[ peter nureyev does his best with what he's got, and right now, it's a whole lot of nothing.

just a pen and paper and a nurse inquiring about his name. frankly, peter has worked with less, so this isn't a big deal. there's a minor flub, but nothing he can't fix, and honestly, as he looks down at the name he's penned onto the pages of the identification sheet, he smiles to himself, small enough to be a secret, convincing enough to please his nurse into leaving him be for a bit. if one juno steel is here, he'll certainly come running with bells on with the indignation of a few dozen, wet martian cats in a bag.

he's looking at his fingers all bandaged up, the sting of shiny burns peeking out through the bandages on his wrists, occluded with something or other, when juno wobbles in, holding onto the door frame and glowering at him in just the way peter imagined. juno is all tired brows and sharp eyes and peter can remember (vaguely) the coat, the cat, the silhouette of him now made very narrow and raw.

for some reason, where all else is fog and empty little spaces on expansive shelves, juno is there. where he ought to be. bright. a beacon. peter wears his best smile, one made of teeth like little shards of moonlight. ] So I did, [ the way his voice doesn't quite come out as smoothly as he'd like because his entire throat feels unbearably bruised. ] I believe we already had this discussion where you said my last name was far too garish so we agreed that I'd take yours, dearest. [ he hasn't figured out what pierce's "neé" is just yet, but it'll be hideous.

slowly, he places his palms on the bed, pushing himself up against the pillows with a visible wince. ]