[For a moment Raju's eyes are wider, startled. It shouldn't surprise him, but the idea of doing any of it on purpose is one his mind shies away from, still. But he isn't going to tell her that he can't do it on purpose. It's shameful to even want to say it, with this deep down knowledge that come with the gloom settled over the sky when the darkwalker had come, the knowledge that something is going to get worse, and there's a man here who counts on him, who's going to need him to use everything he has.
The shame. It's a pressure in his chest, one that's started to become familiar. He piles onto it: shame that he's been so afraid to try this on purpose that he's only done it once, that he has so little control that he certainly can't afford to think of the things that'd started the fire that time, not with the state it left him in afterward, in front of a stranger. That his friend needs him, is going to need him to use everything he has but all he's done is remember the nightmares that make the fire come and shy away from trying it while he's awake, while others here have more control over it than he could dream about.
His gaze is absent, and his breathing is harder now, and rough. The lines of his posture are harder now, held tight. He should be ashamed, and he is. He should be angry, and he is. A flame grows in the palm of his right hand, over the fingerless glove he's wearing there, and he sucks in a sharp reflexive breath, shaking it to try and put the damn thing out.]
help with powers, June
The shame. It's a pressure in his chest, one that's started to become familiar. He piles onto it: shame that he's been so afraid to try this on purpose that he's only done it once, that he has so little control that he certainly can't afford to think of the things that'd started the fire that time, not with the state it left him in afterward, in front of a stranger. That his friend needs him, is going to need him to use everything he has but all he's done is remember the nightmares that make the fire come and shy away from trying it while he's awake, while others here have more control over it than he could dream about.
His gaze is absent, and his breathing is harder now, and rough. The lines of his posture are harder now, held tight. He should be ashamed, and he is. He should be angry, and he is. A flame grows in the palm of his right hand, over the fingerless glove he's wearing there, and he sucks in a sharp reflexive breath, shaking it to try and put the damn thing out.]