singillatim | Being born again into the sweet morning fog

So it isn't just revenge that Hickey wants, it's...

Well, whatever it is, it's personal. Strange, to see the edges of this long, terrible journey Francis has come out the other end of without being able to see the whole of it, to not see enough of its pieces to understand it in the way that Francis can. But Hickey's been here all this time, and Francis has been here, and nothing has happened yet. So Francis might be right that the danger isn't as immediate as it feels, unless their meeting today changed things.

"How many have you told?" The movement of Raju's hands slows and he leans forward, frowning. "Apart from me? Or how many will he think you've told?"

“Aside from you…” he repeats, eyebrows knitting. It’s difficult to say, he’s hinted to some of the others though never declared it outright. “Aside from you a few of the men might know, but I wasn’t direct with them.”

He hasn’t been direct about anything unless specifically asked. He recalls sobbing in a pew in the church as Harry Goodsir tried to comfort him - he’d been direct and open with the truth then.

“Which he’d assume as much. He may believe I’ve told others, but unless he’s directly confronted he’ll have no proof.”

But when has Hickey needed proof of anything in order to act? Almost never. He goes by quick glances and a lot of assumption.

Edited 2024-05-03 23:34 (UTC)

"You've implied it, so it might come out." Raju's eyes are narrowed, studying Francis. One hand is tight around the other, held still in the position it'd been moving before, Raju too focused on Francis to move it away. Francis might be right, that it isn't urgent— or he might not be. Particularly if the secret Hickey doesn't want known has gotten out at all, even indirectly.

"And the way it sounds, he might go after any of you anyway. But you don't want a fight. Dismantling your memorials could mean he's thinking too much on you already. What's your plan, if he acts?"

Hickey hadn’t known the cairns were his, and that’s what made his reaction all the more concerning. He’d looked delighted, assumed some grand connection between them, and it had been horrifying. Did he want to kill him, fuck him, be his boon companion? Did he want none of those things, or all three?

He’s been asked a question though, and his focus shifts. If he was answering honestly, if Hickey turned his ire towards Crozier, he’d say to let him.

His death had been a long time coming.

“If he goes after Jopson he won’t survive,” he answers, unable to look back at Raju. “Jopson isn’t one to be trifled with, and Little and Goodsir are far too popular to harm and not expect recourse. That would be against his purposes.”

Not looking at Raju doesn't mean that Raju is going to look away. Not now. There are questions about Francis' men, of course, follow up questions, but they don't matter so much as the enormous, inescapable hole in Francis' answer. Raju doesn't miss it. No one would. Raju's awareness of it, his awareness of Francis' manner since he'd come back inside, that odd anger and quiet grief, strings Raju's muscles with uneasy tension, the beginnings of anger stirring hot in his chest.

"And you?" Raju's voice is low, sharp. "What is it you expect to stop him when he comes after you?"

He feels like he’s being scolded, as though Raju’s already heard the answer though he hasn’t said a word otherwise.

“It wouldn’t be a great loss, a hermit in the woods.” He can’t quite look at his friend as he says this. “The men would be upset, but I should have always been the one to die, not them.”

Hickey had been absolutely spot on there.

If Francis was looking he'd see Raju's eyes wide, his jaw tight. He'll be able to hear, at least, Raju's breath: hard and angry, a little faster. It had seemed like Francis didn't have much of a plan, for someone who'd known about the danger for so long already, but he'd been more angry at the disturbed memorials than concerned over the threat. Like someone who was prepared, as Raju had been assuming, or—

—or like someone who's resigned. No wonder his 'plan' to protect the rest of his men amounted to nothing more than vague expectations. And the plan that Francis had for himself was to die.

Raju hears his breath in his nose, and feels it in his chest. He feels his heart beating there. There's a sharp feeling in every part of him, and he remembers all at once how it had felt to be pacing inside the Community Hall, when the bed he'd slept on there had still been the closest thing he'd had to home, and for the boy to ask that tentative question, and to turn and see the fire he'd been leaving behind him eating its way into the wood. That had felt the same way, and feeling his heart beating too hard outside that same building hearing the fire raging too close to it had felt the same way, and Raju knows that if he moves, if he gestures too carelessly—

He closes his eyes. His jaw is still tight. His breaths come abruptly still, but he's forcing them to last longer than they were. He doesn't know if it's going to work. One hand reaches out, knowing by now exactly where the edge of the fireplace is and finding it, holding onto it as tightly as his fingers can grip. He doesn't know what it is he's feeling — anger, some of it must be anger — but he knows how dangerous it can be. There isn't room for thinking about anything else. Nothing that Raju's just learned, nothing Francis has only just told him, though he must have known it the entire time that Raju's been living with him here—

No. No. The feeling of the brick under his hand. The necessary emptiness in his mind, empty of everything that's eating into the walls at its edges. The breath in his nose. The feeling of his teeth pressed hard against each other.

Behind the small, real fire already burning there, smoke begins to rise from nothing, with nothing burning visibly underneath it. In the right place at least, in the fireplace, despite not a great loss, despite everything the words had ignited inside of him that doesn't bear looking at just now, and doesn't bear naming at all. Raju doesn't know that it's happening yet, his eyes are still squeezed tightly closed. The rough texture of the fireplace under his hand, that's the only thing he can allow into his thoughts right now. Not anything that he might see. Not Francis looking away from him that way.

In terms of reaction Crozier isn't married to one option over another: there's as much a chance that Raju will grab him by the shirt and shake him violently as there is that Raju will talk his ear off about this not being a viable plan and they need to discuss his options. He should have expected Raju to become so upset that spirals into one of his episodes, but hindsight is 20/20.

The bricks are meant to hold intense heat, but Raju's hold on the fireplace still causes the air to warp into visible waves. Crozier starts forward, worrying immediately overtaking the sleepy severity of his admission to him.

"Raju-"

His hand hovers over his shoulder. In the weeks prior he'd experimented with ways to pull Raju out of these trances, the unstable emotions that lead to the violence emergence of the flames. Water on the head is messy but effective, a rough shake to the shoulder typically works but is dangerous, and yelling -- well, yelling hasn't done the trick yet.

He decides to try it again anyway, coupled with the hand on him. He watches the grimace, the pained attempt to calm his breathing, and then grabs his arm and squeezes. "Raju!"

The pressure on his arm, the volume, sees Raju's grimace tightening and the grip of his one hand, the fist of the other clenched into the leg of his trousers both tightening. He opens his eyes. He sees the smoke. He feels his breath. He smells the smoke, like he had on that night outside when Francis had refused to leave, had cemented Raju's regard for him into something unshakable, had taken Raju into the warmth of his home and known the entire time, the entire time, that once the danger came, he's still just going to let—

Embers glow in the ash at the base of the smoke. Raju watches it. He notices his other hand, notices the fabric bunched between his fingers and lets go long enough to lurch that one over to the fireplace too and grip and he leans forward, head bowed, breathing.

"You can't." He swallows, breathes. Francis isn't looking away from him now. He can tell that out of the corner of his eye. He has to tell him, but he has to control this, so he speaks without thinking too much on the words and they come out hard, hard with something desperate, something disdainful both by turns trying to creep out from underneath it. "You're going to give up. This whole time, your plan was to give up."

His mouth runs dry, a mix of the rising smoke and the stare, both of them accusatory and heated. He doesn’t try to dip his head or turn away - it would make things worse, and Raju already thinks he’s been cowardly.

“No,” he says, shaking his head with a soft cough down towards the floor. “No, not-”

Not the whole time, he wants to argue. He didn’t know Hickey’s plan until this very night, he didn’t understand the level of his madness, he couldn’t fathom the continued obsession -

But it is a betrayal. It’s a betrayal to his friend, his passivity of his own wellbeing being threatened. And he’d put Raju in danger, which is horrific. Unthinkable. Selfish. He’d insisted on Raju staying with him, unwittingly bringing him into the middle of this mess.

He pulls his hand away and sits back on his knees. He can’t refute him.

Even now, Raju had expected to push, and push, and push. He always has. And Francis always surprises him. Francis doesn't argue his own position, not with anything more than a soft, simple negation, cutting itself off before whatever the point had been could even be made. If there was one. He feels Francis' hand moving off of him, sees Francis sitting back, backing away from whatever he'd been about to say or from whatever he sees in Raju's face without fighting for it. He knows Francis can fight. He'd fought for the lives of his men, even if it had been a fight he'd lost. And then, after losing, he'd looked Raju in the face and said— he'd said, and we go on, gentle, and beaten in the kind of fight that Raju, even for a second, should never have allowed himself to lose, and still meaning it somehow. Raju feels the ghost of Francis hand against his face, his thumb moving over Raju's cheek. Raju remembers looking up at him.

The memory, now, does anything but soften him.

"'No'," he repeats, focusing on the fireplace. He has to focus on it. There's definitely anger now, at least, running alongside and through all the other unnamed things he can't allow to fuel the fire that isn't, the embers glowing there, the smoke. His voice is as hard edged and harshly controlled as his gaze into the fireplace but he still has to speak, has to push into the place that Francis won't. "Not what. What is it you meant before? 'Wouldn't be a great loss', what did that mean, if I'm wrong?"

Crozier doesn’t see anger directed at him for the self-loathing, but instead anger toward involving Raju in the first place. It takes his own words being fired back at him for him to truly see how being so flippant might have angered his friend.

He frowns, listening to the crackling of the fire for any changes. Raju’s fierce scowl would have been enough, but the fire definitely lends itself to his rage.

“It means that the void I leave would be minor,” he tells him, voice steady but small. “I don’t mean…not in terms of significance. But I would die to keep the peace, if it ensures you and the others wouldn’t be harmed. It would be the least I could do for the men I couldn’t save.”

It's strange, how small Francis' voice is. He doesn't argue, he doesn't push. He's a strong man but the way he answers now, steady though it is, makes Raju feel as if he could knock Francis over without even trying to. Seetha had always told him he pushed too hard, played too rough with the other boys, who weren't bold enough to push back at him in the way she always had. At least, when they were young.

He can't back away, regardless of anything else. Not from this.

It's too hard to think past holding everything else back. He's managing it. There's nothing more than the smoke, the embers. The fire Raju had started before all this crackles away, growing only in the normal way on the other side of the fireplace. It's taking a good deal of his willpower to keep his mind even this empty, forcibly empty, to keep the rest of it at bay, to talk like t his. It takes him a moment to think about anything outside the way Francis sounds. He closes his eyes. "That's your entire plan?" His voice is strung tight, trying to sound steady. "To die?"

More tumbles out his mouth before he knows it's coming. "'We live with it, as best we're able. We go on.' That's what you said to me." He'd tried to remember later, written that part of the night down. That one part, only those words. He remembers them without looking now. He opens his eyes. He looks down at the tight grip of his hands, gaze darting up to the fireplace beyond, sees the embers are a little brighter than they were. He realises his breathing is still rough, or maybe it's rough again. He hadn't been paying attention. "Do you remember? You had your hand on my face. You sounded like you meant it."

Once again, his own words used against him. He’d meant it then though, and he still believes in it. “The best we’re able,” he repeats, nodding.

He doesn’t see how the two sentiments need to be at odds. What if the best he’s able is to one day die? What if that’s how his journey of penance and redemption and grief ends?

Crozier looks between the fire and Raju’s hand, then covers his fingers with his own, scraping them against the brick underneath. “Of course I’d meant it. We do our best to live with what we’re given. We try to go on. It’s all we can do, try.”

He tries to squeeze his hand, though the angle is awkward, Raju’s anger still repelling softness. “I suppose that’s where I’ve failed. I don’t know how to try. It’s all well-and-good when the grief is peaceful, but when the past is violent? I don’t want more violence. I couldn’t stand it.”

Raju doesn't know what to do with the hand around his. Not when Francis is saying yes, I'm going to go on now and well, if he comes after me I'm just going to die earlier as if the two are the same. Raju can't do anything with it. He'd have to decide how he felt first. If he's going to keep control over himself now, there isn't room for that kind of uncertainty.

Then Francis explains. The embers flare brightly again, and Raju feels his heart beating. The grip of his hands tightening slips the thumb of that one hand around Francis' palm, as if Raju was trying to grip him back, and Raju allows it. A part of him does want to, and it's happening, and there's no room for uncertainty here, and so he accepts it.

It isn't who Francis is. He's a peaceful man. Raju knows that. Raju already knows that. That isn't the reason to be angry at him. There are better ones.

"There's room between violence and giving up. Strategies, preparation, plans. You know that. You're too smart not to know that. I know it feels..." He trails off, realising where the part of him that wants to speak, with the parts that usually would guide the rest so focused elsewhere, is about to take him to. But it needs to be said. Doesn't it?

Raju doesn't have it in him to second guess it. He forces his breath slower once, then again, bows his head, finds his gaze catching on Francis' hand and has to look away from it, eyes intent on anything else. His voice comes out matter of fact, the way that it has to right now. "I know it's... a relief. To give up. I know it—"

The crackling of flames grows abruptly louder than it should be. Raju moves his gaze. It'd be an odd sight, if any part of him could afford right now to marvel at anything: flames grow underneath the smoke and abruptly shrink again and disappear, appear and shrink again as he forces back the awareness of anything behind his words. The smoke is thicker, but it's in the fireplace still, and going up the chimney, not a worry right now.

It's still important. Force it out.

"I know it feels..." Finding the right word is hard. Maybe it doesn't exist. Anything would be hard, a shame that would be easy to bury if he could just move away from it, keep doing what he should have kept doing as if he'd never faltered at all.

The right word isn't there. A true one is. Say it anyway. "...better. Better afterward. But I— But you can't give in yet. You can't. Not when people are counting on you. They need you to try."

...does he know it? Crozier looks stunned, mind unable to wrap around the concept of this man somehow feeling this way for as long as it takes Raju to struggle through the rest of his thought.

Raju knows how it feels. That's unacceptable.

Of course he's a hypocrite, perfectly content to be outraged by someone else's lack of value in themselves and seeing nothing worthwhile about himself. He knows this. He's perfectly well-aware that his mind's never produced a linear thought between his achievements as a man and his own deep sense of self-loathing. It's unacceptable that Raju should feel the same, or indeed that anyone he cherishes should feel that way about themselves.

His hand pulls away from Raju's, untangling the odd knot they'd managed to weave, but slides it back up to Raju's shoulder to hold him.

He thinks he understands why it's so easy for him to just give in. "When I was alone...it was easier. My mind...sometimes it still thinks that way. I still see myself as being alone. I fight it, you know, any little bit of happiness. I always have."

Pressing everything away to the corners of his mind makes it hard; Francis understood, knew what it meant to have to go on anyway and he was doing it, even after the kind of failure Raju can't bear to imagine. He understood. And then he didn't. Planning to let himself die, to give up. This... it takes Raju's strained mind a moment to figure out where to place this new thing alongside the rest.

The edge of the brick biting into his hands is reassuring, reminds him that he's in control while he's trying to figure out whether what Raju knows, what he'd managed to share of that shameful thing he'd never expected to speak, had gotten through to Francis in any real way. He watches the fire, chest still rising and falling in sudden, abrupt movements with his breath, reminding himself that he hadn't gotten to fail after all, that he's alive to keep going. He'd promised his father, that night on his knees in the snow, that he would.

He waits, but the thought doesn't ease the pressure as much as he expects it to, the flames still needing his will to press them back down. No point in trying to calm himself that way, then. No point in worrying about why.

He looks over at Francis instead. Any little bit of happiness, he thinks.

"You don't always." These words come out in a low, rough contrast to his halting, pressed-flat ones of a moment before. He feels Francis' hand on his shoulder, and the way he'd tried to wrap it around Raju's even though Raju had been gripping the brick tight like he'd wanted to crush it. Francis had done those things and wanted to leave him, wanted to give up on all of it, at the same time. "You don't fight it all the time. You asked me to stay."

As though this hasn’t been enough of a thorough beating, Raju shoots an arrow right through his chest. He feels it hit his mark with a ‘thud’, physically jolting as though he’d actually been struck and it all hadn’t been some kind of metaphor.

He doesn’t always, and having Raju here now is the proof.

Crozier holds a little tighter to his shoulder, fingers finding purchase in his shirt.

He’s allowed himself this indulgence, the pretense of only looking after his friend’s health now stripped away and revealing…what? What is it that Raju sees now?

“You caught me,” he says quietly. “I wanted your company. I don’t always turn from it.” But he feels like he should, he’s just too weak sometimes to do it. “I’m sorry, Raju. Forgive me, I-

“I don’t know what it is that I want, or if wanting is even allowed.” It’s not, he’s fairly sure. His brow furrows as he watches Raju’s knuckles turn white. “I give sensible advice but don’t know how to apply it to myself.”

“It’s not about want, is it? Wanting to go, or stay. Or give up. It isn’t about what we want.” Confidence is Raju’s normal state, even at a time like this there’s some of it in the way he speaks, but he sounds less like he’s stating a fact and more like he’s thinking through it. Francis’ brow isn’t the only one that’s furrowed now.

The idea of happiness effects Francis in a way that Raju doesn’t quite understand. The way that he’d jolted when Raju had pointed it out, that he’d chased after his own happiness at least once, that was significant in a way Raju isn’t sure if he grasps. If only he didn’t have to spare so much for holding everything inside him back, if only he could think.

Francis’ allowing himself to give up that way was a betrayal, a lantern in thick fog doused very suddenly in front of Raju, when he’d been counting on the light. But Francis is explaining now, listening to Raju, and that must mean there’s some room for negotiation there. That helps. And… Well, seeing the complete way that Francis’ will has failed him here, the complete way that the man himself has failed to pull enough of that will together afterward to try at all to keep himself safe, something about it is making the lingering burn of Raju’s own shame ease back a little.

If Francis needed Raju to light that lantern and hold it out instead, he thinks that could be alright.

Raju thinks these thoughts, and the sudden growing and shrinking of the flames slows. They ease into a smaller shape, and their movement almost looks natural.

His hands are still tight over the brick, but it’s a little easier to think. He tries to. Happiness, that’s what Francis seems to be hanging his will to go on onto. Wanting to. It isn’t a very stable way to hang anything, not half so much as need and duty, but the landscape after losing everything, the people counting on you long beyond the place where any goal or any amount of determination could save them, must look very different. For all Francis has said he wants to overcome his fear so he can help these people, most of them aren’t his people, and he’s determined that the ones who were don’t need him any more. Maybe whether or not Francis wants to keep going is all he has left.

“What about what I want? Would you take advice from me, do you think?”

It isn’t about what they want, it’s what others want of them. That’s always how it’s been. His life had never been his own, but that’s a choice he’d made when he’d become an officer.

He pulls his hand back completely, separating them and letting Raju have this moment on his own.

“Of course I’d listen.”

And he would try, but he’s old and the melancholy is in the marrow. Lord knows he’s always wanted to be wanted, wanted to be cared for, but wanting is a whole different beast than getting.

He looks down at his scarred wrist, thinking about the advice he couldn’t take from Silna.

“Of course.”

Raju looks away from the fire, studying Francis’ face, making sure that he remembers what to say.

“Staying with you has helped me,” he says, voice as sharp and intent as his stare is, looking at Francis’ face as if he could move his own belief into Francis’ head by force of will. “And I think it’s helped you, too. I know it has.”

He pulls one hand away from the brick — oddly difficult to do, and it aches when he lets go, and he’ll bother to notice that properly later — and grasps the hand that Francis pulled back, and holds Francis’ palm against his cheek. While he isn’t looking at it, while he’s looking at Francis’ face and feeling these things, the smoke curling up the fireplace thins and its fire burns steady and bright.

“I wish you’d stay,” he says, and then he holds Francis hand that way, and waits. In the moments after there’s something uncertain, now, underneath Raju’s intent gaze. His jaw is set, and his chest moves with small, quick breaths. His eyes dart over Francis’ face.

He doesn’t think —

No, there’s nothing more to it, he doesn’t think, he can’t possibly think, how does Raju expect him to think? That isn’t advice, that’s just - it’s a want.

It’s a want, he wants him to stay, if only for his sake. Crozier doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s been asked to leave by the people he loves and trusts, sent off to all ends of the earth, but never asked to stay before. Never. He feels his breath also start to catch in his throat, caught between tears and god knows what else. Something best not named, even though he feels it pooling in his chest.

When he is able to react it’s slow, thumb brushing over Raju’s cheek, fingers feeling the edge of his neatly-trimmed beard. It should be grounding, but of course it does the opposite. He finds himself tipping forward slowly, ever-so-slowly, leaning in until he can feel the warmth of Raju’s stuttering breaths on his nose.

And then he turns slightly, nose brushing against Raju’s cheek softly. A kunik, but of course not done to any sort of fidelity or with any kind of reverence for tradition. A Netsilik mother might look at him like he’s lost his ever-loving mind, and maybe he has, but it feels like the right thing to do.

He hears him, and where words fail he hopes the kunik will help make Raju understand. He’s helped in unimaginable ways; he doesn’t want to leave him or this place quite yet. Hickey and all those memories drain him, but Raju makes him feel.

He feels Francis' thumb move over his cheek, his beard, and it's a relief. This means something to him then, something personal. Maybe something that will convince him to stay, to fight that treacherous relief inside of him, when he needs to do it, to stay. But the parts of himself that Francis lost when his purpose and his men all died have left him fragile in a way that, unsettlingly, Raju isn't certain how to deal with. Francis doesn't know how to try, he'd said.

Raju will have to keep watching him. He watches him now. He feels the thumb moving; he sees Francis moving forward slowly, agonisingly slow, until they're close to breathe each other's breath. Unregarded, the formerly steady fire flickers and twists around itself. Raju's eyes hold on Francis' until Francis turns his head, brushes his nose against Raju's cheek.

Raju feels his breath moving between his parted lips. He feels his heart beating. He feels the usual happy, relieved warmth lighting up through him at someone he regards this way being so close, and the fear he hadn't known to feel before for Francis' safety, not from strange, dangerous men but from inside of himself, and relief that this means something to Francis and worry that he doesn't understand enough of what it means to make it effective enough, and—

—and some number of other unnamed things. But the named ones are enough to be getting on with, and he should be focusing on Francis now. And on the fire, the fireplace, the one hand clenching the brick keeping it there. He wants to lift it, wrap it around Francis' back as if that would hold the too-fragile parts of his friend together. It feels gentle and steady, the urge to protect, and he knows in some strange, deep down way that the fire isn't a danger now in the way that it was And so he risks it, ignores the ache of moving his hand out of its long, tense grip and wraps his arm over Francis' back. He turns his face some minute amount further toward Francis' and knows without seeing that the fire is moving into a loose circle of small, steady flames around them.

He waits a beat, then another, heart stuttering while his breath sticks in his lungs. If this were a real kunik he’d inhale and try to press Raju’d scent into his skin, smoke and whatever soap he’d found to keep himself tidy in this godforsaken place, and leave a little of himself behind, pine and fur and god knows whatever else. But it isn’t a real kunik, just a facsimile, and he waits for Raju to respond the light touch hoping he hadn’t just gone one step too far.

He isn’t rejected but instead embraced, and despite feeling the overwhelming need to sob he somehow gets both arms around Raju to hold him back. His head dips - their mouths are close, it’s too tempting and he knows he’s nowhere strong enough - and he drops it onto Raju’s shoulder.

He’s vaguely aware of the heat of the fire, but his eyes are closed now, squeezed shut tight despite the very genuine, very open expression that had been on Raju’s face.

Francis dropping his head onto Raju’s shoulder confirms that fragile feeling, that the part of Francis that he’s been let to see is fragile, and as Francis moves his hand away from Raju’s cheek to hold onto him, Raju moves the hand that’d been holding there around Francis’ back, too. He leans his face against Francis’ hair, turns his head to feel it move against his skin, and feels the whole of the taller, stouter man leaning against him, trusting Raju to hold him up, and holding all of him up feels easy. He thinks he could fight off any number of dangers for this man, if only that would help.

But bizarre, unscrupulous men or wild animals or even the monsters this place can sometimes produce, fighting those is easy. Simple, anyway, in their way. Fighting what’s inside of himself long enough to do what needs to be done is… doable. He can do it. But he can’t reach inside of Francis and do it for him.

Maybe holding him like this feels like Raju’s holding him together to Francis, too. He hasn’t ever held a man this way. A boy, when he was a boy, but that was in another life. Then Seetha, what feels like a very long time ago. Maybe it would feel strange to do this for anyone else but for Francis, who needs it, it doesn’t feel strange at all. It feels like keeping him safe. The fire that lights inside his chest is strong enough to fuel the one around them for a while, but Raju isn’t worried about it. The floor it’s burning on top of is strong, and Raju’s will is, too; he’s prepared to stay this way as long as Francis needs him to.

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cw: suicidal thoughts

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cw suicide ideation-ish?

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