[ juno would be an awful detective if he couldn't identify fake, even if the room is tilting a little and he feels very close to puking right on his shoes. he swallows the feeling down, eyeballing the hand stretched out to him and then nureyev, who looks...
like a dream he wants to never wake up from and jolt awake from at the same time. they start like this, nureyev swinging in on his proverbial shooting star and juno scrambling for an answer, for an excuse, for anything other than he had to because that big mean city will eat everyone alive if he isn't there to stop it. what a time and a place for the master thief himself to show his face, a place where he can't roam far, a place that isn't fair like that.
he swallows the nausea and it's almost without thinking that he hesitates, hand streaked bloody, shaking.
he grabs his fingers but only because the room won't stop moving and nureyev is right there and he swears underneath the iron smell-taste-feel of blood there's nureyev's cologne--spiced and cloying and abating the tide of sick in his belly. his voice is rough and he hesitates to meet peter's eyes, but needs to in order to be sure. he's not a figment, not a dream, not a wish because when things seems bleak, peter is... always there.
so he looks him in the eye with both of his own now, one a faint green, the other mottled with blinking lights as he looks at peter's face, catalogs everything from the one impossible night. oh god. ]
Just... gotta sit. It's okay. I can clean myself up later.
[ the prospect is more than he ever deserves. he'll get clean in his own time. whatever. but he'll let peter lead him to a place to sit, he'll let that happen as dahliad rucks up her feathers just a bit and leans down just faintly to nudge junod with a delicate tap of thanks. she's fickle, but no less curious, her elegant neck rearing tall now as she seems to beckon quietly for the magpie to follow. she won't be caught far from her charge if she can help it, her tail leaving a faint, gauzy pink trail in its wake.
juno adds: ]
You were doing something there. Whatever it was... had to be important or something, right?
no subject
like a dream he wants to never wake up from and jolt awake from at the same time. they start like this, nureyev swinging in on his proverbial shooting star and juno scrambling for an answer, for an excuse, for anything other than he had to because that big mean city will eat everyone alive if he isn't there to stop it. what a time and a place for the master thief himself to show his face, a place where he can't roam far, a place that isn't fair like that.
he swallows the nausea and it's almost without thinking that he hesitates, hand streaked bloody, shaking.
he grabs his fingers but only because the room won't stop moving and nureyev is right there and he swears underneath the iron smell-taste-feel of blood there's nureyev's cologne--spiced and cloying and abating the tide of sick in his belly. his voice is rough and he hesitates to meet peter's eyes, but needs to in order to be sure. he's not a figment, not a dream, not a wish because when things seems bleak, peter is... always there.
so he looks him in the eye with both of his own now, one a faint green, the other mottled with blinking lights as he looks at peter's face, catalogs everything from the one impossible night. oh god. ]
Just... gotta sit. It's okay. I can clean myself up later.
[ the prospect is more than he ever deserves. he'll get clean in his own time. whatever. but he'll let peter lead him to a place to sit, he'll let that happen as dahliad rucks up her feathers just a bit and leans down just faintly to nudge junod with a delicate tap of thanks. she's fickle, but no less curious, her elegant neck rearing tall now as she seems to beckon quietly for the magpie to follow. she won't be caught far from her charge if she can help it, her tail leaving a faint, gauzy pink trail in its wake.
juno adds: ]
You were doing something there. Whatever it was... had to be important or something, right?