[ Nearly everything about Peter Nureyev is sharp.The jut of his collarbones. The slender points of his heels. The edge of his perfectly-kept nails. His eyes. His teeth, his smile. His mind. Is it any wonder, then, that Juno fully expects the pile of black feathers - recently tugged from old sheath and broken root - to cut him when he lays his hands upon them? It's a small pile, the result of a monthly preening, and he shoves his hands into them. To his knuckles, to his wrists. Burying his fingers among tattered feather and cracked shaft, squeezing handfuls of them so tight to his palms that it's almost as though he wishes that they would cut his skin to shreds.But, they don't. They're just feathers, after all. Sharp angles, slender - just like Nureyev.Juno can hear him in the other room, discussing something on one of the many comms that he's found on his person. One for any active identity, at any given time. He's doing business as "Aria", or something of that nature. Something sleek, svelte, talking to a contact at Juno's request in tones that are doing something to him, even from a distance. He picks up a feather, and rubs his thumb over it, the wrong way 'round - causing it to bunch and bristle and for the barbs to break. The whole thing is lopsided, worthy of being discarded. Juno can't bring himself to let it go, and instead curls one of his own wings around his shoulder.Compared to Nureyev, he's drab. Dark brown and dusty red, broad, coarse feathers and a blunt tail. Nothing like the iridescence of the single feather he holds in between his fingers, turning it against the light so that it catches, practically glows, even as battered as it is. He's never treated his wings that well, to be fair. Sure, there's public bathhaus's - filled with scented dust and holistic oils, but there's a certain level of self-awareness that Juno possesses that he just can't shake. He used to go, once. A long time ago, it feels. He'd felt the weight of soft metals and gold charms woven through his wings, and he'd thought --He'd thought a lot of stupid things.Even still, he's thinking stupid things. Holding Nureyev's sleek, long pinion up to his own feathers. Lifting a handful of them to tuck it under the layer, letting pressure hold it in place. He adds another, and then another, until they sit in a row and he turns his wing to the light. Nureyev's feathers, dead and broken as they are, gleam. Pretty, bold, like a shimmering gem. It's just like him. Juno is a dark thing, blunt and broad - and oh, he thinks, briefly - of what he'd look like if Nureyev's wings were his, instead.( a fast, clever bird; glittering in the sun, as juno cards his fingers through peter's wings and plucks feathers from them. it's been years and years, since he's had anyone to do this for. a small, tender intimacy that he'd resolved never to give another, and here he was, pressing his fingers down to the root of peter's 'span, pressing his face between his shoulderblades and inhaling. soft, downy feathers at the nape of his neck tickling the insides of his nose. the elusive scent of exotic worlds and a distinct cleanliness that he'd come to associate with peter. he's kept feathers before, stuffed them under his pillow and breathed them in, in the man's absence.peter's here now, though. )He's in the other room, and Juno can hear the conversation come to an end. Abruptly, he combs his fingers through his own feathers, stripping the dark flight-pinions from where he'd slipped them, sending them to the floor. One is caught between his fingers, and he is caught, as the door slides open with a metallic whir, silent. Slightly ashamed, the feathers on the back of his neck and back raised in alarm. He's been Caught, and every inch of him is broadcasting that. ]How, [ he begins, as he shakes feathers free ] How'd it go?
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