[ juno glances at the bird on peter's shoulder, the kind of bird that he's fairly sure would both be least and most suited to him. he eyeballs it for half a second before letting out a sigh that's definitely, definitely, definitely suffering here. if juno blinks fast enough, though, he can almost pretend that he isn't stepping into a stall with the same nureyev he left in a warm bed for the cold acid rain of hyperion city's streets.
god he...
he really hates himself for that.
and nureyev should hate him for that too. none of this... whatever the hell you call this.
he's more than three quarters of the way stuck inside his own head when he hears red and he hears gold and it makes him prickle a little bit and look up. he gets the good intent behind it. maybe. nureyev has the best eye for clothing he's seen in a while, has dressed him up before, made him feel weirdly violated and at the same time beautiful and he's not sure which is worse because it's been years since anyone bought him clothes. ]
Nure--Sydney, I...
[ juno wants to back out now. it'd be easier now, to not be in this kind of proximity with him. it's a gut instinct, he ruined it once, he might just ruin it again. it's not a pleasant or pretty thought, but juno's head has never been a particularly pleasant or pretty place. juno opens his mouth to continue but closes it instead with a sigh. he's cooperative enough to already shrug off his soaked through trench coat, to roll up his shirt sleeves a little, but he's still shaking his head as he eventually looks up at one of the mirrors, peripherals catching sight of the multiple slouching versions of himself while dahliad makes a comfortable seat beside one of the mirrors, feathers fanning out briefly in a bit of a shake to remove the excess water form outside before settling neatly to the side. nice. ]
I have never wanted to see this many sides of myself. Thanks.
[ juno only sounds petulant about it, but his stomach sinks, a little resigned, a little sick, a little angry at himself and only at himself because who is he to be angry at nureyev? with teeth like little pinpricks of starlight in his mouth and a tongue that talks all kinds of liquid velvet and hands that are.
they're hands, steel.
(but there's nothing else like them. no one else like peter nureyev.)
he looks over his shoulder.
this isn't what you do when you hate someone and god does he want nureyev to hate him badly. ]
no subject
god he...
he really hates himself for that.
and nureyev should hate him for that too. none of this... whatever the hell you call this.
he's more than three quarters of the way stuck inside his own head when he hears red and he hears gold and it makes him prickle a little bit and look up. he gets the good intent behind it. maybe. nureyev has the best eye for clothing he's seen in a while, has dressed him up before, made him feel weirdly violated and at the same time beautiful and he's not sure which is worse because it's been years since anyone bought him clothes. ]
Nure--Sydney, I...
[ juno wants to back out now. it'd be easier now, to not be in this kind of proximity with him. it's a gut instinct, he ruined it once, he might just ruin it again. it's not a pleasant or pretty thought, but juno's head has never been a particularly pleasant or pretty place. juno opens his mouth to continue but closes it instead with a sigh. he's cooperative enough to already shrug off his soaked through trench coat, to roll up his shirt sleeves a little, but he's still shaking his head as he eventually looks up at one of the mirrors, peripherals catching sight of the multiple slouching versions of himself while dahliad makes a comfortable seat beside one of the mirrors, feathers fanning out briefly in a bit of a shake to remove the excess water form outside before settling neatly to the side. nice. ]
I have never wanted to see this many sides of myself. Thanks.
[ juno only sounds petulant about it, but his stomach sinks, a little resigned, a little sick, a little angry at himself and only at himself because who is he to be angry at nureyev? with teeth like little pinpricks of starlight in his mouth and a tongue that talks all kinds of liquid velvet and hands that are.
they're hands, steel.
(but there's nothing else like them. no one else like peter nureyev.)
he looks over his shoulder.
this isn't what you do when you hate someone and god does he want nureyev to hate him badly. ]