juno knows it anywhere, neck going white hot with shame, guilt, more shame, more guilt, until he feels it overflowing high in his chest. he swallows it down as best he can, a rictus half-smile forming on his face in a way that's always existed, just never for nureyev. he props his elbows on his knees and doesn't quite let himself look at nureyev.
he's got a point, but then again, he always has a point (even if the point is utter bullshit flung in from left field that some people are stupid enough to eat up.) juno is soaked to the skin, but really, what part of it doesn't he deserve? especially now, facing someone he's pretty sure he'd never have to look in the eye again. someone who could have done much better, but somehow settled for him in the late hours, whispered something juno hasn't really heard in years from anyone. not anyone that meant it the way nureyev had. dangerous and quiet, lifting and sinking like a stone at the same time.
well that's not how it is anymore, not after he fucked it up, he's pretty sure. but that's how juno likes it. no one needs to get that close to him. he's a goddamn disaster area, a worst-case scenario for anyone who wanted to touch him, car crash, war-zone, nuclear impact. gut punch.
and nureyev.
well.
nureyev is a touch of heaven he didn't really deserve.
there's a sharp tug on his coat that interrupts his brooding however, his hesitance on what to say because what do you say to someone you up and left in the middle of the night? when you traded something good for something bad that needed you just as much? ]
Your biometrics state that this would be a wise decision, [ dahliad snips back quickly and juno's head jerks a bit and he scowls. whose side are you on, you little shit? ]
Well my biowhatevers can go to hell, [ he half mutters before bringing his tired eyes up again. it's. hard. but he does it. and it feels like his organs are doing a sideways slosh uncomfortably left to right. incredulously, half-petulant, the rest of him too tired and chilled to the bone to argue properly just yet (but he's not admitting that. a fucking peacock isn't gonna have one over on him): ] You can't be serious.
no subject
the cut.
juno knows it anywhere, neck going white hot with shame, guilt, more shame, more guilt, until he feels it overflowing high in his chest. he swallows it down as best he can, a rictus half-smile forming on his face in a way that's always existed, just never for nureyev. he props his elbows on his knees and doesn't quite let himself look at nureyev.
he's got a point, but then again, he always has a point (even if the point is utter bullshit flung in from left field that some people are stupid enough to eat up.) juno is soaked to the skin, but really, what part of it doesn't he deserve? especially now, facing someone he's pretty sure he'd never have to look in the eye again. someone who could have done much better, but somehow settled for him in the late hours, whispered something juno hasn't really heard in years from anyone. not anyone that meant it the way nureyev had. dangerous and quiet, lifting and sinking like a stone at the same time.
well that's not how it is anymore, not after he fucked it up, he's pretty sure. but that's how juno likes it. no one needs to get that close to him. he's a goddamn disaster area, a worst-case scenario for anyone who wanted to touch him, car crash, war-zone, nuclear impact. gut punch.
and nureyev.
well.
nureyev is a touch of heaven he didn't really deserve.
there's a sharp tug on his coat that interrupts his brooding however, his hesitance on what to say because what do you say to someone you up and left in the middle of the night? when you traded something good for something bad that needed you just as much? ]
Your biometrics state that this would be a wise decision, [ dahliad snips back quickly and juno's head jerks a bit and he scowls. whose side are you on, you little shit? ]
Well my biowhatevers can go to hell, [ he half mutters before bringing his tired eyes up again. it's. hard. but he does it. and it feels like his organs are doing a sideways slosh uncomfortably left to right. incredulously, half-petulant, the rest of him too tired and chilled to the bone to argue properly just yet (but he's not admitting that. a fucking peacock isn't gonna have one over on him): ] You can't be serious.
[ even after all this. ]