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Gradually, Peter Nureyev becomes aware of three things: A crick in his neck from sleeping uncomfortably, a warmth by his side, and the voice of Juno Steel, rough around a yawn.
“Ransom… you awake?” It’s half muffled into Nureyev’s collarbone. It makes him smile with his eyes still closed.
“Mm. Good morning,” Nureyev says. “Breakfast?”
“I dunno,” Juno teases. “I’m pretty comfy here.”
“Juno.”
“Ransom.”
Nureyev opens his eyes and is met with Juno’s warm, alert gaze. He frowns. “Why are you calling me that?”
“Calling you what?”
“That—Ransom.” Nureyev feels his face go hot. It’s not like him to be so transparent, but there is no hiding from Juno this early in the morning, anyway. “There’s… no one else to hear, love. You can call me my, well…”
“Oh, right. Your name.”
“Yes. Only, you never call me an alias when we’re in private…”
Juno makes a sound in his chest that might have been a hum. A hand comes up to comb through Nureyev’s hair. Nureyev closes his eyes again, sighing.
“Well,” Juno says, his voice low and almost apologetic, “You’re alone. And that’s not my Nureyev, is it?”
Cold floods through Nureyev’s spine. His eyes fly open. “...What?”
“No, I think alone is Peter Ransom’s way.”
“Juno, what are you…”
Juno’s hand slides down to cup Nureyev’s cheek. “I just thought you’d appreciate the reminder.”
“I don’t— I don’t understand—”
“Oh, come on,” Juno snorts, laughing softly. “You’re not usually this slow even on a bad day. Ransom, where even are we right now?”
Nureyev blinks. “We’re on the Carte Blanche, obviously—”
“Mhm. In whose room?”
“Mine, of— course…”
Juno just looks at him with that knowing little half-smile, waiting.
It is Nureyev’s room, though; it has the same layout, but… they rarely ever spend the night in here, because Juno is so careful about giving Nureyev his privacy, aware of how much it matters to him. And in the last few days, Juno hasn't been anywhere near Nureyev’s room at all, because—
Because—
Nureyev sits up.
His room is bare.
His room is bare because he left.
He’s alone.
“Juno—”
“Woah, hey,” Juno says, in a voice like he’s talking to a cornered animal. He sits up as well, bracing himself on one arm. “Finally figured it out, huh?”
“I’m... dreaming.” Nureyev is sitting in an unrumpled bed, a lie of a memory beside him. “This isn’t… real.”
Juno nods like he just scored a point, scooting back until he’s leaning against the headboard. There’s a bored, cynical look in his eye that Nureyev hasn’t seen since being Rex Glass. “Say, tell me, Ransom. Was it ever?”
“Yes,” Nureyev breathes. The words pour out unrehearsed, unfiltered, barely more than a stream of thought. “Of course it was real, you know it was, Juno, I’m so—I’m so sorry, I was going to tell you everything but I was so afraid I just. Kept waiting, I put it off over and over until I ran out of time. Please, you have to know, I never meant for it to happen like this, I never—”
“Shhh.” A thumb settles on Nureyev’s lips, and Nureyev’s teeth click shut. Juno's head tilts, an expression Nureyev recognizes as the detective, cataloguing all his tells, measuring his sincerity. Then something softens. “Hey, it’s okay.” Said like a secret. “C’mere.”
Juno tugs him closer, and Nureyev ends up with his face buried into Juno’s shoulder, folded into the infinite space of Juno’s arms. Warm palms rest on his back. His breath shudders out on the exhale.
“I don’t want to do this alone,” Nureyev says, a shameful murmur into Juno’s neck, a half-thought he will bury when he wakes up. “I thought... I thought I could. I thought I could take care of everything myself and find you again, but I’ve just missed you ever since I left, Juno, I can’t—I can’t do this.”
Juno’s quiet for a long, terrible moment. “Ransom…” He disentangles himself, pulling away just far enough to look him in the eye. He’s frowning, concerned. “The hell’s gotten into you today? This isn’t like you.”
Nureyev flinches. “I—”
“Though,” Juno mutters, “I can’t really claim to know what’s you and what isn’t anymore, can I? Considering just how much I didn’t know.”
“Don’t say that.” The words feel dragged out of him. “I know I… I kept things from you. I know I left. But I— I haven’t lied, Juno, I was truer with you than I’ve ever—”
A sigh. “No, nevermind. That isn’t the point, Ransom. Point is,” and Juno’s hands close around his, “you don’t have time for this.”
“Juno, of course I have time for—”
“You’re alone,” Juno repeats, his tone gentle and his words harsh. “You’re on your own, now, and you don’t have anyone else to rely on. S’what you always wanted, isn’t it?”
“No,” Nureyev says hoarsely.
Juno gives him one of those looks again, the kind that reads him head to toe. “Yeah, guess not. Anymore, at least,” he says. “Sorry. That was mean on purpose.”
He squeezes Nureyev’s hands in apology. Nureyev squeezes back, fingers pressing into palms.
“I know it’s shit,” Juno continues. “I know you’re afraid. But that’s how it is, and right now… you’re going to have to deal with it. It’s coming no matter how you feel. So?”
It’s hard to speak around the knot in his throat. “I…”
“You need a plan, Ransom, a good one. And you can’t do that if you don’t get it together.” One hand pulls away to swipe at the wetness beneath Nureyev’s eyes, the uncomplicated sort of tenderness he’s helpless to respond to. “You can’t give up. Tell me you’ll at least try.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll try.”
At last, Juno smiles. Kisses the tip of Nureyev’s nose. “Good. My master thief,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Juno,” Nureyev tries to say. “Will I— will I see you again?”
“Oh— honey.” Juno lets out a short huff of surprise. His smile turns a little bitter. “Isn’t that one mine to ask?”
Nureyev swallows. “You will,” he swears. “Juno, I… I want nothing more than to find you again. I’ll—I’ll come back.”
“Hell of a vow, Ransom,” Juno says. His hand runs along Nureyev’s jaw, tilts it down. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Lips press against his forehead. Nureyev closes his eyes.
Abruptly, Peter Ransom becomes aware of three things. A crick in his neck from sleeping uncomfortably, a coldness all around him, and the distant hum of a security system.
He’s alone.
Keeping his movements minimal, he checks for the knife still tucked in his boot. He feels like he hasn't slept at all.
Right, he thinks. The rules he keeps for himself fray and crumble at the edges, lately. Time to disappear.