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Entry tags:
- #event,
- arthur stuart (velvet goldmine),
- aymeric de borel (final fantasy xiv),
- jace herondale (shadowhunters),
- jughead jones (riverdale),
- kenzi malikov (lost girl),
- kurt wagner (xmcu),
- loki (mcu),
- marcus wright (tsfb),
- mikaela hyakuya (sote),
- nico di angelo (chb),
- private joker (full metal jacket),
- rafaello d’este (oc),
- will solace (chb),
- wyatt lawson (oc)
War with D.E.S.T.I.N.Y.
Characters: Ensemble cast, any/all characters of Xistentia!
Summary: D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. comes to Xistentia for the first time, bringing with it violence and havoc. Combat against enemy agents, healing, emergency sanctuary, and "Drift Compatibility" happen here. Refer to the OOC plotting post and the mod announcement!
Date(s): November 4-18
Warnings/Notes: Violence, death, psychological themes, trauma. Please warn for anything else in your subject headers!
Everything is, in short, super fucked. Era Ra's warning came at the right time, forewarning of some of the weapons and fighting styles that could be expected from D.E.S.T.I.N.Y.'s agents, but still, the people of Xistentia have not faced a force like this before. The ragtag combination of fighting styles and tactics promises both versatility and confusion.
For better or worse, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. is in similar chaos.
The first to come are ships from the Western sea, bearing a mix of warriors in and monsters. Some wield old-fashioned steel swords and others bear laser blasters, and their armor is just as varied. Some creatures appear domesticated, while others are feral and snap at their own. However, one primary feature identifies the enemy: their war color is red, which adorns flags and uniforms. Interestingly, the sea and sky of Xistentia seem to be fighting back in their own way, massive waves and a storm, even animals pestering them as they attempt to land the beach. However, it's only a matter of time before the mainstay of their forces reach land, some two hundred fighters. It's then that sentient fires start to whirl into the forests, leaping from tree to tree. You have the home court advantage. Even the foliage itself seems to cooperate with you, aiding in efforts for stealth by keeping you downwind, twigs failing to crack when you misstep. Soon, you're joined by Xistentia's other forces-- a handful of battered ships taking air, an odd assortment of elves and talking dogs, demons and aliens from outer-space, coordinating counter-attacks.
You're locked in combat with a woman who seems oddly familiar, though you don't know her face and can't think of her name. You hit her in the head, and now a narrow slice of her face shows through her red-rimmed helm. She wields a rifle tipped with a heavy blade, though it crackles with electrical energy. She is a proficient swordswoman, deftly parrying and striking against you, her face eerily expressionless. Her blade has a switch that, when activated, will send out a net that numbs your limbs and drags you to the floor. Here's hoping you won't face this demon alone.
She's not your only problem. You may have noticed, that in every epic battle with evil wizards, there's always some kind of a problematically gigantic elephant. This is one of those days. At least, there's only one, its trunk as wide as a car, its feet moving slow, so that it might crush the trees rather than trip over them.
Fight one or both, or fight the hordes of nameless minions around them. Either way: there's plenty to do. Those of you who thought things were too quiet here? You'll be busy today.
Fighting isn't for you? Well, you'll want to get out of the way, then. The "wards" protecting the city are failing, and people are heading toward The Temple where the protections remain the strongest. Here, the injured need healing in the stone beds. The civilians do their best, comforting children, cooking food, trading intelligence, repairing weapons and armor where possible. Feel free to pitch in; they need all the help they can get.
And here, you've reached the Temple, you've laid yourself down on one of the many glass-and-stone beds within the safety of its stone walls. You know what the other Xistentia residents have told you about it— this is the next phase, after the memory share had raised shields against the psychotropic rain. This is the PsyLink. Through this bond, you are said to be able to activate special defenses. No one seems to know exactly what they are, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And beyond the Temple walls, times are desperate indeed.
Each drift requires at least two people. Your daemons will find and connect you, seemingly at random— and you may find yourself with the unlikeliest of partners.
The Kissing Booth participants find it easiest. Everyone else-- it's a wild jumble, finding yourself caught up in a firehose of not only your own memories, but that of someone else. Everything they think, everything they feel, is intertwined with your mind.
You can't get caught up in it. You have to let the memories of the past, your predictions for the future, and the terror of war flow in and out of you, without neither resistance or pursuit, gently tuning them out. And in this serenity, this psychic silence, this acceptance of not only yourself but the other other, you find perfect connectivity— harmony with your PsyLink partner.
In this space, you find yourself having strange conversations. You and your partner will share ghostly images, some of which seem to be images from the past— while others seem to be present-day moments from the battle outside, fighting the enemy, as if you are somehow in two places at once. You must find traction and stay in the now and stay calm, but it's harder than you think.
The instant you latch onto that memory or emotion, it's a mistake... but you forget.
Your shadow is here. Whether out-of-context, or right here where it was meant to be, it's trying to kill you.
But you're not trapped here alone. Someone is calling your name, a familiar voice in the pandemonium. That voice comes from your drift partner. It's up to them to pull you back, remind you of who you are, and balance you. Hold on to them - they're your anchor, but you'll have to do the same for them. A successful drift means helping each other. Do it well, and you'll help to power the temple's defences. Fail, and there'll be trouble for everyone seeking sanctuary here.
Summary: D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. comes to Xistentia for the first time, bringing with it violence and havoc. Combat against enemy agents, healing, emergency sanctuary, and "Drift Compatibility" happen here. Refer to the OOC plotting post and the mod announcement!
Date(s): November 4-18
Warnings/Notes: Violence, death, psychological themes, trauma. Please warn for anything else in your subject headers!
WAR WITH DESTINY
By headsman's blade or battle-axe
Fight For Your Life
Everything is, in short, super fucked. Era Ra's warning came at the right time, forewarning of some of the weapons and fighting styles that could be expected from D.E.S.T.I.N.Y.'s agents, but still, the people of Xistentia have not faced a force like this before. The ragtag combination of fighting styles and tactics promises both versatility and confusion.
For better or worse, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. is in similar chaos.
The first to come are ships from the Western sea, bearing a mix of warriors in and monsters. Some wield old-fashioned steel swords and others bear laser blasters, and their armor is just as varied. Some creatures appear domesticated, while others are feral and snap at their own. However, one primary feature identifies the enemy: their war color is red, which adorns flags and uniforms. Interestingly, the sea and sky of Xistentia seem to be fighting back in their own way, massive waves and a storm, even animals pestering them as they attempt to land the beach. However, it's only a matter of time before the mainstay of their forces reach land, some two hundred fighters. It's then that sentient fires start to whirl into the forests, leaping from tree to tree. You have the home court advantage. Even the foliage itself seems to cooperate with you, aiding in efforts for stealth by keeping you downwind, twigs failing to crack when you misstep. Soon, you're joined by Xistentia's other forces-- a handful of battered ships taking air, an odd assortment of elves and talking dogs, demons and aliens from outer-space, coordinating counter-attacks.
BATTLE MODE: ATTACK
You're locked in combat with a woman who seems oddly familiar, though you don't know her face and can't think of her name. You hit her in the head, and now a narrow slice of her face shows through her red-rimmed helm. She wields a rifle tipped with a heavy blade, though it crackles with electrical energy. She is a proficient swordswoman, deftly parrying and striking against you, her face eerily expressionless. Her blade has a switch that, when activated, will send out a net that numbs your limbs and drags you to the floor. Here's hoping you won't face this demon alone.
She's not your only problem. You may have noticed, that in every epic battle with evil wizards, there's always some kind of a problematically gigantic elephant. This is one of those days. At least, there's only one, its trunk as wide as a car, its feet moving slow, so that it might crush the trees rather than trip over them.
Fight one or both, or fight the hordes of nameless minions around them. Either way: there's plenty to do. Those of you who thought things were too quiet here? You'll be busy today.
SEEK SANCTUARY
Fighting isn't for you? Well, you'll want to get out of the way, then. The "wards" protecting the city are failing, and people are heading toward The Temple where the protections remain the strongest. Here, the injured need healing in the stone beds. The civilians do their best, comforting children, cooking food, trading intelligence, repairing weapons and armor where possible. Feel free to pitch in; they need all the help they can get.
BATTLE MODE: SUPPORT (PSYLINK)
And here, you've reached the Temple, you've laid yourself down on one of the many glass-and-stone beds within the safety of its stone walls. You know what the other Xistentia residents have told you about it— this is the next phase, after the memory share had raised shields against the psychotropic rain. This is the PsyLink. Through this bond, you are said to be able to activate special defenses. No one seems to know exactly what they are, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And beyond the Temple walls, times are desperate indeed.
Each drift requires at least two people. Your daemons will find and connect you, seemingly at random— and you may find yourself with the unlikeliest of partners.
Drift Compatible
The Kissing Booth participants find it easiest. Everyone else-- it's a wild jumble, finding yourself caught up in a firehose of not only your own memories, but that of someone else. Everything they think, everything they feel, is intertwined with your mind.
You can't get caught up in it. You have to let the memories of the past, your predictions for the future, and the terror of war flow in and out of you, without neither resistance or pursuit, gently tuning them out. And in this serenity, this psychic silence, this acceptance of not only yourself but the other other, you find perfect connectivity— harmony with your PsyLink partner.
In this space, you find yourself having strange conversations. You and your partner will share ghostly images, some of which seem to be images from the past— while others seem to be present-day moments from the battle outside, fighting the enemy, as if you are somehow in two places at once. You must find traction and stay in the now and stay calm, but it's harder than you think.
The instant you latch onto that memory or emotion, it's a mistake... but you forget.
Your shadow is here. Whether out-of-context, or right here where it was meant to be, it's trying to kill you.
But you're not trapped here alone. Someone is calling your name, a familiar voice in the pandemonium. That voice comes from your drift partner. It's up to them to pull you back, remind you of who you are, and balance you. Hold on to them - they're your anchor, but you'll have to do the same for them. A successful drift means helping each other. Do it well, and you'll help to power the temple's defences. Fail, and there'll be trouble for everyone seeking sanctuary here.
no subject
it does bring up the bitter memories of a lifetime and an age and a hundred names ago -- he didn't know how to aim, back then, and mag didn't die as painlessly as these soldiers. it'd upset his stomach if he hadn't already passed his disgust several deaths ago. now, he's just a machine, working out seldom used cogs and bounding from person to person, never staying on the same body for too long.
not even the guns of friendly fire can reach him, although he does note with some rock in his stomach, that all his kills are dead a second after he reaches them, holes burned into the center of their skulls with medicinal accuracy. peter knows that kind of aim anywhere, knows the shot and the scent of him, and he turns from where the last bullet had come from, searching for juno. )
He— Juno!
( what he finds instead, is juno poised at his gun, a solider dressed in head to toe red silently creeping up on him. upon peter's outburst, the solider springs into action faster, lifting their spear high above their head and
falling backwards, when peter tosses the knife in his hand square into their eye.
two heavy breaths is what it takes for another solider to get the gain on peter, and, without a shred of hesitance, stab their sword into the back of his shoulder. peter goes down with a surprisingly elegant sound of pain, as if he refuses to die unfashionably, and demands to be killed respectfully. )
Hrrk ...
no subject
so when juno turns and sees peter both throwing his knife and landing it square thnk into something just over his shoulder and falling to the soldier's sword at the same time he doesn't know what to do. fall to his knees? run away?
apparently neither. his body doesn't want to do either, doesn't want to buckle under the vision of peter nureyev crumpling with a sword pulling itself out of his shoulder, with a soldier in crimson standing over him like it has smoething to prove. so he screams instead and fires off two more rounds without even thinking, the theia assuring him that they'll hit home--one to split the armor, another to split straight through whatever skull lies beneath it. ]
Motherfucker, get away from him!
[ juno fires off two more shots for good measure, his shoulder burning with the repetetive recoil before he drops the rifle to the ground, rushing over towards peter's prone body on the ground. it's taking every iota of self control to not scream his name out, to barely even utter it even here, in all the chaos of the battle, among the fallen bodies and the trunks of trees bowing over against the weight of the war, attempting to protect what they can. juno drops down to his knees without thinking, stripping off the jacket he's wearing, nothing long like his trenchcoat, pressing it fast into peter's shoulder because what the hell else is he supposed to do? he's a detective, not a goddamn medit. ]
Nureyev, [ he breathes, fingers shaking, arms trembling as he tries to staunch the bleeding despite the nauseating smell of copper permeating the air. he doesn't want to look at it just yet, he's not ready, stomach churning, adrenaline thrumming hard, sweat beading along his forehead. ] Oh no, no, no, Nureyev, damn it--I'm sorry... should've been paying attention, you didn't need to--idiot. [ he presses as best he can, pressure. pressure for a wound, right? ] Peter...
no subject
the fact that it's peter doesn't mean anything. a coincidence. juno would give 110% percent of himself to a complete and total stranger -- it's a fact that peter considers himself well tuned to.
pressure helps but hurts, and peter flinches from his spot on the ground, face contorted in a flex of pain. his clean hand grips juno's wrist tightly, unbroken, the last bit of strength he has after the exhaustion of fight. even if his eyes are a little bit hazy, they're fierce with a demand of listening when he stares at juno, tugging his hand once. his thumb soothes his skin in warm circles -- he'll learn to blame it on adrenaline, with time. )
Juno, Juno, love, let's ... ( he flinches, as much from the endearment as the throttle of pain that surges from his shoulder as he helps himself sit up. ) I— I need you to calm down. Nothing is broken that can't be fixed. I need to get to the Temple, yes, the Temple, where the wounded are taken. You don't— like blood.
( that is his potentially foolish way of saying, 'i can figure it out, if you want to leave again.' )
no subject
Yeah, I'm on it... [ his fingers tighten a little bit reflexively. the theia scans around them from his peripherals, keeping him alert, aware ] I'll get you there.
[ he swallows. i don't like blood but i like you. the sentiment is simple enough as he bears in. it's not his intention to get so up close and personal to nureyev, not after what he's done, what he did to him. but there's no time for it as he lets the nausea sit like a firm stone in his stomach, the adrenaline crashing over it like a wave as his heart pounds. ] Can you stand up with me? I know it was your shoulder, but you went down hard...
no subject
Just keep the path clear.
( he nods, shuts his eyes in between the crinkle of his brows, and helps himself up. he won't complain -- he just presses the jacket further into his wound, pushing juno somewhat kindly to focus on their surroundings. trusting juno is as easy as breathing -- he always does the right thing. )
no subject
Sure. Sure... I've. [ a beat, in his throat. ] Got you.
[ it's hard not to be distracted, even with the overwhelmingly coppery scent of nureyev's blood on his clothing, on his hand. peter nureyev, here trusting him in that quiet way of his when juno knows he doesn't deserve an ounce of it. he tries not to jostle him too much, but it's inevitable, fingers digging into his waist, digging feet in firmly to carry him. he isn't heavy, hell, if juno could guarantee painlessness in heaving him over his shoulders he would.
but that's too close, isn't it. this is already... too close. god he fucked up. he should have been faster, quicker, more alert, shouldn't have gotten stuck inside of his head the minute he'd shouted out his name and now... now nureyev is hurt and juno can feel the warmth of his blood against his fingers as he lifts the sight of his blaster up and fires off at the first son of a bitch that gets in his way. and the next. the theia is hot in his skull, but it doesn't stop him from essentially razing a path forward. ]
Almost there.
no subject
Mm.
( he hums. he doesn't know what juno said -- but he blindly agrees, nodding his head. this is a mistake for the lightheadedness rattling his brain from every wall of his skull. moving at all hurts plenty, but his head seems especially sensitive -- some part of him is tangentially embarrassed about getting caught so easily, and about relying on juno this way, but some part of him is also thinking,
it's really nice to see juno once. just one more time. i'll die happy now.
the temple is in sight when peter's legs finally give out, and without much preamble he falls on the dirt floor, knees and then chest, groaning. )
Nngh ...
( he means to say just leave me, but blacks out before he remembers how to speak. )
no subject
there's breath, barely. he can feel it against his cheek, feel it against his chest, rising and falling shallowly and fuck... where did the rest of that blood come from? ]
H-hey--hey, hey, we're here, okay? We're here, just please. Please hang in there.
[ he doesn't shake him, resists the urge to like peter's just tossing in a bad dream, like he's living one. but the blood is too hot and peter's too real, to here and now to be any kind of simple nightmare. we're here, you're going to be fine, please. please hang on. just wait. juno's mind races as he lets an arm come up underneath peter's knees, the other resting to cradle his back as he pulls him close. for a second, he's on the ground, hunched over him, situating his weight in his arms, making sure he's got his knees into the hold, before lifting and... it's awkward because peter's all limbs, a slender mess of angles and lean muscle that's gone anvil-heavy, but juno manages, more than manages really because for his size, he's strong and he's willful, shoving in through the temple entryway and moving through the crowd of people with arms full.
i owe this to him. not like this. this is stupid this is. it's not how he goes and it's not how it ends and juno will be damned more than ever if he lets that happen. so he doubles his pace, even if his lungs burn and his body aches, towards the healing beds where he knows things are going to... be okay?
hopefully?
definitely.
by the time he's laying peter down carefully on one of the few empty stone beds, his fingertips are trembling, his hands shaking, one still cradling peter's head as he gently eases him all the way down. his thumb catches the softness behind his ear, the soft brush of gold and jewelry, where his scent was (no, steel, is) always strong and curling, inviting.
he holds onto his face a few moments longer, both hands coming up to cup his jaw carefully, wet with peter's blood.
the words shake as he leans in close, barely a whisper he's definitely sure peter doesn't hear, but doesn't care either way. probably for the best. ]
Stay with me... okay? Just... let this thing do the work.
no subject
he's had this dream before. there's juno. he's woken up and he's there, and they're together, and they're running away, and it's not scary. it's exciting. juno's brows aren't knitted, there isn't any worry in the lines of his lips. he's smiling. peter is going to keep that smile on him for as long as he's able. i love you i love you.
juno's near enough for peter to reach out and touch, a delirious smile on his mouth that looks more venomous and predatory than any man has any right to look. his teeth catch on his lip, sharp and clever, and he rocks his head around, as if surprised he still has some kind of mobility there. )
An angel to greet me at the gate of the afterlife? Hm-mmm.
( he means it as a joke. ha ha, juno, can't lose me that easily! except. the bed is still working and steadily pulling him all back together again, strands of consciousness flickering in the air, a tapestry being woven together. a noise leaves him, realization, and his hand drops. yes, you can lose me that easily. it's simple, easy arithmetic, robbing a bank. leave in the night and a relationship gets ruined, a thread snapped, an arm broken. they don't have the future anymore. the planets are empty and the stars aren't burning half as bright as they used to.
most importantly, that might've been the last time peter ever gets the chance to stroke juno's stubble, and he wasn't conscious enough to remember it.
frowning, the teeth go back in their place, and peter tilts his head a bit in the opposite direction, wiggling. feet, toes, knees. everything still works. his shoulder -- feels better than ever, forgetting a gentle sore covering the entirety of him. )
Sorry, Juno. And thank you. I can't imagine carrying me across the forest was on your to-do list, but I do appreciate you squeezing me in.
no subject
I didn't even take your glasses off, Nureyev, you need a new prescription or something?
[ juno's fingers pull away quickly, like he's been burnt, and maybe he has. in a way, nureyev is far too much like the sun, blinding and warm, frightening to touch for fear of setting him completely on far. instead, he rests his fingers on the outside of the stone bed, looking down at him with worry still pressed into the lines of his face.
and then the relief starts to wash over him, like something cold bleeding under his skin as he watches peter check himself from head to toe, a series of graceful, tired motions that are fascinating to watch, absolutely impossible to turn away from. he eyeballs his shoulder, reaches out a little to peel away where some of the fabric has caught and torn, to see how far it's healed (and it has, very well actually, so he pulls his hand back without brushing his skin, fingers curling inward.)
he swallows, tightly. ]
You saved me back there. Got hurt because of it. I wasn't going to...
[ he lets the words die and his eyes trail to the ground in... well. shame, maybe. ]
Wasn't gonna leave you back there, okay?
no subject
now it's more a question of, should i let him go, or do i bargain him to stay? it's a difficult one to be sure, a multiple choice question with more answers than two. no true or false. do you love him? yes. do you love him when he's gone? yes. do you love him when he's here?
yes. yesish. it's complicated.
it wouldn't do him any good to deny any shatters or cracks in his heart, juno's name etched on most of them. everyone he's ever loved has gone away inevitably -- his father, presumably to the afterlife, mag off the deep end, and juno. back to mars. funny, the people he cares for often choose their place in life far away from peter's side. maybe it makes more sense for him to be lonely. maybe if he had a companion, something he swore against and simultaneously lusted for, he wouldn't be who he is now.
and who is he, really? )
Chivalrous as ever, I see. ( he sits up, a hand on his shoulder while he rolls it in circles. he needs to find a new shirt, eventually, but instead he quietly stands, sharing glances with their surroundings. ) It's a good thing, too. If I died in a war, they'd start calling me respectable, or something.
( more jokes, humorless at best. when he turns to meet juno, his eyebrows furrow, concern written on his skin. )
You look ... well, terrible, if I'm being honest. You should lay down.
no subject
Sweet of you to say, I do my best to keep up this really great look, alright?
[ constantly looking mess? absolutely. in fact, it takes no effort, but juno knows he's worse for the wear, that he's got bruises on his bruises purpling them darker, a graze on his brow, clothes that have seen better days and are only saved by the fact that they're dark to begin with. he's embarrassed, really. nureyev always looks so goddamn put together, even now, but maybe that's just the love still pumping through him.
god. he...
he fucked up so badly, and his shoulders deflate at the reminder of it, mouth parting with a soundless sigh as he tries to come up with words that best fit the silence between them. what do you say to the greatest thing that's ever happened to you? shining like a beacon, within your arm's reach? what do you say?
he swears he can still hear his name hanging off of peter's lips as he'd stood in the doorway, watching him turn, watching him sleep so peacefully under hyperion city's neon lights slicing through the window. it was like a painting, a masterpiece, all colors and light and peter nureyev stretched out like a satisfied cat with his teeth poking out past his lips. everything he'd ever wanted, love he knows he doesn't deserve, especially now.
but god his heart is still singing, painfully, rattling around behind the bars of his ribs. his voice is rough. ]
I'll lay down when I'm dead. Promise. [ his eyes turn down ] I'm just... glad you're okay.
no subject
( he doesn't flatter that with a charmed smile over his shoulder, as if to say it's fine, juno, forgive and forget. it's not fine, and he doesn't very much feel like smiling. the sting of emotion sticks against the back of his throat like he just swallowed a bit of warm tears-flavored-taffy, breathing in through his nose for a brief time. emotion is selfless enough to skip his nostrils, or maybe it's just that he can blame the small catch of his breath on the fact that someone stabbed him a minute ago. hm.
right on time, a magpie flies through the entryway of the temple, carrying something very shiny and large in the bend of her beak. peter raises his brows at her, holding out his hand. in it, she deposits a shirt covered in studded diamonds -- peter hums thoughtfully. )
I know you prefer solid color, but the diamonds stood out.
All just as well, bird. Button up next time, hm?
( the top most buttons of his shirt are undone, before he is again taken by the sight of juno, standing there, like every dream and every nightmare peter's ever had rolled up into one. he loves him, but he's mad at him, and he'd die for him, but he wants to hurt him. there's a lot of contradictory feelings when it comes to the controversial man and the history between them, but at the end of it
peter is glad he's okay, too. abandoning his shirt three buttons undone, peter gestures to the bed. )
You can at least let me wrap your knuckles, if you insist on being stubborn. It's either that or we stop pretending like everything is fine between us, and either talk about it, or flee back to war. Your choice. But you do look like you could use the rest.
no subject
the words form in his mind before he can speak them, a rush of feathers snapping through the threshold and over his head to deposit something sparkling and dark into peter's hands.
the bird that sweeps forward in is precisely what juno would make of peter--quick and subtly shifting in its colors, attracted to things that glitter and shimmer. for a moment, juno finds himself caught up in peter pulling the shirt over his head, looking away to scan the room himself for his daemon, who seems to think it the proper moment to walk into the room with her head high, feathers held aloft from the ground as she meets juno at his knee and looks up as though she practically owns the place. ]
He'll take you up on your offer.
[ her posture is quite contrary to juno's somewhat hunched shoulders as he makes a quick decision before she can speak up for him. he begins to walk past him, towards the bed, resting a palm against the stone. he looks down at his knuckles, his hands, and swallows tightly before bringing himself to look anywhere but peter's eyes--the rise of his collarbone, the third button left undone, his left thumb. ]
What she said. [ a beat, holding it, uncertain, because he doesn't deserve this, he doesn't deserve anything like this and he should walk now and let peter have a chance to do away with him for good. that's what's best, right? it's for the best? even if he aches physically, mentally, so much so his chest is set to split open with all of the mistakes he's made--leaving peter nureyev being one of the largest ones sitting between his lungs like a great stone he can't roll away.
instead: ] Guess that settles it then... So what am I calling you today?
[ anything's better than talking about that. anything's better than the sensation churning his stomach into an angry, hungry ocean as he feels dahliad pluck at his trouser leg as if telling him quite adamantly to hop up now.
which he does.
awkwardly.
and she doesn't hesitate to join him, giving her wings a bit of a push up to glide onto the bed beside him and settle watchfully. ]
no subject
Did you forget it?
( it's not what juno is asking, of course, but peter thinks the point still stands. )
Anyone can call me anything, but you can call me Peter Nureyev.
( it was a gift, after all. he can't take it back just because they broke up -- like juno might pack it into a cardboard box and leave it on his doorstep while he's out working some scheme. it's as much his name as it is peter's now. as much as his heart cries when juno called him glass, and peter longed for the ancient syllables of a name almost forgotten to find their form on juno's lips, he wouldn't want to be called anything else. not by this mouth.
but, there's sentiment, and then there's necessity. peter gathers a bit of medical tape from a nearby med kit, and then gathers juno's hand from his lap, tracing once over the callouses from rough misuse. the feeling of juno's hand reminds him a bit of the music on brahma -- impossible and nostalgic, a home that probably never existed in the first place. he wraps him meticulously, carefully. )
But, I know what you mean. I haven't worked anything out yet -- I was thrown into this head first, and no one's really been worried about my name so much as my ability with a knife. But!
What are your thoughts on Tristan Clark, space traveling pioneer? ( his mouth twists as he switches hands, paying as much care to juno's knuckles as he would a newborn baby, or a priceless necklace. ) Name's a bit off, isn't it? I have my whole backstory worked out, but the name's important. I'll have to stick to the one while we're here, so ... it's a bit of pressure.
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he lets peter work, tries not to move his fingers too much even when the binding brushes a particularly sore spot on his hand. he hadn't noticed until now how bloodied he'd become, cuts on his knuckles and palms from taking a bad fall here or there, soreness from being poised so long with an unfamiliar rifle on unfamiliar territory.
small prices and all of that. ]
Doesn't sound like you, [ juno says, the words soft. who is he to judge what exactly sounds like nureyev? but truth be told, it's not grand enough, it's not subtle enough, it's not a combination enough of the both of them to pull it off and frame his face so perfectly that you wouldn't think twice about it being any shade of fake. ] Kinda lame, actually.
[ he flexes his fingers just a bit, turning it over palm up when peter demands it, but staying there then, lost in thought as he feels the bandages apply pressure to cuts and aches. ] Never really been good with names, Nureyev, but I guess you've got the time. Doubt anyone cares much about it like they do back home anyways, 'least from what I've gathered.
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it wouldn't matter much, to use the name he was born with. people here are from different worlds, different places and different times, and none of them would so much as care who peter is or what he's done to save those he's never met. it's more the principle of the matter, perhaps. being himself is the only true secret he's managed to keep all these years, locked behind doors and doors and facades of different names and stories he's twisted and pulled together like snowflakes on mars. all different, all melted in the heat of the sun all the same. nothing sticks but the one truth he's told but one person over the course of his life.
more than that, though. doesn't it cheapen the gift he'd given juno, if he gives it to everyone he meets?
why does that bother him so much? )
I'm not finished with you. ( he calls once he finishes wrapping the mountains of juno's knuckles, back to the medkit to gather the tools needed to patch up his brow -- medical salve, and butterfly bandages. he tilts juno's chin again, tender and longing and painful as ever, examining.
he didn't get to say goodbye before. he gets the impression that every time he sees juno from here on out, he'll imagine it's the last -- funny, that. their final night, peter had actually believed he'd never care to see another face again. sometimes you've just got it all wrong. )
Cybernetic eye, ( is a hum he releases, smudging on gel to his wound. peter remembers offering him one -- and he wonders what juno might've done to get it. if at all possible, his ego feels even more wounded than before. ) that's new. No more bleeding, I take it? And reading minds, that's all gone as well?
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but the tilting of his head, the way peter pays close attention to each little cut, has him trapped between longing for the touch too much to shy away from it.
juno's eye twitches, the theia inactive but still glittering brightly where it sits in his skull. he can feel the residual heat from it against the bone, against the tissue, and it's still by far the weirdest sensation he's ever had to deal with since his actually eye forcibly ejected itself via exploding out of its socket.
he sucks in a breath a little bit because he knows. he leans into the thumb smearing something along one of his wounds unconsciously and shuts his eyes then, brow knitting because he doesn't like it, doesn't like the weight of owing someone something but knowing it's the only way. ]
Important client... wanted to hire me but didn't want a cyclops.
[ a beat. ]
I needed the work and the job was big enough to keep paying Rita's check, so I took it... [ probably the less details the better. he dips his head away, hands coming together to clasp in his lap. ] He's trying to do some good for the city. Couldn't say no.
[ quieter: ] You don't have to do this.
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anyway, hearing city this, city that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, as if watching the ex you're still in love with fall in love and protect and make love to someone else. he tries to keep the irritated sides of true heartbreak off his face as he leans away when juno pulls back,crossing his arms elegantly over his chest. anger would be easy to express if he could force himself into feeling it -- but he's too exhausted to feel anything other than sad, really, rejected and lonely.
the magpie settles itself on peter's shoulder, beak pecking a few times at the silver in his ears. clearly he's used to this, as he doesn't so much as flinch as the bird has her way, eventually finding a comfortable nest in the curvature of his neck. peter turns his nose up. )
Don't have to ...? Do what, Juno? Take care of you? Surely someone must, if you refuse to do it yourself. ( he waves his hand flamboyantly. ) You're patched, from what I can tell, unless you're hiding something under your shirt. Now would be the time to speak up.
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Look, I know what I did to you was shitty, we can get right to the point. [ sharper, resentful. juno's voice isn't watery, but it's desperate, tired. doesn't want to admit it but wants to condemn himself for it anyways. ] You don't need to do any of this taking care of me business because we both know I'm last person you deserve to have to -
[ dahliad is sharp about her motion, lack of self-preservation sets off an alarm bell in her as much as any bullet headed his way or faltering vital. she ruffles herself roughly, in a way that startles juno mid-sentence and brings him to yelp at the same time. his face creases in shock and pain (and betrayal, you fucking traitor bird) as he brings an arm around his middle. bruising feathers his ribs and he knows it from a back blow previously taken, an ache he's holding in with a bite that belongs to a wounded animal. ]
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after a few short but heavy moments, he lifts his fingers to the peacock, with the attempt of tickling them under her chin. )
Thank you, ( he politely says. at least they both have juno's well being at the forefront of their minds.
adjusting his gaze back to the man in question, peter lets out a suffering sigh through his nose, finding more medical supplies to rustle around with. finally, )
Yes, what you did was shitty. ( again, a short silence, as if peter is anywhere close to done, the scratching of tools inside the kit being the only sound evident between them. ) It was probably the worst thing anyone has ever done to me, personally. Or at least the worst thing in a long, long, while. And yet, here I am, still in love with you despite it all. You wish to discuss fairness in that? How I can be here -- ( a sharp breath, he loses steam, some what. ) hoping ... or wishing, replaying this conversation in my head and thinking about -- you ...
( he stops himself there. whatever fire fueled him on is hushed with a pot of water, and again he looks the very epitome of tired, eyes heavy, twice his age in looks and appearance. he shakes his head. )
What does it matter?
Lift your shirt please, Juno.
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at last, he lifts it up, trying to use the precious seconds to find it in himself to say something, anything as he exposes bruises already forming along his torso, a clearly off-kilter posture hidden out of sheer determination as he favors one side of his chest, breathing coming in now a little more honest because really.
what can you do but accept when your cover is blown?
on both fronts. ]
Nureyev, I... [ mouth open, helplessly without trying to be helpless because it isn't an expression he's worn on his face a single day in his life, at least if he could help it, in front of anyone. he looks down, gathering up the material of his shirt slowly in his fingers, feeling dahliad pull away to make room. ] I wanted to. I wanted to leave with you... so badly.
[ the words betray him, feel like a vial of selfish poison swilling around his mouth as he chews through the sentiment - glass on his tongue all broken up. ] I couldn't. Any of it. Just up and leave no matter how much I wanted to... No matter how much I still want to, Nureyev, I can't...
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in the end, the answer ends up being no,even if it felt like a yes for one night. not really. slim fingers skate around juno's side, feeling out and counting his ribs one at a time. a sprain here or a shatter there is irrelevant -- he has his next move planned out regardless. his fingers, already in an optimal position, dig roughly into whatever wound is there -- only for a fleeting second, so to take him off guard and shove him back, now laying on the healing bed. he sends an apologetic look to dahliad, shrugging his shoulders loosely.
he's hovering on top of him now, a hand on his shoulder with the force of iron, and a hand on his hip with the force of an -- old lover, who's still in love. his look is contemplative, considering. )
Just lay back. Sorry about this. ( he is genuine about that. the hand on juno's hip unconsciously tries to soothe him, cool fingers brushing a small bit of skin on every stroke. ) I wanted that too, Juno. But ... only because I thought you wanted it all the same. I --
( his gaze falls downwards. )
I missed you. I was on my way back to Mars when D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. stopped me.
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because peter seems to know this already, one hand very resolutely holding him down at the shoulder, the other at the waist and mid-action he starts to protest, loudly: ] Take it easy, you - [ another breath, swallowing air desperately, hand reaching up to grab at the wrist on his shoulder and slide fingers around it in retaliation ] - Nureyev, you were literally just stabbed, okay. I'm...
[ you're what? is the big question that rattles around juno's head, and it cancels out the minute peter continues to talk, the second the hand resting at his hip lets fingers stray to where his pants are a little too off-kilter and dip. every bruise sings out, on his chest, his back, in his mind, all the little places peter nureyev sunk his fingers in and claimed starting from day one. juno breathes in, as if maybe he'll smell it now, as clear as the day he first became suffused in it. ]
I wanted to. And for a second I thought I could bring myself to do it, you know? Stay with you, leave everything behind, go somewhere far... far far away. [ juno holds, takes another breath and his fingers flex a little, gentling their hold. the sharp pain in his side is barely subsiding to a low, constant throb, the position putting pressure in places he wasn't aware he was hurting in before. ]
I [ oh god don't say it, don't you dare, don't - ] yeah... [ damn you. he shifts uncomfortably in the hold, eyes detouring to the side, to the rise of nureyev's white knuckles on his hip. his free hand twitches beside it on the bed like an afterthought. his voice is low, thin. ]
I've missed you too...
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some differences can be overcome, but. the fact remains. peter has to leave, and juno has to stay. right?
peter knows this. has been telling himself this for the past however long, that it must be better to love him from a distance, than make him miserable up close. but peter still sits with him, loves him, strokes his side and looks at him like he's the reason hyperion city manages to stand on its termite-infested stilts. he still wants it to work, even if it can't. he still wants to find a world where it might. )
I wanted, ( he has about as much experience selling his heart to people as juno does, but when he speaks he makes sure their eyes meet, for a moment of importance. ) more than anything. I wanted to do to you what you've done thanklessly for Hyperion City all this time. I wanted to save Juno Steel from Juno Steel, and I -- I still want that.
How are we the most miserable people on this planet? ( he manages a little smile, a little wounded, eyebrows knitted. ) We have what we want, right in front of us. Is it so wrong to reach out and grab it?
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