If Francis had seemed unaffected by the idea before, he doesn’t any longer. Like Raju, he only must have been trying not to think about it, and telling him was a cruel thing after all—
But Raju doesn’t have anything in him that can finish the thought, not when he’s seeing — knowing — Raju leaving, the way it would feel, the way the isolation felt for Francis before, the men dying behind him. Being left behind, separate even from the people who find him after. Francis has lost enough already, Raju knew that, but in this moment he knows it and a whine pushes itself out from his throat. Francis understands, of course he does, the way Seetha had understood. Seetha had a whole village behind her and Francis only has what he’s trying not to think of now — what Raju can feel him trying to bury long enough to support Raju, to help him. Francis’ head is resting on Raju’s, Francis’ arm is around him, Francis would let a life he’s built back up in himself fall to ruin a second time without a fight only because Raju needed him to and Raju can cut that whining noise off now because he’s angry and he straightens, half-turning in Francis’ tight hold toward him to grip his shirt, breath shaky but expression fierce. It isn’t Francis the heat of this anger is turned toward, it’s— it’s—
Promise me— A large hand closing around his, slick with blood—
It isn’t anyone. He isn’t angry at anyone. He only is, at the pain, the necessity, the pointless cruelty of needing to and no choice and no hesitation. “I—“
He what? Won’t. Unimaginable. Even now he can’t bear to connect the word to anything. Can’t. Not true. He knows very well what he can do. Can’t bear to. But it hurts less to feel anger burning at the edges of the wound.
“You should have better than that,” he demands instead over the noise and heat of the fireplace behind him, voice low and rough and fierce. “You understand that too, don’t you?”
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But Raju doesn’t have anything in him that can finish the thought, not when he’s seeing — knowing — Raju leaving, the way it would feel, the way the isolation felt for Francis before, the men dying behind him. Being left behind, separate even from the people who find him after. Francis has lost enough already, Raju knew that, but in this moment he knows it and a whine pushes itself out from his throat. Francis understands, of course he does, the way Seetha had understood. Seetha had a whole village behind her and Francis only has what he’s trying not to think of now — what Raju can feel him trying to bury long enough to support Raju, to help him. Francis’ head is resting on Raju’s, Francis’ arm is around him, Francis would let a life he’s built back up in himself fall to ruin a second time without a fight only because Raju needed him to and Raju can cut that whining noise off now because he’s angry and he straightens, half-turning in Francis’ tight hold toward him to grip his shirt, breath shaky but expression fierce. It isn’t Francis the heat of this anger is turned toward, it’s— it’s—
Promise me— A large hand closing around his, slick with blood—
It isn’t anyone. He isn’t angry at anyone. He only is, at the pain, the necessity, the pointless cruelty of needing to and no choice and no hesitation. “I—“
He what? Won’t. Unimaginable. Even now he can’t bear to connect the word to anything. Can’t. Not true. He knows very well what he can do. Can’t bear to. But it hurts less to feel anger burning at the edges of the wound.
“You should have better than that,” he demands instead over the noise and heat of the fireplace behind him, voice low and rough and fierce. “You understand that too, don’t you?”