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Summary
“What’s a shame?”
Francis looks at him. Really looks at him, and brushes his jaw with his knuckles.
“That you have such a lovely voice, you terrible man. And you so rarely let me hear it.”
There is a tear caught in the corner of Arthur’s lash line, from the laughter, from the wind that dried his eyes; because he is tired. It could be any one of those things or a little of them all. Francis reaches up to brush it away, and Arthur is so still—so very still—as he does it that Francis thinks he might be holding his breath.