Raju nods, quick and fervent, turning his face against Francis’ hair as the hand that isn’t pressed between them wraps tightly around Francis’ back. He can’t see Francis anymore this way but he can feel the solid reality of his body, his motion and warmth, the movement of his chest with his breath. He can’t tell whether he’s still crying and it’s a strange kind of freedom that he can afford not to care. His friend doesn’t need him to put it away and reassure, or to hold him up any more than Francis is holding Raju, or to be anything right now but alive and here.

“You have… to be close enough,” he manages. “Next time. So I can do it again. I don’t have to just… just watch. I can— I can do something.”