( his expression droops by fractions of degrees, a barely there knot formed in the space between two plucked brows. everything hurts -- the look on juno's face hurts, the sight of his handsome jaw or unruly hair that begs to be toyed with, his ever present trench coat, his single eye, the way he smudges the train from the window as if wiping it from history. peter has had a lot of time to practice the art of keeping himself contained into little boxes, the air of grace and elegance blocking out the angrier walks of life, the sadness that pools his heart, the rock at the back of his throat, but --
years and years haven't prepared him for juno steel, that's for sure. he can't bare to look at him after few and far moments shared between them, and he draws his gaze to the rain instead, much more melancholy. fitting, he thinks. he's always liked dramatics. )
It's good to see you're alive, I should say.
( he corrects. in a counter to the peacock at juno's side, peter's own bird perks from the perch on his shoulder -- a magpie, eyes shiny as diamonds, sea green and wistful, a bit like a lady with knots in his hair, and a long trenchcoat, and a sharpshooter's aim.
( 'well,' peter had said, cupping the bird in his hands, feeling its feather soft back under the airy weights of his fingers. 'at least i get to keep his eyes, junod. call me sydney.' )
the bird squawks. )
Sydney, your heart rate --
Well, well, that's enough out of you, bird. Be a dear. ( he taps his finger to the bird's beak in a shhh motion, swiftly nodding back to juno. it's going to be absolutely pathetic if juno ever finds out its real name. ) Really, I should be less surprised. If there was anyone capable enough to make it out of untimely and inevitable doom, it would most certainly be you, Juno dear.
i dont ... feel bad ....
years and years haven't prepared him for juno steel, that's for sure. he can't bare to look at him after few and far moments shared between them, and he draws his gaze to the rain instead, much more melancholy. fitting, he thinks. he's always liked dramatics. )
It's good to see you're alive, I should say.
( he corrects. in a counter to the peacock at juno's side, peter's own bird perks from the perch on his shoulder -- a magpie, eyes shiny as diamonds, sea green and wistful, a bit like a lady with knots in his hair, and a long trenchcoat, and a sharpshooter's aim.
( 'well,' peter had said, cupping the bird in his hands, feeling its feather soft back under the airy weights of his fingers. 'at least i get to keep his eyes, junod. call me sydney.' )
the bird squawks. )
Sydney, your heart rate --
Well, well, that's enough out of you, bird. Be a dear. ( he taps his finger to the bird's beak in a shhh motion, swiftly nodding back to juno. it's going to be absolutely pathetic if juno ever finds out its real name. ) Really, I should be less surprised. If there was anyone capable enough to make it out of untimely and inevitable doom, it would most certainly be you, Juno dear.