Raju's impressed by that degree, that speed of movement from a man who can barely string a sentence together but knows better than to question it and moves them both as quickly as he can, as smoothly and carefully as he can manage, and doesn't try to straighten up all the way. He crouches and leans over and, with his arm around Francis' shoulders, tries to lead him as close to the fireplace and its light as he can get before Francis can't go on.

When he'd left, he realises, he'd left the fireplace lit. The realisation is a faint one. It doesn't matter, but it's strange. Not like him. He always wants to, doesn't like coming back to a house that's nearly as cold as the damn outside and having to wait for it to warm up, but it's too much of a risk to leave it when no one's there. When he left, he'd been distracted. It's convenient now. He tries to lay Francis out close enough to it that Raju can see him.

There's something dark against Francis' lips. Raju reaches down to touch it. It isn't a scab. It isn't dried. "Francis," Raju says, tension in his voice very tightly leashed before it can turn into anything else. "Did you bite your tongue? Or your lips? Anything in your mouth? This is important."