Raju's palm is resting over Francis' forehead already, and he's only just decided to put it there. That's alright. His body knows what to do: anything that Francis asks for. He meets Francis' eyes, worry hardened into determination over his face, and gives a single nod, blowing a hard breath out of his nose and looking into Francis' eyes — eye — for a moment more. There's no place for fear here, not when Francis is looking to Raju to take care of him. For however long—

He turns to look at the pot in the fire, as if he needs to check on it seconds after putting it there. His hand slides down to the side of Francis' neck. "Fever," he says, realises how impersonal and cold his voice sounds, and clears his throat.

"Is it heat or cold?" he goes on, voice very casual now as he turns back toward Francis, as if only asking about the weather. "That you do for a fever? Damp rags, that's what people do for those, isn't it?"