Jude's lips and teeth barely part to suck in a breath; for the eyes on his, for the deliberate pass of Bodhi's tongue. His fingers twitch on Bodhi's cheek, a low noise that sounds like but isn't hurt when he brushes the pad of flesh below Jude's pinky. There's a scrape of tongue to callous that rings the sensitive flesh around it with feeling. It pants his breath once before it's forced out by the introduction of Bodhi's weight.

It's welcome, for all the instinct is to loop an arm around and steady. Jude has his wits enough to hover it at the small of Bodhi's back, the only real contact a hip at the inset of his elbow. Even the curve of his fingers runs parallel to, but doesn't touch, the opposite hip.

He takes a long, careful breath, soaking up the contact where Bodhi's chest touches his own. He does want to hold him. He's always wanted that, in an abstract way, but he can live without it. What he's learned to enjoy instead is being leaned on, used as a pillow. Waking up under some fraction of Bodhi's weight. In the moment, the desire to hold is only to get more of it--but he lifts his hand instead, tangling a couple of fingers in the ends of Bodhi's hair, where it's safe and wanted and he won't ruin this by taking too much.