He's only ever felt this way at times like this. The feeling isn't his. He'll realise that later. He'll realise, too, that he's going to have nightmares about this, the way that he always does afterward; not about what's coming, but about feeling his mind and body too frozen inside themselves to fight it. He doesn't know that's what he's feeling, now. His limbs are heavy and stiff. A thought finally comes to him: he wants to pull the blanket over his head and lay as still as he can. He finds himself remembering it, being a boy and wanting that on waking up but knowing who was sleeping beside him, vulnerable to it and needing him, and shoving himself up.
There's someone sleeping near him now. Someone with one hand, who hasn't ever trained to fight, who's only just learned, really, how to shoot. Raju knows how to push himself, to shove at stiff limbs until they're forced to move to his orders. But he hadn't been able to do it before in the Hall, knowing that the worst was coming, laying stiff and frozen in that folding bed next to more of the cheap, temporary things full of people he didn't really know. He pushes at his body anyway. He tries. There's someone here, now, who needs him to try.
He notices the blanket sliding down into his lap. He realises that he's sitting up. He's out in the open now. He realises that he's gasping, trying to shove enough air into lungs that are suddenly too small for it, that his chest is pressed smaller, that it hurts, but nothing like that has ever mattered before and this, whatever it is, doesn't matter either. He knows it without knowing it, feels it without acknowledging the sensations at all. Francis is there, doubled over. The fire that had been in the fireplace has gone out and the only light to cover him washes in sickly green over his shoulders and knuckles and bowed head, over his hair, and then Raju is close to him, watching his own hand clutching over Francis', over the hand Francis is holding pressed against his own chest. A moment later Raju feels it happening, notices the feeling when the tips of his fingers had scraped against Francis' chest and his shirt.
He wants his friend to straighten up, or look up so Raju can see his face. Raju's other hand must be on Francis somewhere, he can feel something solid that gives a little under his grip. He opens his mouth to tell him so, tell him to look up, to look at him, and wonders why his voice isn't coming out, and realises that his throat hurts, compressed in on itself the same way his chest is. It's a struggling, strangled noise that comes out. If they were any further apart, it would be too quiet to hear.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-06-03 01:05 pm (UTC)There's someone sleeping near him now. Someone with one hand, who hasn't ever trained to fight, who's only just learned, really, how to shoot. Raju knows how to push himself, to shove at stiff limbs until they're forced to move to his orders. But he hadn't been able to do it before in the Hall, knowing that the worst was coming, laying stiff and frozen in that folding bed next to more of the cheap, temporary things full of people he didn't really know. He pushes at his body anyway. He tries. There's someone here, now, who needs him to try.
He notices the blanket sliding down into his lap. He realises that he's sitting up. He's out in the open now. He realises that he's gasping, trying to shove enough air into lungs that are suddenly too small for it, that his chest is pressed smaller, that it hurts, but nothing like that has ever mattered before and this, whatever it is, doesn't matter either. He knows it without knowing it, feels it without acknowledging the sensations at all. Francis is there, doubled over. The fire that had been in the fireplace has gone out and the only light to cover him washes in sickly green over his shoulders and knuckles and bowed head, over his hair, and then Raju is close to him, watching his own hand clutching over Francis', over the hand Francis is holding pressed against his own chest. A moment later Raju feels it happening, notices the feeling when the tips of his fingers had scraped against Francis' chest and his shirt.
He wants his friend to straighten up, or look up so Raju can see his face. Raju's other hand must be on Francis somewhere, he can feel something solid that gives a little under his grip. He opens his mouth to tell him so, tell him to look up, to look at him, and wonders why his voice isn't coming out, and realises that his throat hurts, compressed in on itself the same way his chest is. It's a struggling, strangled noise that comes out. If they were any further apart, it would be too quiet to hear.