goingtobeunwell

Raju’s pupils are wide, his breathing a little shaky and intense. Crozier pauses almost imperceptibly as he appraises his expression, looking for discomfort or any sign that he should stop and finding none. The exact opposite, in fact, every little twitch of his lips, flair of his nostrils, and quick exhale tells him to keep going.

He smiles softly, left wrist coming to rest in the nape of his neck. He’d hold him just there if he could. “All right,” he repeats again, a little disappointed that he’s turned away. He likes looking into his eyes, those pretty honey-brown eyes, the way they lift and crinkle when he’s smiling and how they glitter when he’s cooking up some plan.

He could wax poetic for hours, but should probably do so while he’s actually washing his hair. His hand pulls away just long enough to pick up the soap and lather up his hair, pushing his fingers back into his hair to massage it through. He works methodically, humming an Irish drinking song to himself while he gets every inch of his hair - and pauses to wipe some of the suds away from his forehead.

Any shadow of embarrassment drains away as Francis’ fingers keep moving and, as he forgets why he was avoiding Francis’ eyes, Raju’s gaze moves back toward them, drawn back and held there, fascinated, moving his head to get a better view. The feeling of Francis’ wrist against his neck shifts a little as his neck moves and it’s a particular feeling, the skin at the end of the stump resting against him there. It occurs to him that no one else could touch him quite this way. It occurs to him that this is Francis’ way of holding him there, the way his arm is under Raju’s neck instead of just against it, and something unfurls, soft and very warm inside his chest.

“You always sing while you do this,” he says, his words a little slower than usual, barely saving themselves from mumbling. He can feel his heart beating and his breaths are openmouthed and deep, a little louder and sharper whenever Francis moves his hand more quickly. One of Raju’s hands wanders up to brush its fingers down the arm Francis has under his neck, and then settles to rest lightly just below the elbow there. “Or hum. But it’s something different this time.”

Different? It probably is a lot different than the last time he’d sat Raju down and washed his hair. The purpose is the same, he wants to help his friend forget his burdens for a while, but the process feels a lot more intimate this time.

Because it is. This is intimate. Crozier is holding and caressing this man lying in his lap, looking into eyes and idly appreciating the curve of his lips, and he’s humming because he’s giddy like some boy with a schoolyard crush -

Ah. He wishes Raju hadn’t noticed.

He laughs gently, playing it off as he tips Raju’s head forward to rinse the soap from his hair. “It’s been a strange day,” he says simply. “And…oh, I don’t know. I somehow feel lighter in spite of it all.”

Raju’s whole face creases up in a smile. “Me too,” he says. He might not have enough tension in his whole body right now to really tighten his grip on Francis arm but he grips it anyway, happily. It’s impossible to think back before this moment, or ahead after it. He knows that he felt… worse, not long ago at all. But Francis is here, helping, gentle and looking down at him. There’s light spreading someplace inside Raju from the pads of Francis’ fingers downward. Or there might as well be.

“I can feel now,” he notes, tilting his head against Francis’ hand just to feel it move over his scalp again. “And I can feel you. I feel better.”

He lets out a slow, relieved breath. After a moment, he focuses on Francis again, free hand moving slowly, idly against the floor, feeling the texture of it beneath him. Sensation. Most of it’s coming from Francis now, but all of it helps. “What were you humming? I don’t know it.”

“I’m not surprised you don’t. Upstanding English patriots wouldn’t be caught dead singing an Irish drinking song. Barbaric.” He’s only somewhat facetious; it honestly wouldn’t surprise him if his fellow officers didn’t know any Irish songs, or if they did they saved them for more of their bawdy rounds of drinking.

“Wild Rover. That’s the name of the song. I don’t know why I’m humming it - I haven’t thought about it in years.”

His father would sing it after too much gin, and some of the lads when he was still a Midshipman would sneak a little too much rum and sing it loudly in the Orlop.

He shakes his head a little and inspects Raju’s hair for remaining soap. He combs his fingers through his hair, glancing back down into his face briefly and smiling once again. He’ll be sorry when he’s through here.

Raju smiles back at him, and the smile stays. He isn't thinking of the fact that soon Francis will be done; he's thinking of the fingers through his hair, the soft solidity of the legs under his shoulders, the wet feeling of the water on his skin, wet and clean on skin that's humming with the touch of a strong, kind man who cares for him. He feels better. More than that, he feels good. Cleaning his hand and cleaning his face and then this, there's something very... Relaxing isn't the word. Reassuring isn't either, but it's closer. There's something about it. Something happened earlier and it'd been terrible, but Francis is here, he hadn't left, and Raju hadn't had to leave. All those things Francis had said about Raju being a good man — he can believe, in this moment, that Francis believes it, even knowing the things that he does. Raju doesn't understand that, but with Francis making his regard so obvious and inescapable, maybe it's alright if Raju doesn't understand just now.

"Sing it for me," he smiles, still watching Francis' blue eyes. His other hand wants to be touching, too, so he moves it to curl around to Francis' leg, grip loose and fond. "I want to hear how it goes."

“Oh, you don’t want that,” he laughs, ruffling Raju’s wet hair a little. It sticks out of place for a second, making him think of when Raju first wakes in the morning, woke up this very morning that way in fact, in his arms tucked in close to him-

A song actually seems very appropriate right now. “When you’re covering your ears and asking for mercy remember that you wanted this.”

He doesn’t have the worst singing voice, but it certainly didn’t get him invited to sing in any choirs. It’s passable. Humming is far a more appropriate musical venture. “I’ve been a wild rover for many's the year and I've spent all me money on whiskey and beer…”

The chorus, of course, is always the most diverting part of any song, especially a drinking song meant to be sung at the top of one’s lungs in a pub. “And it’s no, nay, never - no nay never no more will I play the wild rover, no nay never no more!”

He pauses the tune briefly to chuckle under his breath. “You need to sign that part with me next time, Raju.”

He takes a breath and continues. It’s difficult not to feel a certain amount of homesickness for a place that was never his own when singing one of its songs. “I went to an alehouse I used to frequent I told the landlady my money was spent. I ask her for credit, she answered me nay, such a custom as yours I can have any day…” And then pauses to nod at him. “And it’s no nay never…”

There'd been a time in Raju's life when he'd had to actively discourage people from ruffling up his hair like that. Stronger pomade had helped. When had he forgotten that it felt good?

The thought is brief, and not nearly as important as the way Francis looks while he does it, when he laughs, and the way that he sounds when he sings. It's a simple tune — a drinking song, he'd said, so that makes sense — and the simplicity suits Francis' voice well. Raju stares up at him, fascinated, smile openmouthed but faint like he's forgotten about it and then spreading wide and delighted when Francis invites him to join in.

"No nay never, no more," he starts, quiet and flattening out the notes a little to make sure he doesn't sound too terrible over the unfamiliar tune. His voice hasn't ever seemed too bad, steady and clear enough, but he hasn't done much singing at all, and isn't sure how he might sound. At the same time, though, it's impossible to worry about it at all; Francis is singing, the first time Raju's really heard his voice this way, and looking down at him, and he thinks he could do anything wrong right now and Francis wouldn't mind it at all. When he goes onto the rest his voice is just a little less cautious, a little bit louder.

"Will I play the wild rover, no nay never no more," he finishes, smiling, The hand on Francis' leg rubs at it appreciatively, excited to sing together with Francis for a moment, and his hand on Francis' other arm squeezes.

He can’t remember the last time he’s sung with somebody else. Christmas with the Rosses before the trip to Antarctica? He always hated parlor games, so he can’t imagine he indulged that way.

He used to listen to the men singing in their bunks at the end of the day, or whilst on deck or hanging in the rigging. They’d sing with the officers during Sunday services, Sir John leading with a big, booming baritone. He’d listen, but never join. He’d never wanted to before now. Before this very moment he didn’t, couldn’t understand what could possibly be so diverting about singing with somebody else.

He smiles again and smooths Raju’s hair back into the neat swoop that he typically prefers. He wants to focus on just how much he liked singing with him, not on the fact that Raju’s staring at him like he’s some kind of marvel. He’d never - he isn’t, but Raju thinks… His attention meanders to his lips and he wonders briefly what they’d feel like on his, if they’d be soft and pliant or chapped and a little rough -

And then jump quickly back to his hair innocently, as though he hadn’t just tempted himself like that. God. If Raju knew.

“You’re a natural,” he says, quiet huff of a laugh through his nose. “Irish in your heart.”

Raju lets out a pleased little huff, looking flattered. Irish in your heart wouldn't have meant too much to him before meeting Francis, but something about hearing him say it is a thrill now.

"You weren't honest with me though, Francis," he grins. "You told me I was going to hear you singing and beg for mercy, but I didn't want to beg you even once. You have a fine voice for singing. In fact I wouldn't mind hearing it more often. Not what I was promised at all."

“I guess I’m not a man of my word anymore,” he sighs, very clearly (and playfully) exasperated.

He folds the towel around Raju’s head and starts drying out the strands with little squeezes to his hair. The rest he’ll let Raju handle, though he’ll be sad to part from him.

“There. Now you can slick it with that pomade or perfume or whatever the hell it was.”

This part feels wonderful, too, so Raju doesn't mind too much when his hand has to slide off Francis' arm so he can start moving the towel around. "I'm saving the pomade," Raju says, not much caring about it or about making his hair look like anything at this particular moment, happy only to still be here in this house, to feel Francis' legs under him and the heat of his body just there, to be talking to him about anything. Once Francis finishes it isn't going to occur to him to sit up, handling the rest or not; there's no tension in his body at all, only relief and that glowing, humming feeling, and he's happy here. "I just have to shape my hair before it dries. It could look worse, I suppose. But I'd have run out of the product by now if I used it every day."

“Saving the pomade for special occasions?”

He hasn’t moved away. He hopes Raju doesn’t; it’s so nice to just have him there, to be able to look down at him as he teases him and keep touching his head.

"Mhm." Raju shifts around but only to get a better look at Francis, too relaxed to mind the way the movement messes the hair at the back of his head as he moves against Francis' legs. It gives his reaching arm a better angle, too; he doesn't much care which part of Francis he touches, only wants to be touching something. "I haven't found much more like it anywhere yet, and I might need it someday. Who knows who I might want to impress?"

Oh yes, lots and lots of people to impress out here in the wilderness. Crozier smirks down at him, enjoy the easy conversation between the two of them. This is how it should be, not that visceral, snarling exchange they had not too long ago.

“Grand idea, save it for a wedding, or when Constable Fraser’s crowned King of Milton.”

"God save the constable," Raju snorts, and then smiles up at Francis for a moment, content, thoughtful. "But you're not wrong. There isn't anyone, is there? No one important."

He thinks over that idea. Thinks about the things Francis knows about him now. It's strange. There are things he can say, not just the awful parts but the everyday ones, that he's never really explained to anyone before. Uncle, a little, but not like this, not relaxed and just talking. When Raju goes on it's a little more slowly, charting new waters. "I... used to spend my time off talking to superior officer's sons, their cousins, the women they had their eye on. Involved in their lives. Getting on their good side. You have to look a certain way. But here, it only matters who I'd want to. And you don't care about any of that at all, do you? I could wear anything. I could grow my hair wild and stop brushing it for months and you'd only make fun of me."

"I'd worry about your mental stability, but yes," he laughs. He's finished washing his hair, so now he doesn't have a good excuse for touching him other than 'because he wants to'. Hopefully he won't get called out on it.

"I wouldn't care, no. Not to say I don't have an appreciative eye for beauty, because I certainly do." He loves the beauty of the sea or the ice, the kaleidoscope in the skies during the Aurora, fine paintings and the twinkling of stars in the sky. But he loves a good personality the best - a brave, intelligent, somewhat reckless person to balance out his careful nature.

"Hm." Raju squirms around, turning a little more onto his side to give his neck a different angle to look up at. That makes it easier too, incidentally, to put set a hand on Francis' leg, the other stretched flat on the floor just next to it. "But you don't care much about grooming, I thought. Is there something else you're thinking of when you're looking for beauty, then? Something you like?"

Idle questions. Satisfying questions; he's hungry to know the answer. He wants everything that he can get, and this in particular. He's hungry to know everything there is about Francis, the man who can hear all of Raju's terrible secrets without blinking, the man with his fingers moving over Raju's hair.

"Lord. If I knew we'd be venturing down this path..." he scoffs, very tenderly - yet casually - brushing Raju's hair around his ear to help him set it.

"Just because I say I don't care about meticulous grooming doesn't mean I don't enjoy it. I like a woman with coiffed hair and a pretty frock." He pauses in hesitation, then laughs a little at himself in embarrassment. There are a few other preferences he's accumulated over the year, but if he's too specific he'll admit to his other proclivities. He could pray that Raju doesn't immediately recoil in disgust, or he could keep being vague.

"Expressive eyes, and a smirk. I always did fall quick for a quick wit and a sly smirk. And I...well, I find that hands are very beautiful. I used to hate when they'd be covered with formal gloves. Gloves are for cold weather, not the opera or a dress uniform."

He makes a quiet little noise as he considers what else he appreciates in a person. "Laughter. A real laugh, and a shared joke. And I always did have a soft spot for the impulsively brave."

"Well, that proves my point, doesn't it?" Raju's hand lifts off from Francis' leg just long enough to gesture broadly in the air, then sets itself down again. "None of that's beauty, that's... everything else. The hands are close, I suppose, but all the rest— you're a romantic, Francis."

Raju says it with a grin, pleased with himself like he's caught his friend out. "Grooming and hair and fine clothes are the afterthought, and you're writing odes to wit and laughter and bravery. I suppose it isn't much of a surprise, I should have expected to see that romantic heart in a man like you." The self-satisfaction in Raju's smile is softening with fondness around its edges and his hand rubs its place on Francis' thigh a little, the gesture meant to soften his teasing. Because it is teasing, but it would be terrible if Francis thought Raju didn't see him all the more warmly for it.

“Oh, that’s hardly fair,” he protests, laughing quietly. “How is any of that not beauty?”

He sits back with a little huff. If he said anything else it would be too specific, he’d give himself away,, but he guesses being labeled as a romantic isn’t hurting anything.

“What about you? I bare my soul for you to criticize, the least you could do is tell me what you find beautiful.”

Raju opens his mouth, automatically ready with a usual answer—

—and then he pauses, considering. He can say anything, now. He doesn't have to say anything, so he can tell Francis anything at all.

"I, ah..." He looks down, over Francis' chest and his stomach and away, then back up at Francis' face, and he pauses for a second. "Would it... be so strange if I don't know?" Before he's finished asking he's smiling a little at himself, to get ahead of the answer being 'yes'. Not that Francis would think so, of course, but it is, isn't it?

"Eyes, hair, body? The usual thing, I think. There's never been any reason to pick anything out." Then his smile grows, teasing again, as he shifts around happily against Francis' legs. "Not everyone's going to skip the question and go straight to personality like you."

He chuckles under his breath. They’re both being a little vague now with their answers, but Raju’s never allowed himself to admire pretty things. There would have been no time for it when he was an officer - that would have been too frivolous! Or perhaps it has something to do with his fiancé and waiting to remain faithful.

“Some people don’t know what’s beautiful until they see it, mn?” Lord knows that’s been the case for him. He strictly admired blue eyes once upon a time, liked blonde and copper hair until he saw brunette locks carefully arranged into waves and curls. He admired tall, lithe figures, and then curvy ones, and then those with strong physiques - he’s the last person to have a physical type, but he knows what’s beautiful and what’s not.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a romantic, do you?”

"Hmm." The sound is low, pleased and warm. "Certainly not. It's just rare. The real way, the way that you do it. It's... poetry is easy. You only have to read the right things, and remember how to say them later. And compliments are easy. But thinking, say... bravery, that that's what beauty is, and really meaning that — bravery, shared jokes — that's rare. You look at someone you find beautiful and you see them. Not just their shape, or the way they've done themselves up."

He shifts to put the hand on Francis' thigh under his jaw, too, propping his head up, and smiles up at Francis, admires him. "It's... good. I know that. You're a good man. You do know it too, don't you?"

He smiles warmly, albeit a touch bashfully at being looked at so closely. Truly looked at, seen like he’d seen others, like he’d seen Raju.

“It takes some reminding,” he tells him honestly. “And work. No man is innately good, or wakes knowing they’re good or decent.”

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