No matter how gentle Raju tries to be, the journey back is going to hurt Francis. Both his pride and his body. But he’d put himself through it anyway, when he shouldn’t be traveling at all, has to put himself through it now, just for—
He thinks about how important it is that he bring Francis home safely now. No one else is going to do it. The snow melts in front of their path as Raju pushes, watching the smoke part for Francis like the tip of the wheelbarrow is the bow of a ship, feeling the strain in his arms and chest to keep the wheelbarrow steady, and keeps thinking of how important it is to keep Francis safe now so that the smoke and heat are as gentle with him as Raju himself needs to be, and doesn’t think of anything else.
Once they’re at the cabin he carefully helps Francis out of it and to the door. He sees Francis seated and comfortable. He goes straight outside again, and walks as far from the cabin as he can bear to — not far, while his friend is sitting so vulnerable inside it, just far enough that the cabin won’t catch when everything else around him catches on fire.
It’s a relief to let it go. For a moment he only stands there, fists clenched as the fire grows from nothing around him, as he starts panting and his skin grows hot. He starts pacing, missing the punching bag again, missing his equipment. The flames follow him as he paces in a circle around the cabin, raising something almost like the wall of them he’d raised while Francis had been dying. He might have died, and the useless lot of them would still be sitting back there moralising and applauding all those righteous speeches about how the right and moral thing was to do nothing, absolutely nothing at all, and Francis’ murderer would still have walked just as free.
There’s nothing here that he can hit. Nothing designed for it, and nothing that would help. No one he can go after without condemnation from the very same crowd which thinks itself so righteous for ensuring a community built to keep only the fittest and most deadly of them safe. But there are plenty of trees.
He turns and throws his weight behind his fists at a sturdy one and the impact is almost satisfying so he does it again, and again, and then keeps doing it, and fire begins blooming over the wood after each successive hit. His arms are tired, his hands are sore, he remembers what would have been his friend’s last words, a friend who’d been more caring and profoundly loyal than anyone has ever been, anyone who didn’t need him. Francis doesn’t need him to be anything and never has, has always cared for him anyway, and he would have died, hurt while Raju wasn’t even there, and the town full of people he’d been counting on to be there next time in his stead has turned their back, if it happens like that again they’re going to just let it—
He screams, deep and raw and enraged, and on his next hit fire lights across the tree and through it, and with a drawn out creaking noise, it falls in a spray of snow.
Raju hears his panting breath. He watches fire eating up the length of the tree as it sits there on the ground. He listens to its crackling and realises his arms, held a little up from his body, are trembling, then realises that’s because he’s tired. Tired is good. Tired means it should be safe to go inside now. So he does, trudging to the door, making his way inside, turning slowly and pushing the door closed slowly, noticing the way his knuckles have split as he does it before his gaze catches on the fireplace. There’s fire inside it.
“I forgot to light that before I left you in here,” he realises. His voice scratches in his throat. That would be the yelling. “Or did I… It doesn’t matter. I can make you tea, you must need it after that ride back. How are you feeling?”
no subject
He thinks about how important it is that he bring Francis home safely now. No one else is going to do it. The snow melts in front of their path as Raju pushes, watching the smoke part for Francis like the tip of the wheelbarrow is the bow of a ship, feeling the strain in his arms and chest to keep the wheelbarrow steady, and keeps thinking of how important it is to keep Francis safe now so that the smoke and heat are as gentle with him as Raju himself needs to be, and doesn’t think of anything else.
Once they’re at the cabin he carefully helps Francis out of it and to the door. He sees Francis seated and comfortable. He goes straight outside again, and walks as far from the cabin as he can bear to — not far, while his friend is sitting so vulnerable inside it, just far enough that the cabin won’t catch when everything else around him catches on fire.
It’s a relief to let it go. For a moment he only stands there, fists clenched as the fire grows from nothing around him, as he starts panting and his skin grows hot. He starts pacing, missing the punching bag again, missing his equipment. The flames follow him as he paces in a circle around the cabin, raising something almost like the wall of them he’d raised while Francis had been dying. He might have died, and the useless lot of them would still be sitting back there moralising and applauding all those righteous speeches about how the right and moral thing was to do nothing, absolutely nothing at all, and Francis’ murderer would still have walked just as free.
There’s nothing here that he can hit. Nothing designed for it, and nothing that would help. No one he can go after without condemnation from the very same crowd which thinks itself so righteous for ensuring a community built to keep only the fittest and most deadly of them safe. But there are plenty of trees.
He turns and throws his weight behind his fists at a sturdy one and the impact is almost satisfying so he does it again, and again, and then keeps doing it, and fire begins blooming over the wood after each successive hit. His arms are tired, his hands are sore, he remembers what would have been his friend’s last words, a friend who’d been more caring and profoundly loyal than anyone has ever been, anyone who didn’t need him. Francis doesn’t need him to be anything and never has, has always cared for him anyway, and he would have died, hurt while Raju wasn’t even there, and the town full of people he’d been counting on to be there next time in his stead has turned their back, if it happens like that again they’re going to just let it—
He screams, deep and raw and enraged, and on his next hit fire lights across the tree and through it, and with a drawn out creaking noise, it falls in a spray of snow.
Raju hears his panting breath. He watches fire eating up the length of the tree as it sits there on the ground. He listens to its crackling and realises his arms, held a little up from his body, are trembling, then realises that’s because he’s tired. Tired is good. Tired means it should be safe to go inside now. So he does, trudging to the door, making his way inside, turning slowly and pushing the door closed slowly, noticing the way his knuckles have split as he does it before his gaze catches on the fireplace. There’s fire inside it.
“I forgot to light that before I left you in here,” he realises. His voice scratches in his throat. That would be the yelling. “Or did I… It doesn’t matter. I can make you tea, you must need it after that ride back. How are you feeling?”