What the hell are you talking about? Francis says and Raju can feel himself frown. He hasn’t thought this through well enough. He’s gotten some of it wrong. It is hard to think this way, isn’t it?
Francis goes on after that, and the more he does the more obvious it becomes to Raju: this is important. It’s important that Francis is feeling whatever it is that he’s feeling now and it’s important that Raju should feel it with him, should feel how important hearing this is instead of only distantly knowing it. Convenient this might be, this separation and distance that makes it possible to voice unthinkable thoughts and its close cousin that he’d felt so often at home makes it possible to do unthinkable things but when Raju wants to have this moment for himself, to push through the fog and smoke between his thoughts and the rest of him to feel the impact of Francis’ confession and to care, he can’t find the way out.
He does feel something, a hint of it. Frustration, or maybe disgust again. Anger is easier. Anger isn’t the thing Francis needs now.
He breathes hard as he tries to push through it and gets a bout of coughing for his trouble. Please don’t go and You’ve made life worth living should mean something, and the blank thing holding himself apart from the rest of him is stealing it.
That odd, out of place tension in his limbs is there still. At home he would use it on a sandbag or weights, to feel something against his hands and in his muscles, to push and push against something until he felt almost right again. There’s none of that here.
The hand sprinkling snow over the flames, that had been Francis’ hand. The hint of a body nearby is enough to remind Raju that Francis’ body is there too, not only his voice, and Raju turns to meet it. Moving is easier than it feels like it should be. But the distant, unreal world doesn’t fall away, and Francis is there.
Frowning, he studies Francis’ face through the smoke, the way his friend is looking at the ground instead of looking up in the way most people would plead. He reaches out to rub the collar of Francis’ shirt between his fingers while he talks, hoping feeling it there will help. His other hand clenches its fingers into the muddy slush next to him, then relaxes so it can dig its fingers into the ground again. It should be cold, and he knows that it is. Feel something.
“I didn’t want to go.” It’s a fact. Facts are what he has. “I thought you would want me to. There are people who agree with you about whoever it is in that forest, about their children. Any of them should be grateful to live with you instead of me.”
He isn’t arguing for or against it. He says it in a voice that’s not arguing, or asking for anything at all. A voice that isn’t doing what it should, to say words that aren’t the words it should. Francis needs something now, and he needs Raju to feel so Raju can figure that something out.
“But I didn’t want to,” he tries again, in lieu of that. His gaze is fixed, now, on his fingers moving back and forth on Francis’ collar. His brows are pulling together in a faint frown, trying to focus hard. Maybe that small feeling in the tips of his fingers there, the bigger one around his other hand, will be enough to start with and bring him back to something else.
no subject
Francis goes on after that, and the more he does the more obvious it becomes to Raju: this is important. It’s important that Francis is feeling whatever it is that he’s feeling now and it’s important that Raju should feel it with him, should feel how important hearing this is instead of only distantly knowing it. Convenient this might be, this separation and distance that makes it possible to voice unthinkable thoughts and its close cousin that he’d felt so often at home makes it possible to do unthinkable things but when Raju wants to have this moment for himself, to push through the fog and smoke between his thoughts and the rest of him to feel the impact of Francis’ confession and to care, he can’t find the way out.
He does feel something, a hint of it. Frustration, or maybe disgust again. Anger is easier. Anger isn’t the thing Francis needs now.
He breathes hard as he tries to push through it and gets a bout of coughing for his trouble. Please don’t go and You’ve made life worth living should mean something, and the blank thing holding himself apart from the rest of him is stealing it.
That odd, out of place tension in his limbs is there still. At home he would use it on a sandbag or weights, to feel something against his hands and in his muscles, to push and push against something until he felt almost right again. There’s none of that here.
The hand sprinkling snow over the flames, that had been Francis’ hand. The hint of a body nearby is enough to remind Raju that Francis’ body is there too, not only his voice, and Raju turns to meet it. Moving is easier than it feels like it should be. But the distant, unreal world doesn’t fall away, and Francis is there.
Frowning, he studies Francis’ face through the smoke, the way his friend is looking at the ground instead of looking up in the way most people would plead. He reaches out to rub the collar of Francis’ shirt between his fingers while he talks, hoping feeling it there will help. His other hand clenches its fingers into the muddy slush next to him, then relaxes so it can dig its fingers into the ground again. It should be cold, and he knows that it is. Feel something.
“I didn’t want to go.” It’s a fact. Facts are what he has. “I thought you would want me to. There are people who agree with you about whoever it is in that forest, about their children. Any of them should be grateful to live with you instead of me.”
He isn’t arguing for or against it. He says it in a voice that’s not arguing, or asking for anything at all. A voice that isn’t doing what it should, to say words that aren’t the words it should. Francis needs something now, and he needs Raju to feel so Raju can figure that something out.
“But I didn’t want to,” he tries again, in lieu of that. His gaze is fixed, now, on his fingers moving back and forth on Francis’ collar. His brows are pulling together in a faint frown, trying to focus hard. Maybe that small feeling in the tips of his fingers there, the bigger one around his other hand, will be enough to start with and bring him back to something else.