He didn’t do it right. He still didn’t do it right. Raju presses the heels of both hands into his eyes, remembers about the mud too late and doesn’t care, lets out a frustrated noise with his breath. Francis is gone now and Raju got it wrong, but he’s never been any good at giving up anyway. He stands up in one sudden movement, takes long, quick strides to the door, but then pauses there, looking back.
He won’t bring the smoke in with him, will he? It doesn’t feel like it’s attached to him now, any of it. So maybe it will stay there.
He closes the door behind himself, watching Francis. He walks halfway to the table and stops. He doesn’t know what expression is on his face. Probably nothing, feeling strange like this. But strange in a more familiar way; everything in front of him is distant, but not so distant as it was. It all feels a little unreal, but not like a film isn’t real. Only separate from him. He thinks the irritation might have helped. Or maybe being close to Francis had helped. One of those is going to help Francis, at least, more than the other, so he knows what route he’ll be going with.
“The last time I felt…” He isn’t sure what word to use. He wants to be closer to Francis, so he walks the rest of the distance there. Francis’ hand is just there, so Raju wraps his own around it. “…off, like this. Almost like this. You washed my hair. I think that would help this time, too. I want to tell you… everything I should have, a moment ago, but I want to do it right. At home I’d train for a while, that helps, but when you—“
He stops, frowning at his hand. When he pulls it away from Francis’ it leaves mud behind. “The wrong hand…” he mutters to himself. His hand darts toward his trousers and stops, the instinct not to dirty them for something like this strong even when he’s been kneeling in the dirt already. His hand moves toward the blanket wrapped around him, but the same thing stops him. His hand hovers uncertainly in the air. There’s mud on his knees and on his face, and on his hand still, and on Francis’ hand now, damn it.
“I’m sorry, I’m still not… thinking, I should have…”
no subject
He won’t bring the smoke in with him, will he? It doesn’t feel like it’s attached to him now, any of it. So maybe it will stay there.
He closes the door behind himself, watching Francis. He walks halfway to the table and stops. He doesn’t know what expression is on his face. Probably nothing, feeling strange like this. But strange in a more familiar way; everything in front of him is distant, but not so distant as it was. It all feels a little unreal, but not like a film isn’t real. Only separate from him. He thinks the irritation might have helped. Or maybe being close to Francis had helped. One of those is going to help Francis, at least, more than the other, so he knows what route he’ll be going with.
“The last time I felt…” He isn’t sure what word to use. He wants to be closer to Francis, so he walks the rest of the distance there. Francis’ hand is just there, so Raju wraps his own around it. “…off, like this. Almost like this. You washed my hair. I think that would help this time, too. I want to tell you… everything I should have, a moment ago, but I want to do it right. At home I’d train for a while, that helps, but when you—“
He stops, frowning at his hand. When he pulls it away from Francis’ it leaves mud behind. “The wrong hand…” he mutters to himself. His hand darts toward his trousers and stops, the instinct not to dirty them for something like this strong even when he’s been kneeling in the dirt already. His hand moves toward the blanket wrapped around him, but the same thing stops him. His hand hovers uncertainly in the air. There’s mud on his knees and on his face, and on his hand still, and on Francis’ hand now, damn it.
“I’m sorry, I’m still not… thinking, I should have…”