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It’s like a sandcastle giving away to the persistence of the tide, in the end. Gradual and instant all at once: Juno is lying in bed, listening to Nureyev still catching his breath beside him, rolling the memories of champagne and Nureyev’s lipstick around on his tongue, feeling the warm weight of the blankets and their sweat-damp bodies where they still touch, and he feels the last of his defences crumble gently away.
“Nureyev,” he says into the dark, and God, how saying that word out loud feels like acknowledging the intimacy of the moment, like the world is just the two of them and the things they can’t say to anybody else. How he aches to add one more thing to that list: one more secret that stays in the space between them.
“Juno,” Nureyev turns into him, returns home to his chest. His wandering fingers brush the stubble on Juno’s jaw and their lips meet for a long moment, then another, and another, more insistent.
At last Juno has to break with a laugh, “I don’t have a second round in me, babe, I barely got through that first without a cramp.”
Nureyev laughs too, delighted: there is no shame to the limits of their bodies. Juno has never cared very much about seeming old in front of someone, but he cares a lot now. Not in the way you might think, mind you, but in the way that a detective doesn’t get by without picking up on what others don’t, and in the way that it hasn’t slipped his mind that the more time he spends being unabashedly old in front of Nureyev, the less times he catches Nureyev smoothing his wrinkles in the mirror. And so, when the number of aches-and-pains pill-bottles on the bathroom sink increases or his body is unreceptive to even the nicest of touches, he turns it into a joyful thing, a moment of appreciation for how his body has served him for so long through so much.
“I shall resist temptation, then,” Nureyev teases, but kisses him again, long and slow, “What is it you want, my love?”
It’s that: it’s the soft declaration Nureyev gives to him so easily, that he gave to him so quickly at the start that Juno was too scared to believe it could possibly be that simple. Juno feels the warmth of Nureyev’s body against his and thinks about the months they’ve spent falling asleep in each other’s arms, waking each other up with kisses, trying and failing and succeeding (with increasingly satisfying results) to commit the sweetest spots of each other’s bodies to memory. He thinks about the tears and the regrettable words and the ‘waking-up-alone-again’s and the ‘where-have-you-been’s and the ‘I-can’t-tell-you-yet’s from both sides. It used to scare him—no, it scares him still. But you can be scared and still be certain. Sometimes it is the certainty itself that is so terrifying.
Juno reaches for Nureyev, traces the line of his lips and the invisible pockmark near his jaw. He connects their mouths again. Nureyev’s hand wraps gently around Juno’s wrist, not pulling him away but holding him close.
He’s ready, but not. Juno needs a moment to gather himself, and so he leans his weight forward, rolls Nureyev back onto the bed and traps him with his thighs. Nureyev laughs, ugly, the laugh he only lets out when his walls are down far enough that he can actually be surprised, the laugh that makes Juno’s heart swell to bursting every time.
“My, my,” – Juno can’t see Nureyev’s face but he can see it: the raised eyebrow, the smirk, the sharp tooth poking out over the lip – “detective. And here I thought a second round was beyond you. You weren’t just trying to catch me off guard, were you? Get me helpless? At your command?”
He raises his arms, and crosses them over at the wrist in a mime of being handcuffed. It makes Juno laugh, and he catches Nureyev’s hands and eases them back down. “Horndog,” he accuses.
“Wanton,” Nureyev teases right back, and Juno laughs again.
Nureyev reaches up and lines Juno’s face with his fingers again. “Love?” he asks softly.
Exactly, Juno thinks. He leans down to kiss Nureyev again.
“I’m not quite sure what I’ve done to deserve all of this treatment,” Nureyev is talking more now, which means he’s getting nervous. Juno shifts so he can mostly lie on Nureyev’s body, and Nureyev must catch just how fast Juno’s heart is beating.
“Juno,” he says, audibly worried now, and Juno shushes him.
Trust isn’t always death-stake card games and jumping out of impossible trains: it’s also the way Nureyev’s body relaxes underneath Juno, and he goes quiet, waiting. Juno waits with him for a while, tunes their breathing together and feels his own body. He forces the tension to drain from the spots it has pooled. Then he leans up to kiss Nureyev again.
Their lips part, and before the air has time to escape from between their mouths Juno breathes in and whispers, “I love you.”
“Oh,” Nureyev sounds like he is punched, a little, and this close, Juno can see the lovestruck smile that stretches uncontrollably across his face.
“Yeah,” Juno can’t raise the volume of his voice; it feels sacrilege to the moment. “Thought it was about time you knew.”
“Well,” Nureyev still sounds breathless, “I think it’s been made rather clear how I feel about you.”
“Yeah,” Juno smiles now, too.
“I have to be honest with you, Juno, I have a sneaking suspicion I’m rather head over heels.”
Juno laughs and leans his head into the crook of Nureyev’s neck. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Quite gone for you, I’m afraid. Just—petrifyingly, hopelessly at your mercy. I would put a teenager’s first crush to shame.”
“Yeah. I know that feeling,” Juno mumbles, and feels Nureyev’s breath catch underneath him.
“Could you—Juno?”
“Mm, yeah?” Juno raises his head again. Nureyev traces his hairline with his fingertips.
“Could you say it again?”
Juno smiles. He catches Nureyev’s hand in his and brings it down to his lips. He kisses the palm. Then he leans forward to put his forehead against his boyfriend’s.
“Peter Nureyev,” he says, slowly.
Nureyev’s chest hitches a little under his again, “Yes?”
“I love you.”
There’s silence for a gentle moment. Then Nureyev giggles—actually giggles, and Juno laughs and kisses him again.
When they break, Nureyev sighs in frustration, “I don’t know how you expect me to just roll over and fall asleep after telling me that.”
“Then don’t. Let’s go finish off the bottle of champagne we had for dinner and make out in the kitchen until we get sick of the taste of each other.”
Nureyev huffs, “As delightful as that sounds, Captain Aurinko will shoot us if we arrive tired to the family meeting tomorrow.”
“So? Not the first time we’ll have had to face her ‘I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed’ speech.”
There’s a moment of quiet indecision. Juno knows the exact moment Nureyev makes up his mind: there’s a palpable spike of electricity in the air before he speaks.
“Oh, alright. Come on, then.”
Love isn’t always the swelling music and the cinematic montage: sometimes it’s finding out Rita has already stolen the last of the alcohol and the fridge is too cold to be comfortably pushed up against and the bench is too sharp for the same. Sometimes it’s attempting a round two despite your better judgement and paying for it in sudden crippling muscle pain and awkward nervous laughter. Sometimes—most of the time—it’s terrifying, and fragile, and sometimes, love by itself is not enough. But still, Juno thinks, as Nureyev darts out of the room towards the bathroom to get his anti-cramp medication: he has a good feeling about it this time around.