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Summary
“May I?” Francis asks almost hesitantly, all rough Irish brogue, and James nods, swallowing.
Did Francis not know how he was embedded in James’ mind like the sound of the ice? That he was equally maddening, as James lies awake under his cold sheets at night trying to remember the feel of his mouth? Of his hands?
And now Francis is undressing him slowly and gently, pulling the fabric away from his shoulders and then folding the burnt cape into a neat square. Lifting the edge of James’ once-white sweater and helping him pull it over his head.