He's still getting used to that; taking the word and connecting it to himself. It's like a structure he has to build each day--baby is one of the blocks, and another is the relationship itself, and several more are the warp of time and space, and the canyon, and everything within its walls.

And tomorrow there will be another block, slotting into place. This is part of his life now: humming and sinking down on Bodhi's cock, with his hand in his hair, and Bodhi calling him baby.

It's a good distraction, from the absence of family, friend, home. The only closure he craves tonight is getting Bodhi to come in his mouth. Bodhi to sleep on top of him on the couch, or on the cushion-strewn floor, close to the fire. It's as far as Jude lets himself think, everything else is sensation--the taste and weight of Bodhi on his tongue, the stretch of his lips. He pulls off once for what feels like a sneeze and is just the impulse to swallow, unobstructed. A couple of breaths later he's back down, meeting his hand and trying to take Bodhi deep enough that he won't need to hold any part of him down.