“You’re right.” Raju had spent so long working himself hard enough that he could drop, too exhausted to react to or remember his dreams, into a small bed in a barracks full of men who made the closed up thing inside him lock up tighter, closing him in on every side, and he’d learned to call it sleep. The idea of going back to that doesn’t bear thinking of; his mind flashes back to the familiar narrow frame of it and the feeling there, but the thought is easy to dismiss just now. He’s warm here laying wrapped up in a man who lights up like the sun at the chance to call him husband, and that happiness makes it easy to make this now the only kind of sleep he knows. He brushes the memory of that other life aside, lifting his hand from Francis’ stomach to his forehead, brushing Francis’ hair back from it.

“Go back to sleep, Francis,” he murmurs. “I’ll try not to wake you up this time.”