“No it isn’t.” Raju’s answer is low and quick, instant on the heels of Francis’ quiet, mournful acceptance. Some part of him knows that Francis must be right to accept it, that Raju should keep accepting it too, but all of it hurts too much to bear being calm about it. “It isn’t!” he goes on, shaking at the fabric in his hands as if shaking the man himself. “You should have better than this! How is it right that I, I have to—“
Raju stares at him, jaw set stubbornly and brow drawn, but dread creeping into the look in his eyes. He has the sense of teetering on some ledge, outstretched arms and wobbling balance the only thing keeping him from finishing the thought out loud. Or from having it at all. How is it right, that I have to—
He feels Francis’ shirt wound in his fists. He feels the fire fierce and hot behind him. He sees the room behind Francis, the light and dark there shifting with the flames. He sees the face of the man he’s built a life with, a strong and handsome face, thin shapely lips and long sloping nose and high forehead, golden hair and blue eyes dark in the room’s deep shadows, and feels his lungs filling quickly with his quick breaths, and doesn’t think about anything else.
“You do,” he insists, still angrily but a little weakly too, now. But it’s safer ground, this part. It’s natural for a man to want to give his— who he’s made his home in every gift that he can think to, whether or not he can actually do it. “You deserve everything. You don’t understand that? The way that I see you?”
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2025-02-10 01:59 am (UTC)Raju stares at him, jaw set stubbornly and brow drawn, but dread creeping into the look in his eyes. He has the sense of teetering on some ledge, outstretched arms and wobbling balance the only thing keeping him from finishing the thought out loud. Or from having it at all. How is it right, that I have to—
He feels Francis’ shirt wound in his fists. He feels the fire fierce and hot behind him. He sees the room behind Francis, the light and dark there shifting with the flames. He sees the face of the man he’s built a life with, a strong and handsome face, thin shapely lips and long sloping nose and high forehead, golden hair and blue eyes dark in the room’s deep shadows, and feels his lungs filling quickly with his quick breaths, and doesn’t think about anything else.
“You do,” he insists, still angrily but a little weakly too, now. But it’s safer ground, this part. It’s natural for a man to want to give his— who he’s made his home in every gift that he can think to, whether or not he can actually do it. “You deserve everything. You don’t understand that? The way that I see you?”