The British saw the officer, of course, A. Rama Raju; the superior officers and their families must have loved one another, but they certainly didn’t love him. They only saw what he could do. They saw the officer with the hard face and the spotless uniform, and they used him.
The people at home, they saw a hero. They saw Rama and they loved him, loved their savior when he encouraged them to keep hoping and keep living and keep waiting for the day when their great hope Rama would win them weapons so they could finally fight, and then win them their freedom. They love the man who keeps himself strong, and keeps them strong, and so soothes their fear and their rage and their hope and their need.
Francis sees the man. Francis needs… well, only a man. The man that he is. Francis watches everyday acts and sees, somehow, something extraordinary. The spectacular act of heroism Francis needed was Raju going quietly to his knees in front of the monuments to Francis’ grief, and staying with him after; Francis’ great need is only for Raju, not as an empty soldier or a larger than life hero or an upright and faultless husband, some source of unyielding force and unending strength. But as a man. That’s what’s so monumental to Francis to send those tears down his cheeks now.
Raju’s throat hurts a little. It’s everything, it’s all of it, but the thing that trips him over into tears is Francis’ own, some kind of permission there, and Raju feels Francis’ forehead against his own, and lets out a hard, rough breath, voice thick with their tears. “I love you, Francis. Everything that you are.”
His breath hitches and he smiles on the hard exhale, corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thank you.”
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The people at home, they saw a hero. They saw Rama and they loved him, loved their savior when he encouraged them to keep hoping and keep living and keep waiting for the day when their great hope Rama would win them weapons so they could finally fight, and then win them their freedom. They love the man who keeps himself strong, and keeps them strong, and so soothes their fear and their rage and their hope and their need.
Francis sees the man. Francis needs… well, only a man. The man that he is. Francis watches everyday acts and sees, somehow, something extraordinary. The spectacular act of heroism Francis needed was Raju going quietly to his knees in front of the monuments to Francis’ grief, and staying with him after; Francis’ great need is only for Raju, not as an empty soldier or a larger than life hero or an upright and faultless husband, some source of unyielding force and unending strength. But as a man. That’s what’s so monumental to Francis to send those tears down his cheeks now.
Raju’s throat hurts a little. It’s everything, it’s all of it, but the thing that trips him over into tears is Francis’ own, some kind of permission there, and Raju feels Francis’ forehead against his own, and lets out a hard, rough breath, voice thick with their tears. “I love you, Francis. Everything that you are.”
His breath hitches and he smiles on the hard exhale, corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thank you.”