The horror of having allowed I don’t want into reality, into words, using those words to find excuses, of having tried even for a moment to convince a moral, dutiful man to hand him even a hint at those excuses to hide himself away from what has to be is starting to sink into him. A faithless, arrogant son, he knows, to avoid what his father’s ordered, a weak coward to want to ignore the needs of so many who—
There are thoughts in his mind a little ways behind those, running alongside them in parallel spiraling lines. These thoughts aren’t quick and sharp and hot; they aren’t his. Raju’s breathing quiets abruptly, still quick and shaky but startled away from whatever it’d been moving into. He’s a coward, the slow certainty that isn’t his had said, and a little of the distress twisting Raju’s face turns to focus as he tries to listen, pay enough attention to notice the rest of it. Selfish, the thought goes on, more of that bizarre paralleling of Raju’s own. Selfish, he knows, to want Raju — Rama, isn’t it, for Francis he’s Rama — to stay for himself, for always, when he doesn’t have anything to offer, too old, too… too something Raju can’t quite catch, not enough somehow, offering only something worse. And then Francis follows that one with a thought that must be purposeful, one Raju feels and has to close his eyes against the pain and the beauty of it.
He pulls just far enough back from Francis to look at his face with a steadying breath in through his nose. His expression is focused and determined; Francis’ face is blurry for a moment through the tears caught in Raju’s eyelashes until he blinks them away, lifting his chin for a closer-to-even look into Francis’ eyes. “You can say that and not know? It isn’t just that I don’t— that it’s going to be… hard to be there again. What don’t you have to offer me, Francis? You’ve given me everything.”
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2025-02-15 08:20 pm (UTC)There are thoughts in his mind a little ways behind those, running alongside them in parallel spiraling lines. These thoughts aren’t quick and sharp and hot; they aren’t his. Raju’s breathing quiets abruptly, still quick and shaky but startled away from whatever it’d been moving into. He’s a coward, the slow certainty that isn’t his had said, and a little of the distress twisting Raju’s face turns to focus as he tries to listen, pay enough attention to notice the rest of it. Selfish, the thought goes on, more of that bizarre paralleling of Raju’s own. Selfish, he knows, to want Raju — Rama, isn’t it, for Francis he’s Rama — to stay for himself, for always, when he doesn’t have anything to offer, too old, too… too something Raju can’t quite catch, not enough somehow, offering only something worse. And then Francis follows that one with a thought that must be purposeful, one Raju feels and has to close his eyes against the pain and the beauty of it.
He pulls just far enough back from Francis to look at his face with a steadying breath in through his nose. His expression is focused and determined; Francis’ face is blurry for a moment through the tears caught in Raju’s eyelashes until he blinks them away, lifting his chin for a closer-to-even look into Francis’ eyes. “You can say that and not know? It isn’t just that I don’t— that it’s going to be… hard to be there again. What don’t you have to offer me, Francis? You’ve given me everything.”