Raju lets out a groan that turns into a long, hard breath, that sharpens when Francis says it, my Raju, and he turns his head, pressing his forehead against Francis' neck. It's right in a way he hadn't thought but he'd been feeling all this time, it feels right but it's a sentiment that only suits another name, not the part of it he'd limited himself to when he'd started leaving home. But he wants to hear it from a loved one again. He wants to hear the way that it would sound in Francis' mouth, a sound familiar and wonderful and new.

"Rama." His voice is husky and still rasping, and he can feel the breath of it against Francis' skin. "That's my name. The rest of it. Say it again. Call me Rama."

Before he finishes speaking he's lifting a hand to find Francis' waistband and slip it underneath. He doesn't move it toward any spot in particular, at least not right away; he wants to feel skin under his palm, skin that, like Francis' hand on him now, hasn't been touched in too long, skin that's private and warmer under the soft clothes that Raju had found for him. Beneath Francis' stomach, over his hip. Raju's fingers are spread, and his palm is warm.