Keep his arms up. An order, and a challenge. It's a relief, the one certain goal in the middle of everything else. He keeps them up when the chill air hits his thighs, and when Francis' lips start moving over his jaw. The metal is cold over his skin and heavy on his arms, and presses into his wrists where they press against the door. It's a bit of a surprise, that something like this would be the first time he feels them put around his wrists, instead of putting them around someone else's. It doesn't feel the way he'd thought it would. But of course it doesn't, considering.

His heart is beating harder — as much, he realises, from ruining the uniform leaving the trousers on the floor as from Francis' lips. After a moment, he turns his head; he didn't get an order to but it gives Francis more room, and he likes feeling his teeth there.