For a while Raju just breathes, gasping breaths, and he cradles the back of Francis' head, and thinks about holding the tears at bay and nothing else at all. But, like before, time passes no matter what anyone else involved might like, and life — apparently — isn't a play where his dearest friend finishes dying at the most dramatic time.
It's a while before Raju realises that. It doesn't occur to him to wonder how long. It's a while after that before he has to stand. He's cramping, and it hurts. He's going to start twitching soon and jostle Francis and Francis is going to hurt again, that as one of the last things that he feels at the end.
Raju paces. His pacing closes in on the door and he thinks of the things Francis had asked. The things he hadn't had a choice but to stop asking, because Raju couldn't bring himself to agree. Hickey could be doing anything out there. Francis had hoped that Raju would protect the people here from him. Francis had asked him to. He should go. He's supposed to go and help.
Most of the times he reaches the door and pauses, thinking that way, Francis whimpers or sobs or sometimes moans out a name — sometimes Raju's name — and his footsteps move him back that way on his own. Guilt rises sour in his throat, but he doesn't leave. He remembers when he'd wanted to cup Francis' face and stroke his hair during nightmares, and does that instead. Impossible not to try to do something; useless or not, dying or not, he cups Francis' face and feels the sweat pouring down him and finds himself wiping at Francis' skin with cool damp rags, then from there as far under Francis' shirt as he can get with their dwindling supply of soap.
Thoughts have been coming to him here and there, all this time. Conversations they've had. Things they've done. One comes to him now, with the side of his hand brushing the soft skin of Francis' stomach. There'd been just as much pull to touch him then as now, as ever, but particularly then, watching his skin flush red from the hot water.
In a rare quiet, still moment he risks untying the wrapping and removing the padding and lifting the sweat-soaked tunic and putting his hand in front of the deformity of his ribs on the one side. Without that — before it — the line of his chest and waist here had been strong and broad in a way Raju's hadn't been built for, soft in a way Raju couldn't ever allow himself to be. He hadn't touched Francis when he'd had the chance, when he could have felt his friend's warm skin under his without this wrenching grief. He hadn't because... it would have been strange. Would it have been? He'd only wanted—
Raju stands and stalks away, shoving the heels of his hands against his eyes. Those urges have been misfiring since before he met Francis, and plenty of times after, but there's no real place for them here, and certainly isn't a place for them now. This isn't the time.
He paces. He settles back in front of Francis with water and with soap, and cleans the parts of him that he can, hands very controlled and very careful. He wraps Francis' ribs again.
Eventually, despite himself, he starts to hope. He starts setting his hand and wrist against Francis' forehead now and then, and eventually his skin feels cool under Raju's and Raju kneels there with his insides clenching up. Some of that is hunger. The rest...
The side of his face has been too swollen to recognize, this whole time. But it's less, isn't it? The swelling's gone down, if only a little. Raju runs his palm down over it, barely touching. He tries to take a deep, hard breath and it hitches before he can fill his lungs. He holds the emotion down, whatever it is, under the clenching of his throat and shallower, harshly controlled breaths and sits next to Francis, arm careful around the back of his neck. His hand keeps clenching tighter than he wants it to over Francis' shoulder. His other hand takes Francis' in it and he leans his head back against the wall, jaw clenched. He'd dozed for some odd, impossible period of time before Francis had woken up and said those terrible, wrenching things but now he's in that familiar land after exhaustion where energy is odd and flighty in his limbs and his will holds everything else back. He sits there with his side against Francis' and resists the distant pull that comes with sitting down now, feeling Francis' hand in his and not hoping for anything.
no subject
It's a while before Raju realises that. It doesn't occur to him to wonder how long. It's a while after that before he has to stand. He's cramping, and it hurts. He's going to start twitching soon and jostle Francis and Francis is going to hurt again, that as one of the last things that he feels at the end.
Raju paces. His pacing closes in on the door and he thinks of the things Francis had asked. The things he hadn't had a choice but to stop asking, because Raju couldn't bring himself to agree. Hickey could be doing anything out there. Francis had hoped that Raju would protect the people here from him. Francis had asked him to. He should go. He's supposed to go and help.
Most of the times he reaches the door and pauses, thinking that way, Francis whimpers or sobs or sometimes moans out a name — sometimes Raju's name — and his footsteps move him back that way on his own. Guilt rises sour in his throat, but he doesn't leave. He remembers when he'd wanted to cup Francis' face and stroke his hair during nightmares, and does that instead. Impossible not to try to do something; useless or not, dying or not, he cups Francis' face and feels the sweat pouring down him and finds himself wiping at Francis' skin with cool damp rags, then from there as far under Francis' shirt as he can get with their dwindling supply of soap.
Thoughts have been coming to him here and there, all this time. Conversations they've had. Things they've done. One comes to him now, with the side of his hand brushing the soft skin of Francis' stomach. There'd been just as much pull to touch him then as now, as ever, but particularly then, watching his skin flush red from the hot water.
In a rare quiet, still moment he risks untying the wrapping and removing the padding and lifting the sweat-soaked tunic and putting his hand in front of the deformity of his ribs on the one side. Without that — before it — the line of his chest and waist here had been strong and broad in a way Raju's hadn't been built for, soft in a way Raju couldn't ever allow himself to be. He hadn't touched Francis when he'd had the chance, when he could have felt his friend's warm skin under his without this wrenching grief. He hadn't because... it would have been strange. Would it have been? He'd only wanted—
Raju stands and stalks away, shoving the heels of his hands against his eyes. Those urges have been misfiring since before he met Francis, and plenty of times after, but there's no real place for them here, and certainly isn't a place for them now. This isn't the time.
He paces. He settles back in front of Francis with water and with soap, and cleans the parts of him that he can, hands very controlled and very careful. He wraps Francis' ribs again.
Eventually, despite himself, he starts to hope. He starts setting his hand and wrist against Francis' forehead now and then, and eventually his skin feels cool under Raju's and Raju kneels there with his insides clenching up. Some of that is hunger. The rest...
The side of his face has been too swollen to recognize, this whole time. But it's less, isn't it? The swelling's gone down, if only a little. Raju runs his palm down over it, barely touching. He tries to take a deep, hard breath and it hitches before he can fill his lungs. He holds the emotion down, whatever it is, under the clenching of his throat and shallower, harshly controlled breaths and sits next to Francis, arm careful around the back of his neck. His hand keeps clenching tighter than he wants it to over Francis' shoulder. His other hand takes Francis' in it and he leans his head back against the wall, jaw clenched. He'd dozed for some odd, impossible period of time before Francis had woken up and said those terrible, wrenching things but now he's in that familiar land after exhaustion where energy is odd and flighty in his limbs and his will holds everything else back. He sits there with his side against Francis' and resists the distant pull that comes with sitting down now, feeling Francis' hand in his and not hoping for anything.