The frustration on Raju's face softens, looking down at him, hearing him say those things. Hearing the way that Francis feels when he does them. "All these compliments," he murmurs. "I'll listen to all of them and grow lazy, if you keep on that way." It's in Francis' tone, his arm in Raju's lap, the warmth of him so near and the way Francis is holding his head, as if he wants—

Raju's lips are only a few inches away from Francis' when he stops, thinking again about what he's doing and he looks at Francis this way, close, looking over his skin, his cheeks and lips, into his eyes. His hand is tighter around Francis' wrist and he feels the scars under his fingers, feels the warmth of Francis there. He can smell Francis, cooked fish and pine and the faint smell of soap when he breathes in. He can see every shade of colour in those remarkable eyes. He stays leaning this way, and doesn't move back yet. He doesn't want to.