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Their first night back together, they sit on Juno's bed, the inches between them maintaining the tenuous peace that's fallen over the room. As they talk, Juno lies back and back against the pillows, until the faint light from the bedside lamp reflects at the perfect angle off of his still-gilded lips and eyelids.
At first, he tries to avoid looking at him, worries that the curve of the ex-detective's jaw, the deep brown of his eye, the way he talks with his whole body as he describes the horrors of his past year in a way that sounds more like a stand-up routine than the series of traumas it clearly was, will cause him to make a rash decision or ten. When Juno laughs, though, he drops the pretense. He is a creature of desire, whether it be for a golden statue or a golden lover, and he gives into the idea that maybe, maybe this time, he's allowed to have this.
He's beautiful, Nureyev thinks to himself, allowing himself that much as Juno makes some quip about exsanguination. He doesn't know whether or not he's supposed to laugh about it, so instead he just sighs. It comes out unfortunately lovestruck.
Nureyev wants to reach out and touch him, run his hands over the scar-crossed plane of his back. He wants to hold him, press his face into the divot of his neck, chase away the chill of interstellar space with the warmth of his body.
"Hey, Ransom?" Juno sits up a little. "You still with me?"
Ah. He's been daydreaming, then. Foolish. "Of course, Juno. My apologies." He offers a sincere smile. "By all means, continue."
When they finish talking, it's nearly two in the morning Solar time. They've come to an unsteady but hopeful conclusion, one that's left Nureyev exhausted— as it turns out, planning the course of a relationship is far harder than planning a jewel theft.
The conclusion, tragically but necessarily, requires Nureyev to return to his own room. For tonight, at least. He stands up from the bed, bidding Juno a good night and a thanks, but the lady reaches out and takes hold of his hand.
Juno's fingers lace through his. They're strong, slightly shorter than Nureyev's. His hand is warm, his fingertips calloused. They trace over the back of Nureyev's hand as Juno's thumb caresses his palm.
The touch is grounding, centering, perfect. There's been nothing like it in the year since he'd last seen Juno, and he hadn't realized how much he had missed this sort of casual intimacy until now. His head swims with affection, and he tries his best to keep his hand from trembling where it's interlaced with Juno's.
Juno squeezes his hand once, lightly. "Thanks for tonight, Ransom," he says, voice soft but clear and more purposeful than Nureyev can remember it having been the whole time they were together. "I really… I know how hard it must have been for you. To give me another chance. And I hope that this can work— that we can work. So thanks."
"Juno," Nureyev whispers. He can't find more to say than that, not with the early hour nor with the overwhelming and novel relief of gentle touch, but standing there, Juno Steel's hand in his, he thinks errantly that nothing could possibly be easier.
The moments just after sunrise on the Carte Blanche are quiet. Captain Aurinko is a deep sleeper, Nureyev knows, age and radiation requiring more restful upkeep for her than for most, and Dr. Ilkay tends to stay with her unless there's a job to do, in which case she's in the medbay. Rita stays in her room until eleven most mornings, sleeping or watching videos on her comms. Jet Siquliak is down in the garage already, mechanical clanks indicating he's working on some perceived flaw in the ship or tending to Ruby.
And as for Juno Steel? He's asleep still, Nureyev knows, or just waking up. He knows specifically because just fifteen minutes ago, he'd pressed a soft kiss to the brow of the ex-detective, whispered that he was only going to the kitchen for a bite to eat, and tucked him back in under the covers. Morning kisses and cuddles were nice, no doubt, but Nureyev had awoken hungry and more than a little nervous.
They'd agreed, in the previous night's talk, that they were ready to stop sneaking around behind closed doors, ready to admit their relationship to the rest of the crew. No, admit isn't the right word. There's no shame behind what Nureyev feels for Juno, no reluctance. Display, perhaps, though Nureyev knows Juno won't put on any sort of a front for anyone's sake, and vows not to either.
He's excited, certainly. More so than the prospect would imply. It's not as though no one on the ship knew; Juno had confessed to Rita less than a week after they'd boarded the ship, and Captain Aurinko had no doubt guessed if her insistence on them playing couples was anything to go by. Still, after Nureyev had made an offhand comment about the openness, the comfort, with which the Captain and her girlfriend displayed their affection to each other, it had become a necessary point to raise.
He's snapped out of his reverie by the unmistakable feeling of a warm body curling around his. Nureyev startles a little, dropping his bagel back onto his plate. He turns around slowly, though he has no doubt who it is.
Sure enough, Juno Steel stands behind him, arms tight around his shoulders. His eye is still bleary with sleep, eyepatch askew, smile soft and warm and so, so tender.
He leans back into Juno's arms, letting his head fall against his chest and reaching up to stroke one hand over his slightly prickly cheek. "Good morning, darling," he sighs.
"Mmm," Juno replies, dropping his face forwards into Nureyev's hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Nureyev can't think of another time in his life he's felt so endeared by another person, nor so comforted by physical contact. It's not like they don't touch each other usually; in fact, recently they've had trouble keeping their hands off each other whenever they were alone. This, though, this calm, unhurried, public affection… it causes him to unravel just a little, for lack of a better word.
He lets Juno hold him to his chest, and all the stress and anxieties and pains of daily life fade away. He lets his eyes fall closed, not worrying for once about who might see him like this. In Juno's strong, gentle arms, in his sleepy embrace, he feels completely safe.
After a comfortable eternity, his girlfriend shifts, and Nureyev blinks his eyes open again. Juno repositions himself so he's sitting sideways on Nureyev's lap, arms still loosely wrapped around him, and kisses him softly. It's quick and chaste, barely more than a peck, but it still sets his heart alight with fondness. Juno's brushed his teeth, for which Nureyev is quietly, amusedly grateful.
"Morning, honey," Juno says as he pulls away. "How'd you sleep?"
"Better since you were there," Nureyev tells him. It's his usual reply— he still finds himself plagued with nightmares, of tombs and bloody knives and grey hairs and all manner of other phantoms from his past and anxieties from his present.
But held tight in his dear detective's arms, pressed close enough to hear his heartbeat, he finds they're more bearable.
Nureyev laughs as Juno's hands find a sensitive spot on the side of his stomach. Both their shirts are long discarded, leaving Juno in a wine-red padded bra and Nureyev in a grey half binder.
It's been a long day, and now is the first time they've seen each other since they left each others' arms in the morning. Juno lies on his side, propped up on one arm, the other tracing patterns across Nureyev's body as he lies flat on his back.
His fingers find the seam of Nureyev's binder, toying with it slightly. "Take this off for me?" he asks, voice soft, questioning. "If you want."
"Juno," Nureyev smirks. "I thought you said you were too tired for poetry night. " It's a euphemism that never fails to bring a deep flush to the tips of Juno's ears, to cause his nostrils to flare just a little in annoyance and embarrassment. So naturally, Nureyev employs it as much as possible.
This time, though, Juno just nods. "Yeah," he agrees. "Just wanna see more of you. If that's okay. You know it doesn't have to be."
Nureyev's hardly body-shy, even though he doesn't quite understand what Juno has in mind. So he pulls his binder over his head with only a little difficulty, tossing it onto the floor.
He looks into Juno's eyes, finds something there that it takes him a little bit to categorize. When he does, though, he's the one blushing, in an unforeseen turn of events. Juno's casting an intense gaze on him, more than just attraction or appreciation. If Nureyev had to categorize it, he would call the look worshipful.
"You're so handsome," he says. Not in a playful tone, or a sensual growl, but just… genuinely. He kisses Nureyev's shoulder, calloused fingertips tracing an idle path down his chest.
Nureyev opens his mouth to reply in kind, but Juno presses a finger against his lips. "Lemme be sappy for once, 'Reyev. You deserve it."
Well, he can hardly argue with that, can he? He presses his lips together, lets his smile soften. Juno's got this way of talking to him, of touching him, the rare nights where they're languid and gentle as though time itself was made just for the two of them, that brings down all his well-practiced pretense and compartmentalization like nothing else can.
A soft sigh escapes him as Juno's hands trace up and down his bare back. His thumbs find a tense spot between his shoulder blades, and press in, small circles easing away the tension of several days spent hunched over blueprints. The feeling is absolutely heavenly, and he wonders to himself where Juno learned such a skill.
His lover's breath ghosts warmly over the chilled skin of his neck as those strong, soft hands move down to his lower back, continuing to gently press and knead. He lets out a soft sigh and Juno laughs.
"Feel good, honey?" He presses a quick kiss to Nureyev's collarbone.
Does it feel good? What a question. Nureyev is patently unused to this sort of affection, this unhurried and loving sensation. He can't remember the last time someone's taken care of him like this, not expecting anything in return, treating him and his body as something worthy of such gentleness. It's overwhelming, almost, except that Juno is so soft with him, so trustworthy, that it falls squarely on the pleasant side of novel.
Still. Though he and Juno have gotten far better at talking, some things— such as the fact that Juno's touch is so pleasant that he's close to doing something embarrassing like falling asleep, or perhaps starting to cry— he would still rather keep to himself.
Juno waits for a response, so Nureyev laughs quietly instead, rolling his eyes. "No, Juno, this is actually an awful predicament I find myself in right now. I've had my fair share of painful experiences, but getting a backrub from my lovely girlfriend is right at the bottom of the list."
He leans up for a kiss, but Juno tilts his head away. He's staring at Nureyev with that look he knows so well, the one that says he's reprising his days as a private investigator.
"You're doing that thing again," he proclaims after a moment or two. His hands have stilled on Nureyev's back.
Hm. "Well, detective, would you mind telling me what that thing is?"
"You're. I dunno. Deflecting. Nureyev, really, if any of this is making you uncomfortable, you gotta-"
Therein lies the tragedy of having such a perceptive partner. Thirty-six years of practice at masking his tone, his emotion, even in the most dire and deceptive of moments, and Juno Steel can still read him like a book.
"It's not that," he says quietly, rolling over onto his front to make eye contact with Juno. "It's only… I was just thinking. I'm not terribly used to, ah, to touch like this? There weren't many people in my life who would go to these lengths. Before, well, before you . It's nice," he clarifies.
From what Nureyev can read of his expression, Juno's trying to decide whether this is something they need to talk about. Blessedly, he decides not to, and rolls over so he's nearly on top of Nureyev, fingertips running down his collarbone, his chest, the swell of his breasts.
"Damn shame," Juno mutters in between kisses to Nureyev's clavicle.
Even as Juno continues to work every point of tension out of Nureyev's shoulders and back, as Juno's hands (and eyes) lightly trace his curves, Nureyev waits for the other shoe to drop. Part of him still feels like this is some elaborate buildup, some Juno-Steel-brand foreplay, because why else would the detective take the time to take such care of him?
Still, the touch is calming and gratifying, and even more so the presence of Juno so very close to him. He drifts, a little, as Juno runs his hand through Nureyev's long hair and traces idle patterns against his arm.
After a while, Juno's hands slow against his body, and his breathing follows suit. Nureyev looks over at him, and sees, with a surge of amusement and— and love, that Juno's nearly fallen asleep, still pressed up against him, one hand resting against the nape of his neck, the other gently caressing his breast.
He turns his head to press a kiss to the tip of Juno's nose. "Thank you," he whispers, feeling oddly vulnerable.
Juno's quiet, and Nureyev wonders if he's even heard him, but then his eye opens just slightly, stars outside the window and fairy-lights courtesy of Rita reflected in the sliver of warm brown. "Anytime, Nureyev," he says, just as quietly. "Thanks for letting me."
The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. "Letting you give me a massage and feel me up? The pleasure's all mine, love."
"I mean it," Juno insists, adorably petulant as he always is when almost asleep. "Thanks for trusting me."
"Oh, darling." Nureyev traces his thumb down the side of Juno's face. "How could I not?"
Quiet, for a few more seconds. Then: "Love you, N'reyev."
"Love you right back, Juno," he smiles.
He's asleep in a matter of minutes, warm in Juno's embrace.