The arm over Raju surprises, then pleases him, and the story pleases him, and he laughs a little when Francis starts telling it without even deigning to say no to Raju telling him to sleep. He tugs the blanket higher over himself and moves closer to Francis and it feels natural to be there, makes it easier for Francis' arm to lay over him and brings him closer to the source of all the warmth that's gathered under here. At first he shivers now and then, his body not used to the warmth, but the story and Francis' attention to it, instead of pointing out anything Raju's doing, makes the embarrassment easier to let go as Raju's attention follows where Francis is leading it.
And once he's started to settle in the arm that isn't pressed against the blanket under him needs a place to go, doesn't it? It feels natural to mirror Francis' posture here too and set his arm over Francis' side and, gradually, paying more attention to the story while the comfort and the warmth spread slowly inside of him, move closer as he listens, and closer, until his knuckles are brushing blanket on the floor beneath Francis' head and the tips of his fingers have started brushing fondly against the back of Francis' neck.
And tomorrow I'll tell you the rest, Francis says and Raju smiles, gaze alert and clear and fixed on the familiar face, the pitted, soft-looking plains of his cheek, the graceful swoop of his nose, the curve of his upper lip as he murmurs the end of the tale. The end of it for tonight. His voice — suited, Raju thinks, for stories, for listening to hours at a time without ever growing tired of the sound — is quieter now, either in deference to some perceived tiredness in Raju or quiet with his own. The latter, Raju hopes; a story before bed had never worked the way it was supposed to when he was a boy, either. If anything, it's only ever woken him up, and at least one of them should be about to get some sleep. But Raju feels good, he feels—
He doesn't know how to describe it. Light and sharp and, and something. Something he could feel spreading with the weight of the arm over his side while Francis spoke and spoke, that can feel now humming in every part of him. He feels it in the skin of his fingertips barely touching the skin at the back of Francis' neck. "Tomorrow," he murmurs, voice as warm as the rest of him, deeper than he realises it's going to be before he hears it coming out. "Thank you, Francis. It really is time for you to sleep, now."
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And once he's started to settle in the arm that isn't pressed against the blanket under him needs a place to go, doesn't it? It feels natural to mirror Francis' posture here too and set his arm over Francis' side and, gradually, paying more attention to the story while the comfort and the warmth spread slowly inside of him, move closer as he listens, and closer, until his knuckles are brushing blanket on the floor beneath Francis' head and the tips of his fingers have started brushing fondly against the back of Francis' neck.
And tomorrow I'll tell you the rest, Francis says and Raju smiles, gaze alert and clear and fixed on the familiar face, the pitted, soft-looking plains of his cheek, the graceful swoop of his nose, the curve of his upper lip as he murmurs the end of the tale. The end of it for tonight. His voice — suited, Raju thinks, for stories, for listening to hours at a time without ever growing tired of the sound — is quieter now, either in deference to some perceived tiredness in Raju or quiet with his own. The latter, Raju hopes; a story before bed had never worked the way it was supposed to when he was a boy, either. If anything, it's only ever woken him up, and at least one of them should be about to get some sleep. But Raju feels good, he feels—
He doesn't know how to describe it. Light and sharp and, and something. Something he could feel spreading with the weight of the arm over his side while Francis spoke and spoke, that can feel now humming in every part of him. He feels it in the skin of his fingertips barely touching the skin at the back of Francis' neck. "Tomorrow," he murmurs, voice as warm as the rest of him, deeper than he realises it's going to be before he hears it coming out. "Thank you, Francis. It really is time for you to sleep, now."