with Peter Nureyev. Who just happened to have this very inconvenient habit of seeming to find his way into exactly where Juno didn’t want him. Such as his jacket pockets during a laundry day where Peter insisted the old coat finally needed to be washed to at least spare it from being choked by the Piscasso of stains that covered it. Juno had attempted to make a sentimental argument for said stains, however, the longer he talked? The sooner he found himself realizing how insane he sounded trying to argue for the sanctity of an old blood stain. He decidedly shut up about the jacket and handed it over to Nureyev, who took the same painstaking care as he did with everything in life to make sure every single pocket was empty before throwing it in with the rest of the wash.

“One can never be too careful, Juno.” He said, already going through the pockets even as Juno protested about a lady’s privacy. “Even in the smallest moments, carelessness is still something to be avoided.”

To which Juno retorted, sitting on top of the dryer right next to him, “I have to hand it to you, Nureyev. You’ve even found a way to make laundry high stakes.”

“I do try.” At that moment, he paused as he turned out the pocket, holding on to a folded white square.

Juno’s stomach dropped as Peter began to unfold it, “Hey, hold on a minute-”

It was too late though, he was already scanning over it. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Juno,” he said in that soft voice that made Juno wince, “what is this?”

He shifted awkwardly under his gaze, his eyes darting between the floor and Peter. He chuckled, “What? You can’t make it out? I knew my handwriting was pretty bad, but I didn’t know it was-”

“Juno.”

He sighed, “I wrote it years ago, alright? I was drunk and feeling weird and I guess I decided I was going to write my will, so I just started keeping it on me. That’s all there is to it.”

“Does Rita know about this?”

“Of course not, she would flip if she knew that I was so sure-” He cut himself off, knowing that he’d already talked himself far enough into a corner.

“So sure what, Juno?”

“... That I was so sure I was going to die, alright? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Peter didn’t even so much as blink at Juno’s snippiness, simply just looking back at him with those eyes that seemed to just know everything.

“Do you still feel that way?”

“What?”

“You said that you were so sure you were going to die. So I’m simply asking if you still feel that way.”

He pursed his lips, allowing himself to sit in the silence as he mulled over the million dollar question. In retrospect, it was hard to be sure anymore. Hell, he’d only figured out within the past year and a half after getting drained like a goddamn juicebox that he even had a reason to want to live beyond just “doing good”. He supposed that he never truly knew when he was going to die, no one did after all, sometimes things just went south in a real ugly way like misremembering how many stairs there were or taking a bite that was a bit too ambitious and bam! One way ticket to your casket. When considering his own track record though, he knew damn well he had always found himself in one too many near death situations and most of those were by no terrible coincidence. However, seeing as he had this renewed sense of self that didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of kicking the bucket before completing his to-do list?

“I guess I’m not sure anymore. I used to think about it a lot, ya know? Always wondering which case was finally gonna get me, what was gonna be my big guns blazing finale. But now? I’m kinda just hoping I don’t die soon or painfully. Really asking a lot here, I know. But I’m beginning to think that whole ‘dying of old age in my sleep thing’ is sounding pretty good right about now.” 

Nureyev chuckled softly to himself. “Yes, well, one can dream.”

He set the napkin aside before making room for the jacket in the washing machine and closing the small door. “If you don’t mind my asking, Juno… why Rita?”

The corner of his mouth quirked at that, “Think of it this way, Nureyev: you find anyone else who’s put up with me this long? Maybe I’ll start a new draft.”