Husband. Raju knows the word has struck Francis in that odd new way of simply feeling it instead of being told; the word repeats itself in Raju’s mind somewhere. The repetition of it brings something calmer and settled in itself closer to the fore even as it hurts.
He and Seetha had held themselves separate from some part of it, hadn’t they? He’s always thought the two of them lived like they were married, but there’s something here they hadn’t had. The shared house is part of it, of course — even if Francis had been a woman there’d be no need to play at chastity with him, at his age. And with Francis there’s no great looming thing appending itself to every word that even hints at any future outside the necessary one, the as if they’re married here not exactly the same kind. Raju isn’t sure just what the difference is, but it’s there. He hadn’t thought almost like when he’d been thinking that moment that’s struck Francis so, hadn’t he? He’d thought himself as Francis’ husband, as simple as that. The fact of it feels settled, long established and true.
He’s going to leave Francis anyway.
He squeezes his eyes shut tighter for a moment, chest tightening, nauseous. But Francis is happy. There’s that much, too: Raju can’t tell Francis that he’s going to stay. But what he could say is a thing that’s made Francis happy.
Husband. Raju finds one of his hands running slowly up and down Francis’ back, realises he’d wanted to do it because touching Francis this way, as if to comfort, is comforting itself, to do it and feel the broad warm back under his hand.
“Husband.” He turns his face far enough from Francis’ head to say it. The word comes out cracked and unsteady; he swallows and settles himself closer to the rush of feeling running through Francis just now and leans back enough to see him, with a smoother teasing voice and a watery smile. “I’m not always sure if it’s the right word. But I like the way it sounds out loud, I think. It really surprises you that much?”
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He and Seetha had held themselves separate from some part of it, hadn’t they? He’s always thought the two of them lived like they were married, but there’s something here they hadn’t had. The shared house is part of it, of course — even if Francis had been a woman there’d be no need to play at chastity with him, at his age. And with Francis there’s no great looming thing appending itself to every word that even hints at any future outside the necessary one, the as if they’re married here not exactly the same kind. Raju isn’t sure just what the difference is, but it’s there. He hadn’t thought almost like when he’d been thinking that moment that’s struck Francis so, hadn’t he? He’d thought himself as Francis’ husband, as simple as that. The fact of it feels settled, long established and true.
He’s going to leave Francis anyway.
He squeezes his eyes shut tighter for a moment, chest tightening, nauseous. But Francis is happy. There’s that much, too: Raju can’t tell Francis that he’s going to stay. But what he could say is a thing that’s made Francis happy.
Husband. Raju finds one of his hands running slowly up and down Francis’ back, realises he’d wanted to do it because touching Francis this way, as if to comfort, is comforting itself, to do it and feel the broad warm back under his hand.
“Husband.” He turns his face far enough from Francis’ head to say it. The word comes out cracked and unsteady; he swallows and settles himself closer to the rush of feeling running through Francis just now and leans back enough to see him, with a smoother teasing voice and a watery smile. “I’m not always sure if it’s the right word. But I like the way it sounds out loud, I think. It really surprises you that much?”