Raju frowns at him, troubled. And tempted. That in itself makes it easier to shake his head. This needs to be done; that's what matters, and that's all. That should be all. "That won't be bright enough. Not here. You shouldn't have to take more risks just because I'm afraid."
Raju realises what he's said the moment it finishes coming out of his mouth. For a moment he doesn't move, eyes on Francis, businesslike expression cracking just long enough for surprise and shame to try showing through. Then he turns, the movements of his hands wrapping the blanket back around him and slinging his things around his back a little less efficient, less graceful and moving more quickly. He picks the can up. He puts the can down and takes out the fingerless gloves he's sewn out from a spare shirt and tugs them on. He reaches out for the can again, then stops and wraps the blanket around his face. Francis will only be able to see his eyes. That's better than nothing.
He tries not to give himself another moment of hesitation, picks the can up quickly, walks with long, fast strides over to where he thinks the right part of the bridge begins. But when he gets there...
For a long, strange moment, Raju is still. His fingers are cold. He realises he's breathing hard. Where's the blank, empty thing that used to make anything like this easy? He's been trying for it, but he realises now it hasn't come. Considering what he's wanting to do, that's probably for the best. His fingers tighten on the can, then loosen, then tighten again. He closes his eyes.
It's always here, isn't it? That's why he dreams of it so much. It must be here. Somewhere.
He frowns. He finds himself shying away from the memories, feeling around their edges in that easier, more familiar way, and not sure how to venture in it any further.
Alright. Something more recent, then. Kneeling in the snow. The cold that he feels in his fingers now but in his feet, painful at first, then numb. He remembers what he'd felt then, what he hasn't allowed himself to think on except that night, when he'd been forced to. All the time he's wasted here. How easy it was, once it'd happened, to welcome it, to let everything drain out of the punctures in his arm and away from him, and end up here after. But fingers large around his, slicking his hand with blood. The people waiting for him, even now, hoping and needing and waiting while he hasn't sent word for years, while he's here, while he let himself end up here, while he wants to stay here and happy and doing nothing while the desperate people who gave everything for him wait and wait, and wait forever. I'm sorry, baba.
He opens his eyes with a sharp breath, shaking his free hand. In the instant when his mind is too far away to expect it not to, the fire drips away from his hand's movement like water, spilling into the open can with the rest of itself. The light chases the dark back and forth as the can trembles in his unsteady grip, the movement that should be too small to see magnified by the size of the long moving shadows.
But it fits very neatly into the can. He'd intended it to be bigger. He doesn't know if— it's hard to think.
"Francis." His reach for a businesslike tone stretches tightly around what wants to be a shake in his voice. "Is this enough? It should be... bigger. Brighter. I-I think."
Selfish. He's selfish, being here, asking instead of doing, wanting to hear a yes so he can stop at only this instead of making it bigger and brighter and better than it is. He takes an unsteady breath and thinks it and narrows his eyes at the metal in his hand, and the flame in it grows. A little. His fingers are starting to feel the heat.
cw vague vague mention of suicide ideation
Raju realises what he's said the moment it finishes coming out of his mouth. For a moment he doesn't move, eyes on Francis, businesslike expression cracking just long enough for surprise and shame to try showing through. Then he turns, the movements of his hands wrapping the blanket back around him and slinging his things around his back a little less efficient, less graceful and moving more quickly. He picks the can up. He puts the can down and takes out the fingerless gloves he's sewn out from a spare shirt and tugs them on. He reaches out for the can again, then stops and wraps the blanket around his face. Francis will only be able to see his eyes. That's better than nothing.
He tries not to give himself another moment of hesitation, picks the can up quickly, walks with long, fast strides over to where he thinks the right part of the bridge begins. But when he gets there...
For a long, strange moment, Raju is still. His fingers are cold. He realises he's breathing hard. Where's the blank, empty thing that used to make anything like this easy? He's been trying for it, but he realises now it hasn't come. Considering what he's wanting to do, that's probably for the best. His fingers tighten on the can, then loosen, then tighten again. He closes his eyes.
It's always here, isn't it? That's why he dreams of it so much. It must be here. Somewhere.
He frowns. He finds himself shying away from the memories, feeling around their edges in that easier, more familiar way, and not sure how to venture in it any further.
Alright. Something more recent, then. Kneeling in the snow. The cold that he feels in his fingers now but in his feet, painful at first, then numb. He remembers what he'd felt then, what he hasn't allowed himself to think on except that night, when he'd been forced to. All the time he's wasted here. How easy it was, once it'd happened, to welcome it, to let everything drain out of the punctures in his arm and away from him, and end up here after. But fingers large around his, slicking his hand with blood. The people waiting for him, even now, hoping and needing and waiting while he hasn't sent word for years, while he's here, while he let himself end up here, while he wants to stay here and happy and doing nothing while the desperate people who gave everything for him wait and wait, and wait forever. I'm sorry, baba.
He opens his eyes with a sharp breath, shaking his free hand. In the instant when his mind is too far away to expect it not to, the fire drips away from his hand's movement like water, spilling into the open can with the rest of itself. The light chases the dark back and forth as the can trembles in his unsteady grip, the movement that should be too small to see magnified by the size of the long moving shadows.
But it fits very neatly into the can. He'd intended it to be bigger. He doesn't know if— it's hard to think.
"Francis." His reach for a businesslike tone stretches tightly around what wants to be a shake in his voice. "Is this enough? It should be... bigger. Brighter. I-I think."
Selfish. He's selfish, being here, asking instead of doing, wanting to hear a yes so he can stop at only this instead of making it bigger and brighter and better than it is. He takes an unsteady breath and thinks it and narrows his eyes at the metal in his hand, and the flame in it grows. A little. His fingers are starting to feel the heat.