Raju is, in fact, wrapping his arms around his chest even as Fitzjames asks it. The coat is wonderful, so long as he doesn't think very hard about the fact that Fitzjames should be the one wearing it — he'll give it back at some point, they'll have to trade — but the gesture's a reflexive one. The cold is there, after all, even with a wonderful coat.

"Mhm." He smiles, faintly. "The summers could be... it must have been ninety degrees, sometimes. When I went north... I thought fifty was cold." He huffs, watching the cloud of it gather in front of his face. The air stings at his face; he misses the blanket he's used to wrapping around it now when he goes out. But there's nothing he can do about that now and more important things to worry about, like Francis' friend and his health. The talk of cold brings him back to it, as if he was going to forget.

"You need red meat," he declares decisively, without much of a pause between it and talking about Delhi's winters. It needs saying, and he was thinking about it. "Francis has traps. We'll start bringing what they catch, it'll help you keep warm."