Raju slips into the side opposite, not thinking of anything in particular. There's the usual awareness of Francis, awareness of the distance. There's the usual brief comparison of before, when he'd slept roughly this far away from him without ever considering sleeping closer, to now, when considering it is the only thing that he can do. He thinks of the first night they'd slept next to one another, as close as Raju wants to be, when he hadn't been able to consider anything then but the desperate animal comfort of it.

He doesn't mind not being able to touch the way he wants, not exactly. Or, he doesn't mind minding it. Usually. But the nights are harder. In Delhi there'd been plenty of work to do, and if he only tried hard enough to find it, and did it for long enough, he hadn't needed help falling asleep. Raju sighs, turning onto his side, arm draped over his chest. It's usually at least a little easier if he can look at him. Francis loves him, and wants to be with him— and he's just there, so really, Raju is lucky.