juno is pretty sure he just heard the telltale voice of peter nureyev just off to the side. nureyev has a walk that's distinct, sharp, unyielding to hesitance, the kind of thing your heart kicks to desperately because peter nureyev is a lot.
he's too much.
too much. and juno's fingertip stops on the glass just slightly, eyes falling a little to what he's lined out onto the glass in the fog the rain has left behind against the heated windows of the display. no. he's pretty sure he just heard nureyev from somewhere in the back of his mind, like a shadow of a memory (the glancing of yasmin swift's knife, hardly half as deft or cunning, sinking into his shoulder, deep, deep, deep). no. it's not peter nureyev, it's not nureyev. when he turns his head, it's all just going to be a dream, some phantom itch that he'll ignore.
and he turns without fear for half a moment. it's all in your head juno. it's all in your
head.
juno looks and his entire stomach turns, the way you might when you're on the edge of a window, when you've had too much to drink and just want to bury your face in your hands for the rest of the night. there, in front of him, tall and lean and so much heartache, stands peter nureyev looking no less put together than he usually does. ]
This isn't happening. [ he says it simply, voice soft at first, like he's still stuck in some dreamlike state because ] Nuh ah. No way. This? Isn't happening.
[ it's not. it's fucked up. and while that deceptive little yearning part of him is relieved, relieved that nureyev is here (he's resilient, he would have held on regardless) the rest of him is trying to not to bolt.
thankfully, somewhere between staring at nureyev and the shock of it all, his feet have pretty much become cement. ]
It's not.
[ his lips form a thin line, hand smearing through the fading drawing now. he left nureyev sleeping soundly in a hotel room. he remembers the little starlight pinpricks of his teeth, the soft sounds from his mouth, the barely-there whisper of his name that nearly kept him. he left him. ]
YOU KEEP DOING THIS TO ME AND I KEEP DYING.
juno is pretty sure he just heard the telltale voice of peter nureyev just off to the side. nureyev has a walk that's distinct, sharp, unyielding to hesitance, the kind of thing your heart kicks to desperately because peter nureyev is a lot.
he's too much.
too much. and juno's fingertip stops on the glass just slightly, eyes falling a little to what he's lined out onto the glass in the fog the rain has left behind against the heated windows of the display. no. he's pretty sure he just heard nureyev from somewhere in the back of his mind, like a shadow of a memory (the glancing of yasmin swift's knife, hardly half as deft or cunning, sinking into his shoulder, deep, deep, deep). no. it's not peter nureyev, it's not nureyev. when he turns his head, it's all just going to be a dream, some phantom itch that he'll ignore.
and he turns without fear for half a moment. it's all in your head juno. it's all in your
head.
juno looks and his entire stomach turns, the way you might when you're on the edge of a window, when you've had too much to drink and just want to bury your face in your hands for the rest of the night. there, in front of him, tall and lean and so much heartache, stands peter nureyev looking no less put together than he usually does. ]
This isn't happening. [ he says it simply, voice soft at first, like he's still stuck in some dreamlike state because ] Nuh ah. No way. This? Isn't happening.
[ it's not. it's fucked up. and while that deceptive little yearning part of him is relieved, relieved that nureyev is here (he's resilient, he would have held on regardless) the rest of him is trying to not to bolt.
thankfully, somewhere between staring at nureyev and the shock of it all, his feet have pretty much become cement. ]
It's not.
[ his lips form a thin line, hand smearing through the fading drawing now. he left nureyev sleeping soundly in a hotel room. he remembers the little starlight pinpricks of his teeth, the soft sounds from his mouth, the barely-there whisper of his name that nearly kept him. he left him. ]