Raju sits by the slightly-opened door of the boxcar so the smoke can drift out. It isn't thick enough to give them away if any of those odd people are around somewhere watching, particularly not in this dark. He watches the smoke, wondering at how long it's taking to go away while Francis sleeps behind him.
There was a room, he'd set one up in his rooms in the city too, where he could go to move, to feel leather against his fists, to work something out of his body when he needed to. He hasn't needed it in quite this way since he'd ended up in this bizarre place. The fire flares a few times as the world grows sharp. He smells the snow outside, and the musty smell of the rusted metal and dirt inside of the boxcar, and he feels the cold. He pushes up his sleeve to see gooseflesh there, notices his foot tapping. He remembers that he'd been afraid before they'd crossed the bridge — he remembers that he'd said so — and tries to decide whether the fear, or wariness, or whatever it had been had been justified or not. His mind feels uncomfortable, too full.
He breathes. Slow breaths, bringing the bite of the cold into himself, warming it inside his body, pushing it slowly out of his mouth. He tries to think only of that, tries to let everything else inside him flow around it. He starts to look down at the tin to see whether it's working — the smoke would be starting to thin — and Francis whimpers behind him. Raju turns to look at his friend instead, shadows of the real fire inside its barrel lighting up the soft, strong curves of his face.
It's easy to know what's happening, easy to assume. Seetha had had nightmares, too, and old habit has Raju, unthinking just now, setting down the tin and easing over. He studies Francis' expression, raises a hand to smooth it over one side of Francis' brow and into his hair to smooth away the tension there. Habit tells him to touch carefully and gently, to ease into something more firm if the touch goes well, or doesn't seem to do anything at all. He'll have to watch Francis to see. But the touch isn't what it should be; Raju frowns at his hand and then tugs at the fingerless gloves impatiently, pulling the useless things off and tossing them some place behind him, and then smoothing his hand from Francis' brow to his hairline again.
There. The wellbeing that spreads out from Francis' skin to his, like liquid warmth. That's more like touching him should be. Satisfied, Raju settles on his knees, his hand light over Francis' hair, to watch him.
no subject
There was a room, he'd set one up in his rooms in the city too, where he could go to move, to feel leather against his fists, to work something out of his body when he needed to. He hasn't needed it in quite this way since he'd ended up in this bizarre place. The fire flares a few times as the world grows sharp. He smells the snow outside, and the musty smell of the rusted metal and dirt inside of the boxcar, and he feels the cold. He pushes up his sleeve to see gooseflesh there, notices his foot tapping. He remembers that he'd been afraid before they'd crossed the bridge — he remembers that he'd said so — and tries to decide whether the fear, or wariness, or whatever it had been had been justified or not. His mind feels uncomfortable, too full.
He breathes. Slow breaths, bringing the bite of the cold into himself, warming it inside his body, pushing it slowly out of his mouth. He tries to think only of that, tries to let everything else inside him flow around it. He starts to look down at the tin to see whether it's working — the smoke would be starting to thin — and Francis whimpers behind him. Raju turns to look at his friend instead, shadows of the real fire inside its barrel lighting up the soft, strong curves of his face.
It's easy to know what's happening, easy to assume. Seetha had had nightmares, too, and old habit has Raju, unthinking just now, setting down the tin and easing over. He studies Francis' expression, raises a hand to smooth it over one side of Francis' brow and into his hair to smooth away the tension there. Habit tells him to touch carefully and gently, to ease into something more firm if the touch goes well, or doesn't seem to do anything at all. He'll have to watch Francis to see. But the touch isn't what it should be; Raju frowns at his hand and then tugs at the fingerless gloves impatiently, pulling the useless things off and tossing them some place behind him, and then smoothing his hand from Francis' brow to his hairline again.
There. The wellbeing that spreads out from Francis' skin to his, like liquid warmth. That's more like touching him should be. Satisfied, Raju settles on his knees, his hand light over Francis' hair, to watch him.