Francis is looking up at him so Raju looks up too, his frown carrying a hint of irritation now. “What on Earth are you apologizing for?”
But Francis was being kind. If Raju was… himself, he wouldn’t be irritated that Francis was being kind. Irritation hasn’t ever been the wrong thing before. To superior officers it could be turned into impatience to act, which is forgivable, and the inferior officers had always deserved it.
Raju squeezes his eyes closed, raising the heel of his hand— not that hand, that hand is dirty now, he’ll have to let go of Francis instead. There. —to rub it hard over his brow, as if that will clear anything up at all. But he doesn’t have to act as an officer should, or as a husband should, or anything else with Francis, does he? He doesn’t have to find a way to make it happen, he can just say it, and Francis will help.
“We can talk later. I can talk to you later. I can’t, I can’t, ah… I feel…” But there isn’t a way to explain it, is there?
“I feel strange,” he says, voice very quiet, a little defeated. He only realises it when he reaches for them, he doesn’t have the words. The hand that’d been digging into the mud clenches, the nails pressing into his palm not quite as good as the cold had been over his fingers, then relaxes his fist so he can clench it again. “I can’t talk to you like this. I want to do it right. You deserve more than this, but I can’t… I can’t think yet.”
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But Francis was being kind. If Raju was… himself, he wouldn’t be irritated that Francis was being kind. Irritation hasn’t ever been the wrong thing before. To superior officers it could be turned into impatience to act, which is forgivable, and the inferior officers had always deserved it.
Raju squeezes his eyes closed, raising the heel of his hand— not that hand, that hand is dirty now, he’ll have to let go of Francis instead. There. —to rub it hard over his brow, as if that will clear anything up at all. But he doesn’t have to act as an officer should, or as a husband should, or anything else with Francis, does he? He doesn’t have to find a way to make it happen, he can just say it, and Francis will help.
“We can talk later. I can talk to you later. I can’t, I can’t, ah… I feel…” But there isn’t a way to explain it, is there?
“I feel strange,” he says, voice very quiet, a little defeated. He only realises it when he reaches for them, he doesn’t have the words. The hand that’d been digging into the mud clenches, the nails pressing into his palm not quite as good as the cold had been over his fingers, then relaxes his fist so he can clench it again. “I can’t talk to you like this. I want to do it right. You deserve more than this, but I can’t… I can’t think yet.”