Raju notices it too, the breathing. It plays into the picture he makes: Head back and neck exposed, legs spread, hand still around himself and chest moving — moving easily for all the bruises, breath desperate with pleasure and with nothing else. Francis is healing, and he's well. He's happy. Raju's gaze is fixed on him even as Francis' head falls back and Raju's own panting begins to slow. His hands start to slide away from himself.

He's hot, he realises. Strange to feel that way in this place, and he's sure that it won't last, but he feels hot. Flushed, maybe, and he wants all these clothes shed so Francis can look on it, can look on on all of him as he's been allowed to look on all of Francis now. In these moments after he feels like he could do it, cold or not. Maybe it's for the best he'll have to wait, that they're already done. He'll decide again on a warm day.

Francis is beautiful. Raju wants to touch him, still; maybe he's always going to. Now that the temptation to perform something more athletic is done, maybe he can. "Could you stay still?" he asks, still a little breathless. "If I kissed you? Right now?"