What right do I have to something that makes me happy?
Francis has failed, by his own reckoning, an enormous number of people who depended on him. Now all those vulnerable people are dead but he hasn’t put responsibility down, hasn’t run from it and hasn’t so lost himself to the weight of that unbearable failure that he won’t still fight. He fights hard enough, still, to protect those who can’t protect themselves that help them, protect them from him was nearly the last request Francis ever made in this world. He’s an honorable man, even when it’s hard. He’s kind even when he’s frightened of it, afraid not to keep his distance but crossing the space between them anyway, even when they didn’t know one another well, to help. If anyone has the right to happiness anywhere, then Francis does. And Raju can give it to him. Raju and maybe no one else, not here and now, not in this one particular way.
And in some of the other ways, too. He remembers living with Francis all this time. Watching him cook and hunt and share his food, and douse Raju with water so he doesn’t burn the place down in his sleep and then smile at Raju after, as if he doesn’t resent waking that way at all, and listening to Francis’ accent and steady, patient voice spinning long and fascinating stories on long and awful nights, and feeling Francis’ body a solid warm comfort against him while Raju tries and tries and fails to sleep, laying on the blankets near him frightened of the morning and Francis keeping hold of Raju’s hand—
It all crashes into this moment. Francis kisses chastely, like he’s charting some slow and careful course, but there’s too much inside of Raju to do slow or careful and he pushes forward abruptly, realises his grip is still solid on the back of Francis neck and loosens it instinctively, letting the forward motion of his kissing push Francis however it will instead. He opens his mouth and closes it again, opens it and closes it, moving his head like he’s about to bite at Francis’ lip but has to keep resisting the impulse.
There’s the roar of fire somewhere. From the direction of the fireplace, he thinks, and maybe outside the walls. The fabric of the chair is held tight in Raju’s other fist, and he dismisses the roaring sound. If it isn’t inside and in the way, it isn’t the thing here worth devoting his attention to.
no subject
Francis has failed, by his own reckoning, an enormous number of people who depended on him. Now all those vulnerable people are dead but he hasn’t put responsibility down, hasn’t run from it and hasn’t so lost himself to the weight of that unbearable failure that he won’t still fight. He fights hard enough, still, to protect those who can’t protect themselves that help them, protect them from him was nearly the last request Francis ever made in this world. He’s an honorable man, even when it’s hard. He’s kind even when he’s frightened of it, afraid not to keep his distance but crossing the space between them anyway, even when they didn’t know one another well, to help. If anyone has the right to happiness anywhere, then Francis does. And Raju can give it to him. Raju and maybe no one else, not here and now, not in this one particular way.
And in some of the other ways, too. He remembers living with Francis all this time. Watching him cook and hunt and share his food, and douse Raju with water so he doesn’t burn the place down in his sleep and then smile at Raju after, as if he doesn’t resent waking that way at all, and listening to Francis’ accent and steady, patient voice spinning long and fascinating stories on long and awful nights, and feeling Francis’ body a solid warm comfort against him while Raju tries and tries and fails to sleep, laying on the blankets near him frightened of the morning and Francis keeping hold of Raju’s hand—
It all crashes into this moment. Francis kisses chastely, like he’s charting some slow and careful course, but there’s too much inside of Raju to do slow or careful and he pushes forward abruptly, realises his grip is still solid on the back of Francis neck and loosens it instinctively, letting the forward motion of his kissing push Francis however it will instead. He opens his mouth and closes it again, opens it and closes it, moving his head like he’s about to bite at Francis’ lip but has to keep resisting the impulse.
There’s the roar of fire somewhere. From the direction of the fireplace, he thinks, and maybe outside the walls. The fabric of the chair is held tight in Raju’s other fist, and he dismisses the roaring sound. If it isn’t inside and in the way, it isn’t the thing here worth devoting his attention to.