He can’t remember the last time he’s sung with somebody else. Christmas with the Rosses before the trip to Antarctica? He always hated parlor games, so he can’t imagine he indulged that way.

He used to listen to the men singing in their bunks at the end of the day, or whilst on deck or hanging in the rigging. They’d sing with the officers during Sunday services, Sir John leading with a big, booming baritone. He’d listen, but never join. He’d never wanted to before now. Before this very moment he didn’t, couldn’t understand what could possibly be so diverting about singing with somebody else.

He smiles again and smooths Raju’s hair back into the neat swoop that he typically prefers. He wants to focus on just how much he liked singing with him, not on the fact that Raju’s staring at him like he’s some kind of marvel. He’d never - he isn’t, but Raju thinks… His attention meanders to his lips and he wonders briefly what they’d feel like on his, if they’d be soft and pliant or chapped and a little rough -

And then jump quickly back to his hair innocently, as though he hadn’t just tempted himself like that. God. If Raju knew.

“You’re a natural,” he says, quiet huff of a laugh through his nose. “Irish in your heart.”