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.