Any shadow of embarrassment drains away as Francis’ fingers keep moving and, as he forgets why he was avoiding Francis’ eyes, Raju’s gaze moves back toward them, drawn back and held there, fascinated, moving his head to get a better view. The feeling of Francis’ wrist against his neck shifts a little as his neck moves and it’s a particular feeling, the skin at the end of the stump resting against him there. It occurs to him that no one else could touch him quite this way. It occurs to him that this is Francis’ way of holding him there, the way his arm is under Raju’s neck instead of just against it, and something unfurls, soft and very warm inside his chest.

“You always sing while you do this,” he says, his words a little slower than usual, barely saving themselves from mumbling. He can feel his heart beating and his breaths are openmouthed and deep, a little louder and sharper whenever Francis moves his hand more quickly. One of Raju’s hands wanders up to brush its fingers down the arm Francis has under his neck, and then settles to rest lightly just below the elbow there. “Or hum. But it’s something different this time.”