Soft kisses suddenly don’t seem nearly enough. Once his lungs are filled he raises his head and finds Rama’s lips for himself, sucking and kissing and biting, mind still blank yet somehow filled with thoughts of only this man. He’s ravenous, kissing him like it’s the first and maybe the last time.
Once he finds his bones have returned to their rightful place, he returns his hand between them, hand finding Rama’s straining cock beneath the layers once more. “Can you undo these?” he growls softly, kissing the side of his mouth. “I’ll keep you warm…”
Francis kisses fiercely, very hungry for a man who'd just been boneless and breathless in the aftermath of what they've done together. Raju's happy for it — would have been happy to stay that way for five minutes, or half an hour, or the rest of the night if Francis had wanted it, and he's happy for this too, to feel the lips and the passion of the man who loves him, who's happy to love him, somehow.
At the pressure of Francis' hand a noise makes it out of Raju's mouth and sounds like a plea when it escapes, half into the open air and half into Francis' mouth when Raju turns his head, chasing that kiss at the side of his mouth and wanting Francis' lips squarely on his. As he kisses Francis, as he feels the pressure over him, he squirms, and turns his head to breathe out hard against Francis' cheek, and shifts his weight, hand on Francis' hip moving to press against the chair behind him and his other hand moving down. He shifts himself more to one side to reach his trousers better, ignoring the stiffness of an arm held in one place for too long to flick open the first layer of his trousers. His fingers feel in danger of being clumsy but they aren't, they're moving quick and sure and one layer is open, and he starts work on the next.
I'll keep you warm. Raju shivers, and he doesn't know why. "You do," he breathes out hard, pressing his forehead against Francis' temple. The second layer is halfway done, and in a couple seconds it'll be open, too. Then his drawers underneath, but those will be easy to bypass, in one way or another. Francis will figure it out. Raju trusts him to. "You do keep me warm. All the time."
He doesn't know what he's saying. He does know what he's saying. He's saying more than one thing at once. There's the fire Francis has lit inside him now, and then there's the literal, and the metaphorical: the cold is awful here, and it's awful all the time, and Francis doesn't need it kept away, not in the way that Raju does, but he always tries. He tries for Raju.
Even if he’d been completely healed, no broken ribs or bruised eye to carefully navigate around, he hadn’t believe his body was still made for something like this. He’s damaged, missing limbs and scarred all to hell; there’s never been a time when out on the ice that he imagined himself with someone. A lonely man being lonely for the rest of his life - pathetic, but it was his reality, his bed would always remain empty.
Because he’d never dreamed or imagined - and when he thoughts did stray it was always in the past, never the present - he’d never thought about things like logistics or how he was supposed to please another person being as he is. When his mind started to drift to thoughts of Rama he didn’t let himself consider how things might unfold, because they wouldn’t, of course, but if they did he assumed he’d be altogether lost.
It’s not the case at all. The two of them, even like this, the hurried, frenzied nature of this coupling on a goddamned chair of all places, seem to move together as though they’ve been doing this for years. They ask and softly plead or command, and there’s no part of himself that feels wrong or out of place. He was made for this, for whatever that’s worth.
Crozier tips his head slightly to kiss along his jaw, feeling Rama’s fingers work his trousers open just for him. There’s the first layer, then the second, and Crozier’s hand slips down to feel the final layer of fabric with a quiet shudder. It’s a shame he can’t see him properly; he knows he must be absolutely stunning, but at least he can feel him. His hand slides underneath the drawers to take Rama, neglected and aching, into his hand, palm feeling smooth skin and the arch of his length.
The feeling of Francis' hand is a hard shock that punches a strange noise out of Raju, one that starts life as a gasp, then grows into a low groan that keeps trading space with the whine it can't decide whether to turn into. The reality of wanting was one thing: stray thoughts, sensitive skin, accidental friction and tension hot inside him, cravings unmet, Francis' body lax and trusting against him, those are all manageable. Manageable and, in a way, familiar, the wanting only valuable in the chance it gives him to hold himself back. The reality of getting is something else, something Raju is completely unprepared for, hadn't known how unprepared until he couldn't not know it, until he's having to lock his hips to keep them from twitching again as he locks down the rest of his body, holding himself tense in every muscle but still, holding his breath for a moment before he speaks.
"I..." he starts, as much a drawn out, shaking noise as a word. He realises he's hiding his face against Francis' shoulder, that the hand that'd been unbuttoning his trousers is gripping Francis' thigh. He tries to loosen his grip, and manages it just a little. He realises he can't quiet his gasping breath. That noise he's hearing is the fire somewhere, now louder. He can barely manage his body, suddenly; there's nothing he can do about it. "I won't... It won't be... long. I can't..."
He thought he might feel him melt against him, yield just for the briefest of moments and let himself be cared for, but of course it was never going to be that easy. He has to coax those moments out of him, but lucky for Rama he’s a very patient man.
“Easy,” he murmurs, “easy. Relax, Rama, try to breathe for me”
He shushes him gently again as he slides his hand slowly up, velvet skin under his palm, slick pooling at the head that he smears with his thumb. “Breathe, can you do that? You’re so tense, I want you to feel what I felt. I know you can, you’ll do that for me, I know. Just for me.”
Crozier turns and nuzzles against his head against his, trying to be solid for him, something to cling to. It puts pressure on his chest, just a little, but nothing aches or pains him. It’s worth a little discomfort for this man.
When Francis first tells him to breathe Raju's already doing it, has to so the pained noise he makes at Rama can make it out. But he stops again as Francis' hand moves, not able to stop his shuddering but controlling himself, chest tight with it, but Francis tells him again. Tells Raju — Rama — tells him to breathe, for Francis. Raju nods against Francis' shoulder, his neck, feels Francis' head moving against his and tries, letting his held breath out in a gust and pulling it back in again.
His hand is trying to clutch at what he realises by touch must be Francis' chest, gets so far as to brush against his shirt there but Raju moves it, presses it flat against the fabric of the chair behind him. He can't let go, can't move, or this is going to end too soon, but he needs to move, some of this needs to go somewhere so he slaps his hand against the chair, feeling the heat over and underneath his skin. But Francis is here. Francis is here, hurt, so the thing inside him can't let loose right here. Around him instead, a circle around the chair. A safe distance away. He feels Francis against him, and around him, and his breath shakes. Only them. The two of them, and Raju's self control. That's all that exists now.
There’s a fire in the cabin, a small rise of flame moving in a slow circle around their chair. The heat doesn’t touch Crozier, not the heat of the flames at least. Rama is the fire, and he burns against him.
He brings his hand down, makes a loose fist, and applies a soft pressure as he works his way along his length. Slow, careful, aware that Rama is sensitive and anything more might hurt him. He shudders as he strokes along back to the head; by touch alone he can tell Ram is as perfect as he’d imagined in his daydreaming.
The fire roars and Rama holds on, muscles so rigid Crozier thinks he could bounce a coin off of them. “Let go,” he urges him, gentle yet just a touch of sternness behind it. He quickly brings his hand up to his lips and sucks his thumb and forefinger, then pushes back into his drawers to use the added slick to massage and trace the tip while his palm squeezes and draws upwards.
Raju's breath comes in fits and starts and little gasps as Francis' hand moves, throat too locked down to make noise so he can hold on through the first time in this long that any hand has touched him this way. His forearm takes his weight against the chair so that hand can curl into a fist as tightly as he can hold it and let go that wonderful voice says, orders him, and Francis' hand is gone and just as quickly it's back and over him, moving, and it's too much, the hitched gasping of his breath tenses and tightens—
But let go Francis had said and with a stuttering, pained noise Raju does, and the noise sounds like a sob as Raju shakes against him. He wants to be touching the man who loves him, who was stern with him, let go, wants to be touching him more than he is, and his one hand moves toward Francis' side again, knows he can't be gentle enough now and moves down, trying to grab hard onto something that feels like a stomach, a hip, a thigh. His panting sounds like moaning and his breaths slow, and he feels wetness between his face and Francis' neck. He feels the heat of his own breath. The crackling of the flames is quieter. Raju still wants to be closer, to touch Francis more, and kisses his neck, then up to kiss his jaw, and then the side of his face, and then his mouth. Then he leans his forehead against Francis', panting, realises that his heart is beating fast when he feels it starting to slow.
"Francis," he says, voice raw. There's nothing in his head to follow it up with. He only wants to say the name, to feel the man and the love of him inside of his mouth.
He's shaking a little. That's alright. That's alright. Francis won't mind.
Rama tastes salty-sweet, Crozier meeting the kisses with reverence and soft awe. Each shuddering gasp answered with a quiet exhale of his own; he sighs as Rama presses their foreheads together.
He leans forward slightly, nose brushing against his cheek. His hand slides out from Rama’s drawers, mindful of how sensitive he must be because he feels the same, hand wrapping tightly around his back to hold him close. To keep him close. He’d hate for him to leave now, for this to end too soon, for them to go back to not being completely tangled up in each other.
“Rama.” He holds him, trembling and sore ribs and all, wanting him more and again (though his body says absolutely not, not for some time). He feels intoxicated by him, wanting every part for himself, strength and vulnerability and joy and pain, all the parts that make him the wonderful man he adores. He wants it for himself, selfishly, forever if possible.
He tips his head up and kisses him softly. “You’re a beautiful man when you fall apart, Rama,” he says quietly, slightly slurring his words as the adrenaline begins to fade.
Francis withdrawing his hand makes Raju whine quietly and squirm a little, and the arm around him, keeping him in place, gets a relieved sigh. Francis says his name — that's not the right way to think of it, that isn't enough, Francis says his name — and Raju's trembling is stronger for a moment, he shivers. What Francis says next after that next kiss, soft, easing him into the lassitude his body wants, makes less sense; the noise that Raju makes on hearing it is wordless and confused. He feels Francis' skin against his as he shakes his head, and he shifts onto one side, trying to lean half of himself against the armrest. It's a small space and most of it is space that Francis needs, but Raju's muscles are loose and weak just now and he won't risk leaning any of his weight on Francis and hurting him.
"You're not making any sense," he manages in a murmur, slurring a little bit himself in the fight against the pull to be too relaxed just now to speak. He breathes against Francis' face. His hand moves from Francis' thigh, feeling its way blindly and very carefully up him, up hip and stomach and over chest, neck, up to the side of Francis' head. His thumb rubs back and forth over Francis' temple and the arm that'd been holding Raju up moves idly down and up again under Francis' shirt and Raju lets out a long, slow sigh, satisfied.
“Yes, I do,” Crozier replies, shivering as Rama’s hand eventually finds its way up into his soft shirt. “Beautiful how you are now.”
Maybe he doesn’t make sense. God knows he feels more wrung out (in the best way) than he ever has before. That’s fine, it makes sense in his mind. He’s beautiful when all that tension floods out of him, beautiful now all boneless and seeking warmth and comfort. He’s beautiful this way, vulnerable only for him. He’s just…he’s beautiful, inside and out, and Crozier is overcome with love for him.
Crozier lays his head against the back of the chair with a low sigh of his own, hand smoothing up and down Rama’s spine, flirting with the very top of his very enticing arse. He smirks a little, snaking his hand back under his waistband to give that perfectly round rump a good pinch.
Raju wants to protest again, even if he can't figure out just how — the loss of control is part of it, has to be part of this sometimes, but Raju needs to keep Francis clean and dry, has to get up to get a new rag and the water, find them both new trousers, clean both of them off, finally dry Francis' hair, and the way that he is now is between him and getting any of those necessary things done, but those are a lot of words for a mouth that has to be coaxed into moving — but Francis moves his hand over Raju's spine and Raju shivers, and then he—
—he's pinched Raju's arse. That's what that feeling was. Raju's so unprepared for it that his whole body twitches and he takes a sharp, shocked breath and looks at Francis with parted lips and wide, surprised eyes. Then he begins to laugh. His body is too relaxed for a proper laugh so it comes out half breath and Raju curls forward with it, laugh progressing into almost a giggle as the hand on Francis' temple slides down to cup his head, and the hand underneath Francis' shirt curls fondly over his chest. "Who does that?" he manages. "Is that how you'll be winning arguments now?"
He’s tempted to ‘shoe’s on the other foot’ him, but dear god, the look in Rama’s eyes. First as they stare up at him, undoubtedly in shock that Crozier would deign stoop to such a level, then they crinkle in delight and amusement and he’s absolutely swooning from the sight of it.
“Next time I’ll just give you a nice slap on the arse, would that be better?” he teases, sweetly rubbing the spot he’d just abused. “But if it gets you to laugh like that, absolutely.”
Anything to make him laugh.
They should move; he’s sore and wants to fall asleep in Rama’s arms, but he also wants to stay like this for as long as possible. Freeze the moment, as it were.
It's strange to feel a hand rubbing him that way, to have anyone in his life who'd touch him there so casually. Strange to have anyone in his life who would do any of the things Francis has done tonight, strange that someone's made it a goal to make him laugh. Maybe when he isn't so relaxed, when this feeling isn't humming through him any more and leaving him tingling and light even as his limbs feel too heavy to lift without work, maybe then he'll puzzle over it. For now he's only happy, is touching him every place that he can while Francis is too injured to plaster their bodies against one another, and he loves Francis, who has his hand on Raju's arse, who wants to make him laugh again. Raju leans forward to kiss him, as passionate as he can be when Raju's hand is on one side of Francis' injured skull and his lips are on the other and it's more important than anything in this world to be gentle. Raju exchanges the idea of pressure for biting and sucking on Francis' lips instead, laughing low and breathless into his mouth.
"It's only going to surprise me the first time," he murmurs. "You'll have to work harder."
“I’ve got the rest of my life to work on my approach,” he murmurs back, pressing his slightly kiss-bitten smile against Rama’s mouth. “You’ll allow for missteps now and again, mn?”
Of the many ideas that cross a man’s mind when suddenly trapped in a world that wants them dead, ‘the rest of one’s life’ seems a bleak concept. Not so for Crozier. There’s a far different life to be had here for him, where the dead have risen and there’s companionship and love. And if his life is only extended for mere months or a few years, he knows his purpose. He will make Rama happy, and he won’t fear or despair, but live a life that has some spark of joy in it.
He presses forward to kiss him back, slow and deep, sighing quietly into his mouth before he pulls back once more. They really need to get off this chair.
Raju turns his head away from the kiss to press his face into Francis' neck. This isn't the way he'd usually hide his expression when he needed to, but the impulse to hide it comes easily, and he's glad. The rest of Francis' life. Once he'd had the calluses built up to endure it, the need to keep disappointing the people who love him. Those calluses must have worn away when he wasn't looking, because it hurts.
A moment later Francis is pulling away, and Raju's smile at him is a little less relaxed and a little more polite, but it's still there; Francis is in front of him and happy, he's happy now, and Raju is trapped in this place anyway. It's like having Francis' arm around him, when he couldn't have pulled back if he'd tried to. He takes a breath deep enough to pull at his chest and holds it, lets it slowly out, studies the way Francis is sitting as he pulls back from him. The hand over Francis' head starts running itself down over it, smoothing down his hair, and the feeling soothes the tension inside Raju's chest a little. His other hand runs fondly down over Francis' chest. Raju can do that now, as much as he likes, and the new possibilities there are enough, nearly, to distract him the way he wanted them to.
He doesn’t see the change in Rama’s smile; the touch feels the same, the affection just as genuine as it was before. “A little,” he admits quietly, hand moving to Rama’s waist. “As much as I’d hate to move, we can’t stay like this.”
They need to settle in for the night, prepare for the chill that will set in by changing clothes and fixing their bed. He needs his bandages put back on before he sleeps, or else he’ll actually do some damage rather than merely risking it.
Crozier reaches for the hand on his chest and brings it up to his lips, brushing a kiss to his knuckles. “But maybe worry about my hair at a later date, mn? Save something for tomorrow.”
Raju's eyes widen a little as Francis kisses his knuckles, expression shifting into quiet surprise. What he has with Francis, what they've started building — started now, or maybe a long time ago — every moment of it should remind him of Seetha and choices that he has to make, pain and other inevitable things. But he's never been kissed the way that Francis, sometimes, has been kissing him: like he's doing as much of the wooing as Raju is, like Raju isn't leading Francis into heartbreak so much as the two of them are taking turns leading each other.
And there's something about the thing itself, the obvious romance in the gesture. He's never once thought about how it would feel to be on this end of it before.
"I have to worry about your hair," he says, unwilling to move his one hand from Francis' just now but flipping the towel behind Francis over the top of his head with the other and rubbing it at his head gently. "We can't leave it damp all night. Besides, if we're moving, that means I get to clean you up now. I might as well worry about your hair while I do the rest of it."
The more time passes, after all, the more aware he becomes of that wet spot inside his trousers. Moving isn't necessarily going to be a bad thing, even if Raju didn't need something to do to stop himself from thinking. "You'll feel better once you're clean and dry, you'll see. I won't even take very long to find you new trousers, I've already looked through everything once."
Crozier squints up through the folds of the towel as Rama rubs the rest of the water out of his hair. He’s endeared by the finickiness, even if a little exasperated that everything should be done and done efficiently right then and now. There’s always a little room for things to be done later, or fall away entirely.
“I won’t argue with you on that point,” he says, “I’m sure I will.” Although if he was really being honest he’s more looking forward to their very new tradition of awkwardly sleeping upright together. It has been good for his injuries, and he can unabashedly lean into him as long as he wishes. He’s not eager to let him go just yet, but if they must….
Raju huffs out an amused breath, small smile creeping its way onto his face. "Like a boy," he teases, and if he's lucky the teasing will wash his misgivings to the back of his mind again, where they might find themselves shoved behind something else and forgotten there. The rest of my life hangs inside him like a weight, and he wishes it wouldn't. "A minute now and you won't catch a chill later."
Then he finishes, shifts to stand, and hesitates. He studies Francis' face, studying that pull that he's always felt in looking at him. He doesn't know about anything else, about the future, or duty, or pain, or anything. But he knows he can give in to that pull now, in ways he hadn't even considered for most of the time that he's felt it. He knows giving in to the want will make Francis happy. He brushes the towel back over Francis' hair one more time slowly, sets it back behind his head, and cups the side of Francis' face, leaning forward to ease his way into a kiss gentle enough to say everything with it he doesn't quite have words for, or maybe has said to Francis already. I love you isn't as dangerous for Francis as it feels. The danger is already done.
You touch me like you love me. Raju tries to kiss Francis like he loves him, too. It's the least he can do.
Behind the kiss is sentiment and warmth, Crozier can feel in his hand just resting on the side of his face and in his lips as they brush against his. He meets the kiss, very carefully tilting his head back a breadth, but doesn’t try to control or deepen. He understands this, he’s here to receive. If it’s a parting gift upon separating or a swell of affection is not for him to understand.
His hand raises from where it had settled against the arm of the chair, reaching far enough to just brush against Rama’s outer sleeve before he drops it back down again. He just wants Rama to know that he’s here, right here with him.
Crozier waits for Rama to pull his head back, utilizing whatever self control remains to keep his arms down and his body relaxed against the chair. He has nothing queued up to say when they do part - no quip or silly joke or compliment. He just has this, himself. Nothing more.
His gaze moves over Francis' face when he pulls back. He smiles a little, then stands. Easier to feel the wet spot in his trousers this way and he lets out a rough, amused breath, looking down at it and then at Francis. "I'll only be a moment," he says and brushes his hand against Francis' arm as he goes. When he comes back it's with a bundle of clothes for himself and another pair of soft pyjama bottoms for Francis, and he hands them over as he starts to strip.
"You'll need your bandages wrapped again too, won't you?" he sighs as he starts, reaching for the bundle of rags with one hand as the other lets go of his waistband. That's enough to start with, everything unbuttoned as it is. "Are you ready for that yet, or do you want to wait?"
He’d quite like to keep watching Rama take off his clothes, but he knows the time for indulging is over. He needs to change and get wrapped, so he starts stripping himself down to get prepared, starting with the impossibly soft jumper.
Taking off his trousers is more of a process than the shirt, and he pauses with them hitched around his hips to catch his breath. “Trousers first,” he tells him, wriggling out leg by by leg, handless arm pressed to his chest out of habit.
"Mhm." Raju, hale and two-handed, finishes taking his trousers and drawers off first, sets them aside and pauses after. It's odd to pause this way, he's getting goosepimples already, but the impulse to check on Francis took over before he'd thought about it and the realisation that it doesn't matter how little he wears around Francis any more, doesn't matter in a very different way from how it wouldn't have mattered before, stops him longer.
But shivering gets him back on task and he wipes himself down with a rag, tosses it with his trousers, and holds another one out to Francis. "Alright?" he murmurs, not wanting to charge in to do the thing for him — taking care for Francis' dignity is nearly as difficult, sometimes, as watching him in pain has been — but wanting to offer, at least, even if that stretches his time half-exposed to the open air out a little longer. He shivers again, and with his shirts still on, looks ridiculous, but solving both those problems can wait for a second or two.
Crozier takes the rag from Rama’s hands after his trousers are completely down and off, and he stands with a firm grip to the handle of the chair to wash without looking like a complete invalid. It’s an interesting mix of emotions - bashfulness and embarrassment, intrigue, curiosity…and yes, attraction.
He’s just so goddamned beautiful, it’s unfair. He knows he’s been unable to follow whatever routine he curated at home, so this isn’t even Rama at his peak, a loss of muscle and food taken whatever toll it had on him. But his body is still impressive and downright picturesque, and Crozier turns himself away in order to focus on cleaning and not staring like a goddamned love sick fool.
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Soft kisses suddenly don’t seem nearly enough. Once his lungs are filled he raises his head and finds Rama’s lips for himself, sucking and kissing and biting, mind still blank yet somehow filled with thoughts of only this man. He’s ravenous, kissing him like it’s the first and maybe the last time.
Once he finds his bones have returned to their rightful place, he returns his hand between them, hand finding Rama’s straining cock beneath the layers once more. “Can you undo these?” he growls softly, kissing the side of his mouth. “I’ll keep you warm…”
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At the pressure of Francis' hand a noise makes it out of Raju's mouth and sounds like a plea when it escapes, half into the open air and half into Francis' mouth when Raju turns his head, chasing that kiss at the side of his mouth and wanting Francis' lips squarely on his. As he kisses Francis, as he feels the pressure over him, he squirms, and turns his head to breathe out hard against Francis' cheek, and shifts his weight, hand on Francis' hip moving to press against the chair behind him and his other hand moving down. He shifts himself more to one side to reach his trousers better, ignoring the stiffness of an arm held in one place for too long to flick open the first layer of his trousers. His fingers feel in danger of being clumsy but they aren't, they're moving quick and sure and one layer is open, and he starts work on the next.
I'll keep you warm. Raju shivers, and he doesn't know why. "You do," he breathes out hard, pressing his forehead against Francis' temple. The second layer is halfway done, and in a couple seconds it'll be open, too. Then his drawers underneath, but those will be easy to bypass, in one way or another. Francis will figure it out. Raju trusts him to. "You do keep me warm. All the time."
He doesn't know what he's saying. He does know what he's saying. He's saying more than one thing at once. There's the fire Francis has lit inside him now, and then there's the literal, and the metaphorical: the cold is awful here, and it's awful all the time, and Francis doesn't need it kept away, not in the way that Raju does, but he always tries. He tries for Raju.
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Even if he’d been completely healed, no broken ribs or bruised eye to carefully navigate around, he hadn’t believe his body was still made for something like this. He’s damaged, missing limbs and scarred all to hell; there’s never been a time when out on the ice that he imagined himself with someone. A lonely man being lonely for the rest of his life - pathetic, but it was his reality, his bed would always remain empty.
Because he’d never dreamed or imagined - and when he thoughts did stray it was always in the past, never the present - he’d never thought about things like logistics or how he was supposed to please another person being as he is. When his mind started to drift to thoughts of Rama he didn’t let himself consider how things might unfold, because they wouldn’t, of course, but if they did he assumed he’d be altogether lost.
It’s not the case at all. The two of them, even like this, the hurried, frenzied nature of this coupling on a goddamned chair of all places, seem to move together as though they’ve been doing this for years. They ask and softly plead or command, and there’s no part of himself that feels wrong or out of place. He was made for this, for whatever that’s worth.
Crozier tips his head slightly to kiss along his jaw, feeling Rama’s fingers work his trousers open just for him. There’s the first layer, then the second, and Crozier’s hand slips down to feel the final layer of fabric with a quiet shudder. It’s a shame he can’t see him properly; he knows he must be absolutely stunning, but at least he can feel him. His hand slides underneath the drawers to take Rama, neglected and aching, into his hand, palm feeling smooth skin and the arch of his length.
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"I..." he starts, as much a drawn out, shaking noise as a word. He realises he's hiding his face against Francis' shoulder, that the hand that'd been unbuttoning his trousers is gripping Francis' thigh. He tries to loosen his grip, and manages it just a little. He realises he can't quiet his gasping breath. That noise he's hearing is the fire somewhere, now louder. He can barely manage his body, suddenly; there's nothing he can do about it. "I won't... It won't be... long. I can't..."
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He thought he might feel him melt against him, yield just for the briefest of moments and let himself be cared for, but of course it was never going to be that easy. He has to coax those moments out of him, but lucky for Rama he’s a very patient man.
“Easy,” he murmurs, “easy. Relax, Rama, try to breathe for me”
He shushes him gently again as he slides his hand slowly up, velvet skin under his palm, slick pooling at the head that he smears with his thumb. “Breathe, can you do that? You’re so tense, I want you to feel what I felt. I know you can, you’ll do that for me, I know. Just for me.”
Crozier turns and nuzzles against his head against his, trying to be solid for him, something to cling to. It puts pressure on his chest, just a little, but nothing aches or pains him. It’s worth a little discomfort for this man.
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His hand is trying to clutch at what he realises by touch must be Francis' chest, gets so far as to brush against his shirt there but Raju moves it, presses it flat against the fabric of the chair behind him. He can't let go, can't move, or this is going to end too soon, but he needs to move, some of this needs to go somewhere so he slaps his hand against the chair, feeling the heat over and underneath his skin. But Francis is here. Francis is here, hurt, so the thing inside him can't let loose right here. Around him instead, a circle around the chair. A safe distance away. He feels Francis against him, and around him, and his breath shakes. Only them. The two of them, and Raju's self control. That's all that exists now.
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There’s a fire in the cabin, a small rise of flame moving in a slow circle around their chair. The heat doesn’t touch Crozier, not the heat of the flames at least. Rama is the fire, and he burns against him.
He brings his hand down, makes a loose fist, and applies a soft pressure as he works his way along his length. Slow, careful, aware that Rama is sensitive and anything more might hurt him. He shudders as he strokes along back to the head; by touch alone he can tell Ram is as perfect as he’d imagined in his daydreaming.
The fire roars and Rama holds on, muscles so rigid Crozier thinks he could bounce a coin off of them. “Let go,” he urges him, gentle yet just a touch of sternness behind it. He quickly brings his hand up to his lips and sucks his thumb and forefinger, then pushes back into his drawers to use the added slick to massage and trace the tip while his palm squeezes and draws upwards.
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But let go Francis had said and with a stuttering, pained noise Raju does, and the noise sounds like a sob as Raju shakes against him. He wants to be touching the man who loves him, who was stern with him, let go, wants to be touching him more than he is, and his one hand moves toward Francis' side again, knows he can't be gentle enough now and moves down, trying to grab hard onto something that feels like a stomach, a hip, a thigh. His panting sounds like moaning and his breaths slow, and he feels wetness between his face and Francis' neck. He feels the heat of his own breath. The crackling of the flames is quieter. Raju still wants to be closer, to touch Francis more, and kisses his neck, then up to kiss his jaw, and then the side of his face, and then his mouth. Then he leans his forehead against Francis', panting, realises that his heart is beating fast when he feels it starting to slow.
"Francis," he says, voice raw. There's nothing in his head to follow it up with. He only wants to say the name, to feel the man and the love of him inside of his mouth.
He's shaking a little. That's alright. That's alright. Francis won't mind.
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Rama tastes salty-sweet, Crozier meeting the kisses with reverence and soft awe. Each shuddering gasp answered with a quiet exhale of his own; he sighs as Rama presses their foreheads together.
He leans forward slightly, nose brushing against his cheek. His hand slides out from Rama’s drawers, mindful of how sensitive he must be because he feels the same, hand wrapping tightly around his back to hold him close. To keep him close. He’d hate for him to leave now, for this to end too soon, for them to go back to not being completely tangled up in each other.
“Rama.” He holds him, trembling and sore ribs and all, wanting him more and again (though his body says absolutely not, not for some time). He feels intoxicated by him, wanting every part for himself, strength and vulnerability and joy and pain, all the parts that make him the wonderful man he adores. He wants it for himself, selfishly, forever if possible.
He tips his head up and kisses him softly. “You’re a beautiful man when you fall apart, Rama,” he says quietly, slightly slurring his words as the adrenaline begins to fade.
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"You're not making any sense," he manages in a murmur, slurring a little bit himself in the fight against the pull to be too relaxed just now to speak. He breathes against Francis' face. His hand moves from Francis' thigh, feeling its way blindly and very carefully up him, up hip and stomach and over chest, neck, up to the side of Francis' head. His thumb rubs back and forth over Francis' temple and the arm that'd been holding Raju up moves idly down and up again under Francis' shirt and Raju lets out a long, slow sigh, satisfied.
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“Yes, I do,” Crozier replies, shivering as Rama’s hand eventually finds its way up into his soft shirt. “Beautiful how you are now.”
Maybe he doesn’t make sense. God knows he feels more wrung out (in the best way) than he ever has before. That’s fine, it makes sense in his mind. He’s beautiful when all that tension floods out of him, beautiful now all boneless and seeking warmth and comfort. He’s beautiful this way, vulnerable only for him. He’s just…he’s beautiful, inside and out, and Crozier is overcome with love for him.
Crozier lays his head against the back of the chair with a low sigh of his own, hand smoothing up and down Rama’s spine, flirting with the very top of his very enticing arse. He smirks a little, snaking his hand back under his waistband to give that perfectly round rump a good pinch.
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—he's pinched Raju's arse. That's what that feeling was. Raju's so unprepared for it that his whole body twitches and he takes a sharp, shocked breath and looks at Francis with parted lips and wide, surprised eyes. Then he begins to laugh. His body is too relaxed for a proper laugh so it comes out half breath and Raju curls forward with it, laugh progressing into almost a giggle as the hand on Francis' temple slides down to cup his head, and the hand underneath Francis' shirt curls fondly over his chest. "Who does that?" he manages. "Is that how you'll be winning arguments now?"
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He’s tempted to ‘shoe’s on the other foot’ him, but dear god, the look in Rama’s eyes. First as they stare up at him, undoubtedly in shock that Crozier would deign stoop to such a level, then they crinkle in delight and amusement and he’s absolutely swooning from the sight of it.
“Next time I’ll just give you a nice slap on the arse, would that be better?” he teases, sweetly rubbing the spot he’d just abused. “But if it gets you to laugh like that, absolutely.”
Anything to make him laugh.
They should move; he’s sore and wants to fall asleep in Rama’s arms, but he also wants to stay like this for as long as possible. Freeze the moment, as it were.
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"It's only going to surprise me the first time," he murmurs. "You'll have to work harder."
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“I’ve got the rest of my life to work on my approach,” he murmurs back, pressing his slightly kiss-bitten smile against Rama’s mouth. “You’ll allow for missteps now and again, mn?”
Of the many ideas that cross a man’s mind when suddenly trapped in a world that wants them dead, ‘the rest of one’s life’ seems a bleak concept. Not so for Crozier. There’s a far different life to be had here for him, where the dead have risen and there’s companionship and love. And if his life is only extended for mere months or a few years, he knows his purpose. He will make Rama happy, and he won’t fear or despair, but live a life that has some spark of joy in it.
He presses forward to kiss him back, slow and deep, sighing quietly into his mouth before he pulls back once more. They really need to get off this chair.
He hates that they need to get off this chair.
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A moment later Francis is pulling away, and Raju's smile at him is a little less relaxed and a little more polite, but it's still there; Francis is in front of him and happy, he's happy now, and Raju is trapped in this place anyway. It's like having Francis' arm around him, when he couldn't have pulled back if he'd tried to. He takes a breath deep enough to pull at his chest and holds it, lets it slowly out, studies the way Francis is sitting as he pulls back from him. The hand over Francis' head starts running itself down over it, smoothing down his hair, and the feeling soothes the tension inside Raju's chest a little. His other hand runs fondly down over Francis' chest. Raju can do that now, as much as he likes, and the new possibilities there are enough, nearly, to distract him the way he wanted them to.
"What is it?" he murmurs. "Uncomfortable?"
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He doesn’t see the change in Rama’s smile; the touch feels the same, the affection just as genuine as it was before. “A little,” he admits quietly, hand moving to Rama’s waist. “As much as I’d hate to move, we can’t stay like this.”
They need to settle in for the night, prepare for the chill that will set in by changing clothes and fixing their bed. He needs his bandages put back on before he sleeps, or else he’ll actually do some damage rather than merely risking it.
Crozier reaches for the hand on his chest and brings it up to his lips, brushing a kiss to his knuckles. “But maybe worry about my hair at a later date, mn? Save something for tomorrow.”
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And there's something about the thing itself, the obvious romance in the gesture. He's never once thought about how it would feel to be on this end of it before.
"I have to worry about your hair," he says, unwilling to move his one hand from Francis' just now but flipping the towel behind Francis over the top of his head with the other and rubbing it at his head gently. "We can't leave it damp all night. Besides, if we're moving, that means I get to clean you up now. I might as well worry about your hair while I do the rest of it."
The more time passes, after all, the more aware he becomes of that wet spot inside his trousers. Moving isn't necessarily going to be a bad thing, even if Raju didn't need something to do to stop himself from thinking. "You'll feel better once you're clean and dry, you'll see. I won't even take very long to find you new trousers, I've already looked through everything once."
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Crozier squints up through the folds of the towel as Rama rubs the rest of the water out of his hair. He’s endeared by the finickiness, even if a little exasperated that everything should be done and done efficiently right then and now. There’s always a little room for things to be done later, or fall away entirely.
“I won’t argue with you on that point,” he says, “I’m sure I will.” Although if he was really being honest he’s more looking forward to their very new tradition of awkwardly sleeping upright together. It has been good for his injuries, and he can unabashedly lean into him as long as he wishes. He’s not eager to let him go just yet, but if they must….
“My hair must be dry now,” he grumbles.
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Then he finishes, shifts to stand, and hesitates. He studies Francis' face, studying that pull that he's always felt in looking at him. He doesn't know about anything else, about the future, or duty, or pain, or anything. But he knows he can give in to that pull now, in ways he hadn't even considered for most of the time that he's felt it. He knows giving in to the want will make Francis happy. He brushes the towel back over Francis' hair one more time slowly, sets it back behind his head, and cups the side of Francis' face, leaning forward to ease his way into a kiss gentle enough to say everything with it he doesn't quite have words for, or maybe has said to Francis already. I love you isn't as dangerous for Francis as it feels. The danger is already done.
You touch me like you love me. Raju tries to kiss Francis like he loves him, too. It's the least he can do.
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Behind the kiss is sentiment and warmth, Crozier can feel in his hand just resting on the side of his face and in his lips as they brush against his. He meets the kiss, very carefully tilting his head back a breadth, but doesn’t try to control or deepen. He understands this, he’s here to receive. If it’s a parting gift upon separating or a swell of affection is not for him to understand.
His hand raises from where it had settled against the arm of the chair, reaching far enough to just brush against Rama’s outer sleeve before he drops it back down again. He just wants Rama to know that he’s here, right here with him.
Crozier waits for Rama to pull his head back, utilizing whatever self control remains to keep his arms down and his body relaxed against the chair. He has nothing queued up to say when they do part - no quip or silly joke or compliment. He just has this, himself. Nothing more.
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"You'll need your bandages wrapped again too, won't you?" he sighs as he starts, reaching for the bundle of rags with one hand as the other lets go of his waistband. That's enough to start with, everything unbuttoned as it is. "Are you ready for that yet, or do you want to wait?"
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He’d quite like to keep watching Rama take off his clothes, but he knows the time for indulging is over. He needs to change and get wrapped, so he starts stripping himself down to get prepared, starting with the impossibly soft jumper.
Taking off his trousers is more of a process than the shirt, and he pauses with them hitched around his hips to catch his breath. “Trousers first,” he tells him, wriggling out leg by by leg, handless arm pressed to his chest out of habit.
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But shivering gets him back on task and he wipes himself down with a rag, tosses it with his trousers, and holds another one out to Francis. "Alright?" he murmurs, not wanting to charge in to do the thing for him — taking care for Francis' dignity is nearly as difficult, sometimes, as watching him in pain has been — but wanting to offer, at least, even if that stretches his time half-exposed to the open air out a little longer. He shivers again, and with his shirts still on, looks ridiculous, but solving both those problems can wait for a second or two.
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Oh. He’s completely…oh.
Crozier takes the rag from Rama’s hands after his trousers are completely down and off, and he stands with a firm grip to the handle of the chair to wash without looking like a complete invalid. It’s an interesting mix of emotions - bashfulness and embarrassment, intrigue, curiosity…and yes, attraction.
He’s just so goddamned beautiful, it’s unfair. He knows he’s been unable to follow whatever routine he curated at home, so this isn’t even Rama at his peak, a loss of muscle and food taken whatever toll it had on him. But his body is still impressive and downright picturesque, and Crozier turns himself away in order to focus on cleaning and not staring like a goddamned love sick fool.
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