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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
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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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he can't bring himself to move because what if he's a dream? what if he vanishes the moment he makes an attempt to sit up and he's just brought himself here out of some kind of delirium. what... if...
juno wets his lips and tries to find the illusion behind nureyev's eyes, a tell-tale sign that maybe he's just a ghost, but all he sees is the hurt crest of his perfectly manicured brows, the way his glasses sit off-kilter, how that errant fall of his hair is completely undone, reminding him of those dim, hopeless days spent in each others company miles below the martian desert.
he can't look away. ]
There's no saving me, [ he says and looks away, at the proximity of their hands, at the slender line of nureyev's knuckles around his shoulder, at how easy it is to hold his wrist and feel his fluttering pulse there under such thin skin. ] You're wasting your time.
[ he furrows his brow and shakes his head. ] I care about you so much. You - [ a hand reaches up, lightly, skates fingers over the outline of peter's knuckles along his hip, over rings and bone and skin and tremble as they rest there like the faintest, ghostly touch. ] - you've done more for me than I could ever do for you. In a lifetime. That's not fair to you. It's wrong because you should have something better than me.
[ the touch fills out, more finger, more palm, covering nureyev's knuckles in a warm touch. ] I want to be better... but I'm not sure I can be.
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he flattens his hand, locks their fingers together. his thumb rubs almost anxious circles on juno's knuckle. )
I don't want better.
( the hand on his shoulder slides up, cups his neck slowly and carefully. the bristle of his unshaven beard is -- pleasant. a good memory. he wonders if he should be attempting to say goodbye to it. )
Juno. I don't want better. I want you. There's nothing you could say — or do — that will ever change that.
If you decide tomorrow that you don't want me, I'll continue loving you regardless. And that's not a question, it's a promise. This is ... new, for me. This — feeling, that you've given me. I owe you for it, as much as you feel indebted to me.
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[ juno sighs out his name like an afterthought, feels the way peter's hands move against him, leans into them on impulse because the coolness of his palm feels pretty damn real, edge of his palm against his cheek like... like a dream he's dreamt up before. there's hesitation in how he tilts his head, but eventually it turns, leans into the touch, eyes flicking over peter's face, the expression of his mouth.
his fingers splay upwards.
peter. peter nureyev.
says he loves him.
and it feels like he's going to explode.
the hand locking with his at his hip gets a squeeze, weak the first time, stronger the second as juno swallows his uncertainty. it isn't easy, in fact, he's got half a mind to say forget it, to try and roll away and avoid all of this, any of this, before he breaks a promise to peter again, before he says he can be something he isn't. something that's not broken up into a bunch of fragmented, ruined pieces that don't know how to function properly without fucking everything up in the process. ]
I do, I mean. [ and juno reaches up with both hands, as far as his ribs will let him to take peter's face if he lets him. he pulls it close, fingers caught in fine, dark hair and probably disturbing his bird no doubt, but he has to say it this way, soft so no one hears, not even whatever karma's out to kill him. into his ear he says it like a dying man's words, a low murmur. ] I love you. [ mouthed, barely before he pulls back, but only a bit to look nureyev in the yes. it feels like he's written himself some kind of death sentence, but in a victoriously spiteful way that glimmers in his green eye with life. ]
For tomorrow... day after. You're not exactly easy to forget about, Nureyev, I just don't want you to regret me.
[ he holds his face a bit longer, finding the familiar angles of it, the smoothness of his complexion, the sharpness of his jaw. the proximity is a lot to deal with, but somehow juno stops feeling the ache in his ribs, the sick anxiety and hate roiling in his stomach because peter is looking down at him and he's looking up at peter feeling like it's just them and only them in this room. ]
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three words, that's all it takes. i love you. i love you. it rattles his head around, makes him sick and happy and terrified and pleased and.
he knows, somehow. this is it. this is all there's ever going to be. it doesn't matter if life tears them apart, and if juno moves on, and if this war kills them both. peter's heart only has one place, and it's in the hands that cup him, hold him, pull him in.
pull him in? maybe he's pushing. regardless, their foreheads touch, the tips of their noses brushing and peter shakes his head, sucking in his upper lip. )
I don't regret a thing. And I'm not sorry. ( he pushes, he knows it that time, crosses that forbidden distance and the one line that should definitely not be crossed, and their lips press together. and it's. not exactly fairy tale, but nearly just, a sensation like coming home after a long distance and sitting down after miles of running -- it's a wonder how peter ever thought there would be a planet more entertaining, more necessary than whichever one juno finds himself on. ) I can't give up on you as easily as you want me to. I won't.
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You still might.
[ and then suddenly he's close, and the gravity of juno's words start to really sink in, pinching him hotly at the back of his neck like a set of teeth. he doesn't realize he's tugging until peter's forehead meets his own, until they're practically on top of each other in the quiet and juno is acutely aware of two things: how warm nureyev is and how cold he feels and how the two together make for a situation where he's loathe to let go.
nureyev's a goddamn super nova at its peak, stars under his skin making him almost too hot to touch. this is how juno sees him - untouchable (but he's touched him once, run fingers over his skin, clutched him too tightly to keep breathing.)
the kiss hurts. but that's mostly because juno had fallen on his face a few times in the span of the fight starting and peter's being stabbed. his nose hurts (maybe broken again), his teeth hurt (bruised hopefully and not chipped), but the kiss despite it all feels
well it feels nice. keeps him silent. his fingers slip downwards, curling in what they can catch, fabric of a shirt winding around his fingers as he stays utterly still beyond reciprocating hesitantly, and then a little more firmly towards the end so that when peter finally pulls back, he's left with that warm, prickling feeling on his mouth like he's just been drugged. ]
I'm sorry, [ he says, fingers splaying on his chest a little. ] I'm so sorry, I just. I thought I made the right call, I thought that if I left, you'd be better off and I'd be able to... I...
[ softer, if even possible. again: ] I'm sorry. [ he should say it at least a dozen more times. ]