sixthiterationlogs | Just to break my own fall

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Just to break my own fall

WHO: Bodhi and Jude
WHERE: Jude's house
WHEN: After the holiday party
OPEN TO: Closed to Jude Sullivan
WARNINGS: Sappy bullshit

Bodhi's not usually quite this stupid over Jude, partly because he restrains himself, partly because even he's not this ridiculously romantic. Their banter at the party wasn't even that out of the ordinary, even if Jude taking his hand in public was a bit beyond the usual. They both fed each other's nonsense until they were completely twitterpated, and it feels fantastic, if distantly kind of foolish. Too hard to care through Jude carefully (and unnecessarily) helping him into his robe and scarves, through the snow-shimmering walk hand in hand, the cold bringing a little extra color to Jude's cheeks (and probably his, but what does he care). Impossible to think about anything else as they finally wend their way toward the house and Bodhi's hand tightens on Jude's through their gloves and looks away just to give himself a break from grinning so hard. Spending nights with Jude has ceased to be a big deal and of course his damage is still a wall between them, but he's the good kind of nervous anyway. This feels like it could almost be normal, a real, regular date with a functional person like Jude deserves. The faint swirl of soft, pretty nothingness lets him collect himself a bit as they head up the steps.

Then there's hurrying through the door as a practical matter. No reason to let the house get colder. But that's as practical as he feels like being, and as soon as the door is closed he turns, catches Jude's shoulders, and steals a kiss. A quick one. He knows they have to deal with the fire and coats and bullshit, but he's been waiting on that for what feels like a very long time.

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No stranger to the house being cold when coming in out of it--both in the village and the trailer park--Jude can't help but let Bodhi waylay them at the door. There's a difference between cold and empty, after a long walk home through nicer parts of town, and this. Drinking hot tea in the glittering air, being crowded against something by company, and kissed like it couldn't wait.

Why should it?

Practicality aside, Jude sets his cup on a small table by the door, where he usually leaves gloves and shoes and other necessities to leaving. His gloves do follow, freeing his hands to hover at the edge of Bodhi's hair, then gently run the tips through to dislodge or simply melt fat flakes of snow caught within. He wants to draw him back in, and the compromise is just--leaning against the door, looking at him, in the hopes that Bodhi will know he can do that again--

If he wants to.

Bodhi's breath catches, but it's a good catch. His own efforts and Jude's care have at least gotten him to the point where he can honestly enjoy having his hair touched again. He makes a similar choice to Jude's, though instead of getting his gloves off he frees a hand to pull his headscarf free and untie his ponytail. An invitation in turn.

And he takes Jude's. They'll get out of their coats eventually. He rocks up a bit onto the balls of his feet this time, leaving the one hand where it was on Jude's shoulder and sliding the other up along his cheek to cup his jaw before kissing him longer and softer. Not too long. The wool gloves probably itch. But. Point made.

Jude has probably kissed Bodhi more than he's ever kissed anyone else, by now, even with all the start and stop, the surprise of it at the beginning or end of a very long day. Maybe that's why it isn't like kissing at a party, or crowding together in the cab of his truck after. It isn't meant to go anywhere. Sometimes it's just the one, sometimes it's like this: carefully fitting his fingers in Bodhi's hair and holding him into it when he tips up.

He doesn't ask, and he doesn't push--but Jude wants to touch Bodhi the way he used to sit aside and look at him. Studying, appreciating. His fingers have drawn the shape of his face, the fall of his hair, the folds of his scarves--but he wants to run them over the lines of him as well. For now, he spends the duration of the kiss running his fingers through the length of Bodhi's hair, gathering it gently back into the shape of its tail, wound over one hand, holding it to curved back of Bodhi's skull. Despite his height, he's the one pressed to the door, inviting and submitting to the kiss; he lets his feet run along the floor a bit, dropping him down to Bodhi's level when he blinks his eyes open and looks at him across the short space of one kiss ending, another hovering.

His other hand finds a loose hold on the hang of Bodhi's scarf, as if knowing its texture can make up for the rest. His voice is the low rumble of a landslide, on the far side of the hill. "I wouldn't mind if you kept doing that."

Bodhi's pattern seeking habits already have him thinking of tonight as special. No good reason except there was a party, sort of, and he and Jude managed to bounce off each other's banter until both of them are... in whatever mood this is. Now he has something to fasten onto. It's such a small thing, but Jude's fingers in his hair just feel good. The gentle contact, in this context, isn't enough to set off the malfunctioning alarms that try and insist any hint of pressure is restraint. It feels the way it should, instead, achingly lovely little shivers following the path of Jude's fingers, the sense of being wanted that comes with the attention.

And then, kriff, that voice. He's been drawn to it--well, not quite since the beginning, can't claim that. Maybe without noticing, but the rough-edged quality hits his ears like his favorite tea does his tongue, heavy and rich and sweet. The words themselves feel like an afterthought, though they make him smile even as he goes a little weak at the knees. Only Jude.

Bodhi's gloves end up on the floor, and he doesn't even have clear plans to pick them up later. He doesn't stop to ask or think too hard about how it would feel with their positions reversed as he leans against Jude, one hand on his shoulder again and just about pinning him there, the other slipping around the back of Jude's neck and into his hair to hold him in place. A soft little sound escapes him, more a voiced exhalation than anything else, but that's a first, too. It's a long kiss this time.

Emboldened by the sound, Jude leans his head in as Bodhi touches the back of his neck, angling to press back into the kiss. He likes the sound, likes the brush of Bodhi's facial hair, the cold and the rougher skin on the pads or inner knuckles of his fingers. They feel like distinctions: he isn't kissing a girl, or a woman, or a boy. He isn't kissing anyone, or anyone like, who he kissed before this place. His sense of self is so thin sometimes it doesn't occur to him to be of an age, to be anything at all--he's aware of his hair and his height and he knows what his hands look like better than he knows anything else, but when Bodhi gets close enough, Jude knows he's being pinned to the door by a man.

Without the world to hide from, it elicits a thrill. His breath hitches, and it's really the door holding them both up after a point. Jude wouldn't know--not enough about love or infatuation, not enough about kissing men--to think it anything but some kind of skill on Bodhi's part.

He's so focused on taking each day at a time, on staying busy, surviving, keeping his head down--kissing Bodhi in the front hall of his cold house is as much a mental break as physical. He gathers the fold of Bodhi's clothes inward, until his hand is pressed against his side through his clothes, just knowing the shape of him. Just knowing that somewhere under it, he's solid, he's the weight Jude wakes up under at times, bewildered at his own content. There's a fireplace and a couch one room away, but if he breaks this for the chap of his knuckles in the cold air, he doesn't know when it will start again.

The door's doing him a favor. He doesn't have to think, doesn't have to care about anything but Jude's mouth against his, the smell of snow that clings to him and sharpens the heat between them where the cold creeps in. There are a lot of layers between them, but it's still a kind of closeness he hasn't dared before, not leaning on Jude or sleeping propped against his side or hugging while they share the edge of a bed. They're as close as they can get, is all that matters, and he doesn't have to think about how.

Jude's hand makes him aware again. Not in a way he can't fight. He's pretty good at catching and caging the little moments of wrongness, telling himself it's fine. There's no outward sign. But he's aware of Jude's hand and it's not like fingers in his hair--it's a reminder that he has to check on the broken parts and make sure he doesn't shatter anything important.

He's better--he's so much better. But that's not the same as okay. He hopes Jude hasn't noticed, but the moment's fading for Bodhi. Not that he's afraid he can't get it back. He has Jude all to himself and the night still feels charmed. But he wants a bridge between now and the next thing so he can recover himself without making anything uncomfortable. He's seen the way Jude retreats if he's afraid of damaging and he doesn't want to see it now.

Every kiss up to now, even this one, has been chaste and gentle, however long it went on. Seemed safest. And, before this, seemed for the best. Not now. Bodhi tightens his fingers in Jude's hair and shifts his angle ever so slightly, catching Jude's lower lip between his, nibbling softly and swiping the tip of his tongue against it.

Not much of a decisive counter to the demons in his own head, but it makes him feel like he isn't cheating Jude when he does pull back a moment later and smile. "N-not that I'm not having fun, but... We have more comfortable places to be?" And by the time he gets there he'll have put the little ripple of nerves behind him.

There are so many different kinds of wrong answers, wrong things to do, Jude doesn't hold himself to getting it all exactly right any longer. He rather expects to get everything wrong, the way you can have to draw a line a few times before it settles in the right place. The mind will fill in the blanks. The line will seem to move, and that's what they do: they keep moving. It's just a moment against a door, and the surprising power of it having been months, and it being Bodhi--when the kiss deepens even a bit.

He isn't dazed or shaken by it, but the color stays high on his cheeks as Bodhi pulls away, and his mouth is a little more tender than it was when they got inside. Enough to know this happened, even as they keep moving.

"Yeah," he agrees, dropping his head forward, his smile and his flush trying to hide between the angle and the fall of his hair. His hands open, release Bodhi, fall to his sides, and once all of him is hanging off his spine, he straightens it to stand up fully at the door. "Come on, I'll get the fire going." Rolling head and shoulders back up, he's shedding his coat down his back as he slides out to precede Bodhi into the main room, lifting and holding back the sheet for him.

Bodhi finds Jude fascinating to look at in a lot of different ways, and he's already noted how easily he colors. Usually that's the cold chasing blood into his cheeks, but this works too. He stares a little even as he lets Jude go, letting himself get left behind a bit as he gapes. He doesn't even feel dumb this time, just enjoys the pleasant agitation. He scrambles after a moment later to duck into the other room, then stands aside to get out of his robe and, after a moment's hesitation, his sash and outer tunic. The maneuver still leaves him in long sleeves--it's not exactly seduction. It still takes a bit of resolution.

Whereupon he turns back to Jude to stare some more. He doesn't mean to get in the way of the definitely important fire situation, and he's content with just watching Jude work at first. "We're lucky you're good at this. One of my fires and we'd freeze before it got going." He doesn't remember deciding to slide up behind Jude while he worked, but that seems to have happened. He does have the self control to restrict himself to just running his fingers through Jude's hair and not getting in his way.

It's good to have a task, better for it to involve kneeling and facing one direction. It lets him peek beyond the fall of his hair, over a shoulder, to watch Bodhi peel off his layers. Jude doesn't mind being observed, but in the moment, he isn't so bold as to openly observe back. Justification is the automatic way his teeth sink into his lower lip, and how he has to truly aim his gaze at the logs in the grate, running his hands over warm ash to carefully expose a few living embers.

He doesn't mind sacrificing some of the paper, but he thinks Bodhi might on some level--so it's just twigs and leaves stuffed over and blown on until they curl up in orange and ash. Over and over until the twigs stay lit long enough to catch the logs. Fire illuminates and obscures with warm light the flush fixed on his face.

To anyone else it might seem silly, the effect of Bodhi in a single layer. Before he even presses close, before he's tucking back Jude's hair and speaking at his ear--Jude's always so smitten with the shape of him. Hands in the sweep and fold of robes and sashes, or now, that rangy half of him disappearing into the looser folds of his pants. He wants--to draw that, and to run his hands firmly up Bodhi's forearms over his sleeves. To see him with his sleeves rolled up. To see him in his denim jacket.

By the time that all processes, he has no idea what Bodhi's said. Jude turns his head, into the side Bodhi's exposed by petting back his hair, and looks back over his shoulder with more presence than the usual times he blanks out on the man. "I--" he blinks, backtracks. "We'd figure something out. Blankets." Body heat.

Bodhi spends a lot of time wondering at Jude's willingness to engage in all the patience and care this requires. There's a lot to wonder at. His feelings on the subject usually settle on a sort of abject gratitude that stops him from having to think much more on the subject, but the look he's getting now turns his thoughts from the habitual how does he put up with me that rings in the background of all his thoughts to what does he see in me. Something must make it worth all this, and he's never thought that far before. Has anyone ever looked at him like that? He's felt that people cared about him before, but never so openly admired. Maybe it's the artist's eyes turned on him.

It brings back some of his usual bashfulness, but he's brave enough tonight not to look away from the intensity of Jude's attention. He leans in instead, dropping down in front of the fire, too, and continuing to play with Jude's hair. He's becoming very adept at this maneuver, overcompensate for his own cowardice by leaning in and not away. "You'd keep me warm, yeah." There's a bit of a tremor in his voice, but he's still in this.

Maybe he shouldn't cut it after all: if Bodhi likes it this much, more can only be better. His head is canted for the touch, his coat folded over his legs and crushed up in the way he's crouched to start the fire. As he loosens to simply kneel, it slides down, a nest of folds for him to wipe his ashen hands on.

The tremor gets a look, but it's more--a steadying. Jude stops himself tilting more and more sideways into the intensity of it all. One of them has to, and Bodhi is already trying.

His hands curl in the folds of his coat, wanting to touch, wanting to not get this wrong. He hadn't been careful with Credence at all, really, but that had been--life and death. He'd grab onto Bodhi to save him, he'd do it without thinking. Now all he can do is think, and compromise with himself. Bodhi's hand is in his hair, so he brushes his fingers along his arm, taking his time to test a grip near his elbow. Just a place to hold, just fingers appreciating the shape of bone, the density of muscle. "One way or another," he agrees, knowing the fire's grown properly from the way the light washes over Bodhi's face.

Slow, careful, good. Jude's expert care keeps him away from the edge, and times like this (was there ever a time like this before?), it's lovely all on its own. Feather-soft caresses from pleasantly rough fingers. Jude's hands match his voice. Appreciating that has nothing to do with being broken. He looks for a moment, reassuring himself that he knows where Jude's hands are. Good, good and almost safe.

"You're resourceful like that." The words are nonsense, but they don't really feel important. What does is moving in close, speaking right into Jude's ear and then nuzzling into his hair, breathing in deep and aware of the shell of the ear at the corner of his mouth as he does. Woodsmoke and snow and Jude, the silky, tickling fall of his hair, it's enough that he doesn't need steadying anymore. And he doesn't have to wonder what he could possibly have done to be looked at like that if all he can see is the confusion of light and shadow as the firelight passes through Jude's hair. That's something, too.

It really is different, in a way that has merit. Slow amd careful can be good. The slowest thing before this was girls who liked to dance first. Jude was inept, but it was the kind of dancing that was mostly standing in one place. A lot of swaying, a lot of kissing. He's dancing with Bodhi now, and he's--

Juce can't help the shiver. His grip tightens just to steady, and the turn of his head is a kind of supplication: he's exposing his throat, sighing audibly.

He spent so much time near the end of term, locked in his dorm. When was the last time someone touched his ear, when had anyone touched him like this at all? Would it matter? They wouldn't have been Bodhi. "I--"

There isn't quite a crack in his voice, but he doesn't know what he wanted to say. He wants to turn his head, kiss him again. Instead, he flounders, and he wonders if this is being careful, if this is getting it right, or if Bodhi is the brave one between them.

He remembers, no, it wasn't their first kiss. That was just a quick, slightly regrettable lapse in Bodhi's judgement. The first time they really spent time on it, the assurance that he could do this whenever he wanted. He's not foolish enough to think Jude doesn't have boundaries of his own, but they must be more remote, more ordinary. Maybe he can just give himself permission to let Jude tell him if he crosses a line and stop thinking he might be about to do it every moment? It's projection. It's stupid. It's still hard to just reject.

And, well, that's a pretty clear request. Bodhi has to half stand to move like this, but it's quick, if clumsy, a hurried shuffle that moves him from kneeling next to Jude to behind him, chest to back, an excellent position to pull Jude in and kiss a line down his neck from his ear. Bodhi would hate it, but being the one doing it feels pretty amazing, and that... That has to be okay sometimes. Jude shivering and sighing and getting what he wants is what Bodhi needs from this.

His mouth, it's corners, his hands. Even when Bodhi takes his time with it, Jude has it in his head. Where Bodhi kisses, how long. Never with someone present, but within the possibility of it. Usually in this house, or out in the trees. They hold hands, they catch up on sleep while it's too cold to avoid it. Sometimes he comes back from one of those long moments, where he just goes away from his body, and instead of a question he gets a kiss on the cheek. He likes those, even if he isn't all the way back inside himself when they happen.

They hold hands. Sometimes, if he needs it enough, Bodhi lets him put his head down on his shoulder and be quiet for awhile. It's fine, it's more than he crawled out of the fountain expecting.

But Bodhi hasn't quite let him go since they left the inn, save to strip down to his sleeved shirt. It's steadying them in a sling around Jude's waist, and it is solid, and he doesn't let himself touch it. Bodhi is solid and enough at his back, and it feels a little like going out of his head when he kisses his neck. Except he isn't gone, he's narrowed down to the feeling of skin and hair over his pulse, and he's present enough to know the low, embarrassing noise he makes. When he gets back in his head, it's running on a loop, a reminder--this doesn't go anywhere and it's fine--and it is fine. It's more than fine, just--he doesn't know what to do.

Somewhere in the disappearing and coming back, in the low noise, he'd laid his head to one side and given Bodhi room to go half down his shoulder before finding the collar of his shirt. He'd risen a hand, and it hovers where it meant to find some part of Bodhi and hold him there. "You don't," he starts, and swallows. "You don't have to."

It's true that he didn't exactly plan ahead. He has no plan. He just wants the closeness he's confident he can handle, wants to keep Jude close enough to feel under his hands and to make him make cute little noises whenever he does something right. Making it good for Jude has been something he's wanted in the abstract for a long time, has always been the way he focused his energy, but this is the first time he's felt like he could do it. That and Jude flush against him like this makes his own head fluttery and unfocused.

He definitely gets the impression he's doing a good job and is ready to tease a little more when Jude speaks, and Bodhi stops short for a moment. "Do you... think I don't want to?" He doesn't want to lose the giddy, exhilarating mood he's been in since they left the party, can't reverse that quickly anyway, but he hates the idea that Jude would think he doesn't want to be here. No need to jump to conclusions. Right? "Baby, I know I'm not good at--I know I don't have to. I want to. Okay?"

It's weird the things that translate across literal outer space. Jude doesn't know what an outer rim is, or half the cargoes Bodhi describes from his hauls--but baby is still what you say at a moment like this. Jude has to hide in his hair for that one, even if the flush creeps down his neck.

"You are good at it," he manages to say, head still down. He's trying not to move his body at all, to soak up the heat at his front and back and just exist. That's safe, that isn't--it doesn't hurt and it doesn't disappoint. The state of him should be proof, it's just--somewhere in it all you starts to mean him and the idea of it, that fear to act, is something he's started to carry.

He doesn't quite turn, doesn't want to break the grip. But Jude peeks out of his hair, searching. There aren't words enough in him, to say that he doesn't know what to do. To say that he's afraid to get this wrong, that there are things Bodhi is allowed to pull away from, always, but he doesn't want to be the reason. "Just," he says instead, feeling like someone invented a new kind of helpless while he wasn't paying attention: "Can you just, put my hands where you want them?"

He didn't mean for baby to slip out. Given Jude's ambivalence to being told he was cute, it would have been something to avoid, if possible. But it seems to have gone over... pretty well, actually, not that he'd be confident in it staying that way if they weren't where and when they are. He'll revisit that later.

Bodhi tightens his grip and presses his nose into Jude's hair again, trying not to tease this time, wanting to be intent and clear but maybe not risk driving the guy crazy while they're working on something important. That's actually--That's an excellent idea. He immediately loves it. Doesn't seem fair to Jude, definitely isn't normal, but, damn, everything would be so easy that way. "Kriff, yes," he says, smiling at the absurdity of it.

Though from here that's not exactly fair. Bodhi quite likes where he is, but even if he were a normal person who didn't need to be treated like a time bomb, there wouldn't be much for Jude to reach. He lets go with a quick kiss to Jude's cheek. "Come on, couch." Honestly, trying to do this on the floor was probably a dumb idea anyway.

Being called cute reminds him of school--any warmth elicited is from the person, Bodhi, feeling close or bold enough to say it. Baby is something else: he hasn't been baby to anybody in all the time he can remember, spotty as it is. But he remembers being led, and it's easy to follow.

It should have been easy to sit half in Bodhi's lap and be kissed, but they're fixing it now. Bodhi is the opposite of put off, brightening, squeezing him, dropping close for more affection. He does kiss, and he does tease, and he does look at Jude when he's performing the sweatier chores. Jude knows there isn't any lack of want from either of them.

He doesn't even think he could blank out or fall over enough times to change that, and he doesn't feel like either is going to happen right now. They're full of good food, hot tea, a little high on each other's company. Getting this right is an evolving process, and they've gotten this far.

Jude steps over the cushions and blankets between the hearth and the couch, pushed back only enough to avoid catching on a pop and spark. What that means for them, he doesn't know, just that he's being led by the hand and he wants--more of that, even if he just winds up playing with Bodhi's hair all night.

Bodhi has no intention of rewarding Jude with nothing more than hair petting after tonight, or after all the months behind them, either. He doesn't have any firm finish line he's looking at, because that's a good way to mess up and be disappointed, but he is determined to make sure Jude enjoys it. Maybe even enjoys it and doesn't worry. He owes his handsome artist that much.

He leads the way by half a step, taking Jude's hand and, after a moment's debate, guiding it to his shoulder, very carefully, fingers just at the top, palm to the hollow below his collarbone. He's had to develop a decent sense of when he's going to react badly, and this won't do it. This doesn't feel like restraint.

He leaves Jude's other hand free for balance purposes, since his next move is to nudge him onto the couch. Falling is never romantic. He's done it enough times. He follows Jude down as evenly as he can, winding up on his knees at a slightly odd angle but content to be clumsy if it works. He's not quite ready to climb into Jude's lap, though as an option that's in no way off the table. Later. It's only when he's got them situated he catches Jude's other hand and brings it to his hair. This should feel weird, but he likes it too much.

"Like that?" He's still Bodhi. Still needs to be sure he isn't overstepping.

His fingers curl at Bodhi's collar, not even a grip--just the tips turned in more paw than hand where it's been put. They open again as Bodhi leads him back onto the couch, find the proper hold. Not pushing him away or pulling him in, just his hand there. Fingertips just-so to the line of his shoulder, thumb exploring up the implied line between throat and the dip before his sternum.

Somehow, he can't take his attention from his face, even if his eyes still drop and he still looks up through his hair at times. It's too important to know if something changes, and there's anticipation, too. He likes being made to sit on the couch, legs sprawled, Bodhi somehow on a knee between them, hovering at the edge of the couch. With Jude's hands on him, and the simple possiblity that he might come closer. Jude likes Bodhi over him in a way he articulates with a quick wetting of his lips, and a drop of his gaze before it seems inexorably drawn back to the sight.

Bodhi doesn't push, not in the usual sense of the word, but Jude likes what he does. Bodhi likes what he does, what he's doing: he holds that in his head. Bodhi put him here because he wanted to. His hand is in Bodhi's hair because Bodhi put it there.

"Yes," he says, voice wrung closer to hoarse than deep. "Just like that." He doesn't drag Bodhi in by the hair to kiss him, but a tightness in his chest hopes that Bodhi will lean down. His hand smooths over the soft growth on the sides of Bodhi's head, and he threads his fingers through the longer hair, stroking, while the only moving part of his other hand is the thumb, doing the same at his throat.

Bodhi watches back. There's a little anxiety buried in there, but it's finally mostly for the fun of looking, watching anticipation chase blushes over those startling cheekbones, catching the darkness in deep eyes and liking what he sees there, the hint of a shine to the lips. He's doing something right, finally.

He closes his eyes a moment, just to enjoy Jude's voice washing over him. Jude can't possibly know how good that sounds. He could set his heartbeat to the growl alone, but hearing yes in that tone is blissful.

The movement of Jude's fingers tempts him to stay like this and bask for a bit. He put Jude's hands exactly where he wanted them. Not where he could stand them. Wanted. He suspects there are things, ordinary, nice things he'll never be able to enjoy fully, never want to be held tight or playfully manhandled a bit, but finally he can give himself over to the sweet, electric pleasure of fingertips on his scalp. His breath hitches a bit, no more. Bodhi learned quiet for times like this, and it's hard to unlearn because he's not stealing a moment in the academy or a crammed spaceport for once.

It's a short hesitation. Jude's his focus. He wants to pick up where he left off, at first, but just looking down at him (looking down at him is nice) seems to call for something a little more momentous than just nibbling below his ear again. ...That will come. Bodhi sets a hand along Jude's jaw and just looks at him for a moment, envying the artist's eyes, and kisses him. Deep, by their standards, tipping Jude's chin up and teasing with his tongue right away. It's still an invitation, a gentle probing. Still Bodhi--his other hand's on the back of the couch for balance instead of dragging them in close. But he can't not with Jude looking that good.

He focuses on Bodhi's hair. Jude knows better than to tug him in, even if his thighs shift and make space, even if his elbows are loose to let Bodhi move. All he can do is invite, all he can do is look at Bodhi with the truth on his face. That he's embarrassed, and pleased, and just--here. He's really here, and his hands will go anywhere, do anything Bodhi wants of them.

Bodhi does lean in for the kiss, and that's more than enough. Jude tilts his chin for that hand, opens for Bodhi's tongue and nudges in to kiss him back. His hand starts and stops in Bodhi's hair, remembering what he's allowed, forgetting to do anything but hold the side of his head and brace on is collar and be kissed. He makes a noise, and the noise and the feeling behind it are the hot winds of those first summer days, air rising out of the sun-baked canyon.

He touches Bodhi's hair every way he knows how, compensating. The pads of rough fingers smoothing through, then the tips winged in and his nails combing strands apart. He doesn't shift his grip to steady Bodhi on the couch, or sling an arm around his waist to pull him in. He doesn't kiss him, doesn't tilt his head to carry along his jaw or down his throat--just kisses him back, letting Bodhi tilt and turn his head, letting it press to the back of the couch and sit by his other hand.

Someday he'll understand, that in not letting himself do these things, the sentiment is the same as if he had.

Jude's patience pays off as it always does. Bodhi just kisses for a bit, more at his ease, more daring as moment go on. This is the first moment he's realized it, but it's been years since he had anyone to touch like this. The way he broke in Saw's dungeons contributed, sure, but it was a rough time in his life before that. Jude's fingers, Jude's mouth, it's cool water in a drought, for all he didn't realize he was fading for lack of it. The rush of sensation, now that he can finally feel it, is dizzying, is almost too much, just this side of bearable. He shudders before he even moves in closer, a rattle in his bony frame that feels bone deep, and Jude finally gets a throaty gasp out of him, a sound almost voiced.

He doesn't forget the new rule. Jude's hands are his. Not thinking clearly enough to question how he constructed that thought, he catches the one on his shoulder and covers it with his own, dragging it down slowly to his side. Jude's held him there a few times and he wants the closeness, just... He's careful, just like before, setting the hand too far inward to make him feel held down. As he moves Jude's hand he moves in, undeniably in Jude's lap now if still at an odd angle.

He leaves Jude's mouth like he has to drag himself away, slow and lingering, chasing kisses lazily until he finally nudges Jude's chin and ducks his head in. He could pick up where he left off, but first, he whirls his tongue along the shell of Jude's ear and catches the earlobe between his lips.

Uncaring of angles or intent, Jude follows in those first attempts to move down. His head tips up from the back of the couch, meeting Bodhi halfway when he lingers, when he comes back for more. The nudge gets him to set his head back; he's pinned by Bodhi's weight, arm at an odd angle where the elbow digs to the corner of the couch, his hand steadies at Bodhi's side, his throat drapes exposed over the back of the couch for Bodhi's attention.

Which isn't where it goes. The noise he expected to muffle is replaced with a short gasp, sucked between his teeth. He doesn't even know if he likes the sensation, just that it exists. Bodhi's mouth is on his ear again; the tight reaction of his jaw stands a line out along his throat, and his pulse jumps.

Good or bad, he's flushing for it. It's been a long time since anyone crawled in his lap, and it was always the best way. Sit him down, straddle him, show him what to do. He's gathering Bodhi's hair in his hand again, letting it slip its length through his fingers as they just barely press tips to the back of his head, encouraging and supporting without holding him in. The flush is going to the root of him, but he's trying not to think about it--what will happen if he gets properly hard, with Bodhi this close. It won't be like waking up with it and rolling away to start the fire and forget.

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