Title: "A Thousand Tiny Daggers"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Bollywood, Rang De Basanti
Rating/Classification: SAC, filler ficlet, implied Aslam/Laxman slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and my dead gay Indian revolutionaries are pastede on yay.
Summary: Each time, it's like this. 475 words. It's been a while since I saw the movie, but the fic bit I wanted to write finally made its appearance.
Their gazes lock across the reservoir and Aslam shudders as the other man's hatred prickles over his skin like a thousand tiny daggers. Each time, it's like this. Their music is too loud, their laughter is too coarse, and everything about them isn't Indian enough for him. Not Hindu enough. Not man enough.
Laxman's lip curls with disgust under his velvety mustache and though it's D.J. he fights with (it's D.J. that everyone fights with), Aslam is certain that Laxman bhai's fists are for him.
**
When Ashfaqullah Khan's words come out of his mouth, Aslam is almost sure they are ones of seduction. On the page, they seem innocent. On his tongue, they are an unholy lure. And not into The Cause, as Sue constantly tells them while she's pretending to be Spielberg. The passion for Independence, for Mother India, is something else entirely. That is not the passion Ashfaq feels for Bismil. That crackles between them when Sue's camera is rolling.
After the camera turns off, Laxman is always the first to walk away. The first to break character. He seldom comes for tiffin and bullshit afterward. And, like Aslam, he never drinks. Though that similarity means little. He always sits as far from him as possible and never looks him in the eye. He doesn't laugh. He never laughs.
Aslam tries not to take it as rejection. He tries to remember he is acting. That Ashfaq's love for Bismil, for all his brothers-in-arms, is pure.
He tries to forget that no one is that good of an actor, that neither he nor Laxman are Dilip Kumar (or even Askhay Kumar).
**
The house is quiet. Too quiet even though there is noise. He can hear the others outside on the street, their voices indistinct but, as always, loud. He can hear Ammi and Abba speaking in low whispers in the next room, wondering why Laxman is still here. They are saying that no good can come of it.
As Aslam stares up at him, wincing as he shifts on the bed, he's wondering those same things. And so much more. Why hasn't Pandey left with the others? And why, now, does his heart hurt more than his head?
Laxman's dark eyes are wet with tears. He gasps out words that don't make sense and are perfectly clear all at once. Of all of them, "always," and "forgive me," are the ones that make Aslam's nerves tingle and his skin crackle like lightning.
And he realizes it was never hatred at all.
**
The last thing Aslam feels before he dies is not the bullet, is not the blood, is not the pain (and pain is not nearly enough to describe the sensation).
When he reaches out, when Laxman's fingers curl against his, he feels what it would have been like to be truly alive.
--end--
January 28, 2007.