Francis looks away and Raju waits patiently, studying the side of Francis' face too until those eyes make themselves meet his again. The compliment is difficult for him. It was difficult before, but this time is going better. He can feel it going better by the return of Francis' gaze, by the sweep of Francis' hand, sweeping a wash of relief up his back; to be touched with love after all this time is still a wonder and to be touched this way, the two of them as they are, is something else altogether.

A poet. He shakes his head. His eyes dart over Francis' face, and then he decides to say: "I grew up by a river. A holy river. The Godavari. It— kept us safe after... everything. Impossible for soldiers to get into the valley without crossing it, and it fed us well enough we almost didn't have to leave. When anyone had children, it's what they bathed in for the first time. It's where we soaked the urns of ashes after... any of us died. I sailed it every time Uncle came to bring me out to the city and back again, and when I was grown and started... work, it's how I came home. I'm not a poet. I only know what the river looks like."

He settles all his weight on the one forearm so the other hand can lift and trace the backs of its fingers over the skin by one of Francis' eyes. It's the side of his face that'd been so hurt, more precious for that, and he touches it very gently. "I only know what it feels like to look into it," he says simply and, because action is probably easier than words right now for them both, he leans forward just a little more and touches their lips together, this kiss now as chaste and as slow as Raju's earlier affections couldn't be.