Francis smooths back Raju’s hair and Raju’s eyelids flutter nearly shut. He leans into Francis’ hand in the moment it’s there, the burst of feeling, of wanting the touch he always feels at a loving hand at his hair stronger just now with so much that feels precisely the opposite moving through him. His eyelids are heavy when it’s over an instant later but it’s easy to focus on Francis; the whole of Raju is already turned that way, and the shocked happiness he can tell Francis is feeling is refreshing. That’s as much of a relief as the touch was, in its own way; it isn’t often Francis feels quite like this, even while Francis’ face is damp, while his voice is rough. Francis is too happy to think much about Raju leaving him, just now; Raju’s made him too happy to, only by putting a word to what they are. Strange, that Francis can forget it. It isn’t in Raju to forget, quite, but connected as they are just now he can duck his head under the current of that rare, pure happiness, feel it running over his skin.

“Everyone who turned you down were idiots,” he declares, thinking some echo of what he’d shown Francis before, all those acts of dedication and compassion and care. The way his voice sounds, the way his face looks when he’s gentle. Raju’s voice is quieter now, tired, but very confident. His moving hand shifts from Francis’ back to his side, protective and careful over his ribs and firm over his stomach and then back up again, and then back down. “Look at what they missed.”

Then with a warm little smile, pleased at how the word pleased Francis, Raju corrects himself: “The husband they all missed.”