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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Jude stops thinking about if he gets hard--doesn't even get to when. He isn't thinking much at all through the smear and press of Bodhi's mouth. It's soft, attentive, squeezing sighs and low murmurs out of his throat. A lot of those murmurs are just Bodhi's name, breathed, neither question nor comment. They contribute, keep him pinned in the buildup, but it's Bodhi's fingers brushing his chapped knuckles that gets to him.

The sound he makes grinds until it puffs in a soft oh, his grip spasming at Bodhi's side. He doesn't know why. Bodhi holds his hand all the time, and he likes that. And he likes Bodhi's soft attention, and somehow the combination of the two is more than either on their own.

When Bodhi follows that with a proper, sucking kiss at the edge of his collar, Jude makes another grinding sound in his throat. His fingers tangle and close in Bodhi's hair, and he does squirm, at least in his slow and deep-breathing way. He tightens up, he relaxes, but he does what he can not to move. There's no desire to dislodge Bodhi, to get away, the sensation just sweeps down from his shoulders through his legs.

"Bodhi," he says again, but almost properly. He's thinking again, enough to want something, and to want to ask first. "Should I--do you want me to take my shirt off?"

He's been a sucker for that voice, oh, almost certainly all along. He couldn't pinpoint a particular moment--he was completely in the middle of this long before he realized it had begun. But Jude's low growl is definitely high on the (very long) list of what makes him stammer like a teenager and cuddle up like a needy puppy. Most of the time. That voice just barely speaking his name like that, though, that's smoky whiskey and cold desert sunlight pouring straight into his brain.

It's enough (and tonight is enough, and all the efforts behind them are enough) that he doesn't react at all to the fingers rougher in his hair, the tightening hand at his side. Small things. Meaningless, not quite as nice as they should be, but not getting in his way, either. Not a danger. Just his Jude.

He looks up reluctantly, noting the smudgy hint of his activities that's all he can see in the firelight. Bodhi can't even be rough enough to raise much of a hickey, but it's there, and he'll know it. He runs his thumb lightly over the spot and smiles smugly as he looks Jude in the eye. (There's his name again.) "I mean, um, I'd kind of rather do it for you, but if you want." He's teasing, but he's also watching, in case Jude would rather.

"Oh." That hadn't occured to him--that Bodhi might have something of an agenda, that it would include taking off his clothes. It doesn't quite burn him up, except that it is Bodhi, it is--he's different, from everyone before. In his way, he puts Jude where he wants him, and he scrapes that beard over his throat, and he talks about life like a thing he's really lived. He talks about school like a thing behind him. Everything's behind them, here, but Bodhi's seen more of it. He's seen other galaxies.

Maybe the things Jude has seen won't even rank. Maybe the things he's done won't either.

It doesn't feel like a bad thing, even as he tries to navigate--this. Trying to navigate it involves a lot of sitting, stupid, color cutting all of his curves and angles under the fire's glow. He looks at Bodhi, then looks down--not to look at his shirt sweeping down his front in its wrinkled folds, just to look down. His hands have loosened their holds, and he absently pets the hair back into place at the back of Bodhi's head. He never meant to pull.

"Whenever you want, you can--I'd rather you do it."

This quiet feels off. Bodhi thought they were bantering, but apparently not exactly. He could just reach for the hem of Jude's shirt and pull, but this stop isn't encouraging. If nothing else, quick check in seems to be called for. He slows down and kisses Jude's cheek, trying not to frown and puzzle out what he might have done wrong there.

He doesn't have anything like an agenda. Clothes off just seemed like the next logical step, the next bit in the script everyone else knows how to follow and he's learned to fake, and taking them off for him struck Bodhi as more fun than just stripping. No rushing when he's unsure. And if he's over-reacting, well, better that than the alternative. "...You sure?" Hoping to catch his eye, but completely willing not to. Eye contact. Funny stuff.

It's hardly thrown Jude in a bad way, hardly thrown him--he means what he says. He always means what he says, and when he doesn't, he hardly speaks. When his eyes lift, it's curiosity, doubt for doubt. With anyone else, or in different context, he might mutter I said it didn't I, but he likes that he's a softer version of himself for Bodhi.

Usually steadier, too, but he's still learning how to do this.

"Yeah, I'm sure." He combs his fingers through Bodhi's hair, focuses on doing that until it calms him back to the start. Trying to picture anything from outside his own head isn't his strong suit, but when he does: "I'm not--I don't want to rush anything." The other side of the coin, wanting Bodhi to have some idea of what he wants, what's allowed--doesn't occur to him to say.

Alright, he overreacted. He'd still prefer that to the other obvious possibility, and he feels a bit better for the check-in in general. The romantic way to do it is to just be swept away, and tonight he feels pretty thoroughly swept, sure. He'd still like to be certain about the important stuff.

And a slowed-down, softened Jude is kind of nice.

He nods slowly. Not rushing is something he's been known to take to extremes, but at least Jude seems okay with that, as they stand. Admittedly, Jude is okay with pretty much everything that isn't physically painful and many things that are, if only to save himself the trouble. It can be hard to get a read. So he just... doesn't rush. He catches the hem of Jude's shirt with the ends of curled fingertips and hikes it up, exposing a few inches of pale skin and letting his hand rest there a moment, admiring the view hungrily. One of the many advantages to not rushing. A small moment like that has time to hit him and be enjoyed for all it's worth. He smiles crookedly and kisses Jude with a mock-chastity that echoes his usual habits. More in a minute.

Jude takes the kiss with a bit of a blink, somewhere between fuzzy and blank. He's always a little blank, externally, when he stops moving. Concerned as he is with the visual, he never thinks to present much on the outside--mood, thought, basic presence. His most direct and present attention is always for the subject of a drawing, and little else.

His present attention for Bodhi is always a little askance, a little hidden. To see him so attentive himself, to something like a strip of Jude's skin--

Well, the blankness is only a little for internal thought. It's a lot for the ability to relax, secure in the idea that Bodhi does want him. This will go--as far as Bodhi wants it to, and that might be further than Jude let himself imagine. Moving returns Jude to the moment, like he's come back into his body to involve it in the scene. The hand at the back of Bodhi's head goes from combing its fingers to petting, cupping the curve with the hair smoothed beneath it, and he leans part of the way with his head tilted to accommodate. Without pulling Bodhi in, without speaking, he asks for another kiss.

Oh, he's good. And Bodhi is getting better at reading, too. He's drawn in without thinking about it, pulled to Jude by something akin to gravity. His need for control is real, but he's not actually all that good at it. Any sign from Jude as to what he wants from this is welcome. He kisses slowly, as he does almost everything slowly at this point, but he's emboldened now that they've done this a few times. He hardly has to worry about whether Jude wants him to kiss a bit deeper at this point.

It's a good thing that it feels more natural, since more of his attention is on sliding his hand up Jude's side, pushing the hem of his shirt up along with it, palm soaking up the tantalizing heat of his skin and fingers trailing lightly. Teasingly, if he's being honest. He might be learning to relax into kissing, but tonight is full of thrilling little firsts. Skin to skin, even as little as this, is just... different.

What must sound like a reaction to the touch is as much for the kiss; Jude hums as it deepens, and even that is just deeper, more muffled gravel. He likes to kiss, the way Bodhi tastes is only a hint of what was in his bowl, diluted further by tea--and he likes how much longer they last. One can lead directly into the next, and with the draw of Bodhi's hand over his side, he forgets to hold back those small, encouraging sounds.

He wonders if this is what he's meant to do with the hand at Bodhi's side, if he should do more than leave it sitting there, soaking up the warmth through his shirt. He'd never be so bold as to lift the hem, but his hand has strayed low enough to curl his fingers at its edge, gathering a fold to hold onto, leaving his knuckles against the rise of Bodhi's hip.

Every sound out of Jude is hot and encouraging. And, more importantly, reassuring. Still doing good. So he's insecure. If reassurance can come along with a soft growl that seems to sneak up and down his spine, all the better. He tends unconsciusly toward quiet himself, though, not letting slip much but a sharp inhale at the little brush of fingers.

He's suddenly glad he took the time to lose a few layers before they settled in.

Reluctantly he straightens a little, feels his eyes catch on Jude's mouth for a second before he remembers how to talk. He leaves his hand where it is, doesn't try too hard to keep his gaze off the newly revealed stretch of pale skin. "Y-you can, um, it's fine. Catch is here." He tips his head and pushes the hair away to reveal the little clasp behind his neck.

It certainly makes things easier, not having to coax him out of the scarves, though Jude likes to kiss him under the weight of the hood, has always liked the look of Bodhi in his favorite clothes. It's hard to just look, this close.

Maybe it's time to do more than look, with Bodhi guiding his hands, offering the clasp instead of shying from or tolerating the touch.

When Jude reaches for the clasp, he first reaches for Bodhi's hand, feeling out the curve of knuckles, briefly closing his fingers around in a wordless little hello of a squeeze. His mouth has nothing to say, but his hands do, going from hand to hair, his head tilting to look at the difference of Bodhi with his hair combed over to one side by Jude's hand. Just a little smile for it, a little divergence, before he pushes the clasp open in a motion like snapping his fingers, very slowly, and tests two fingers against the skin immediately inside.

He'd like to stop thinking about the risks, but if he does that, there's a nonzero chance he'll ruin things. So he stays aware. This is a little closer than is completely safe, maybe, guiding Jude's hands like this. There's that possibility that his stupid brain will read it as confinement, being held down, and then--But no, it won't, because he chose this, and it's Jude, and Jude's safe. Hand and hair are comforting, familiar by now, and with that in mind, Jude's fingers are the least little thing.

A good thing, though. Bodhi gives up the uncharacteristically steady eye contact he's been holding and lets his eyes slide closed instead, lets Jude have a look at him. That's a different struggle than getting to where he could have soft hands on him and not panic, older insecurities that may not be dangerous but have their own sort of power. Showering Jude with attention is so much easier than accepting a bit himself. He lets out a long, slightly shivering breath, and thinks about Jude's hand and not about being looked at. It's alright.

His eyes open again and he leans in a bit, leaving space, but catching Jude's chin in his hands and running his thumb over the lower lip. A little control back, that's all. He's fine.

His jaw goes wherever Bodhi wants it; control is easy to give, like he's made for it. He's always been waiting for something else to come along and make the decisions, reveal the point, guide him through whatever he's meant to be doing. In the meantime, people have sufficed. Parker, teachers, friends, now this. He can want this, but want it to be on Bodhi's terms. He can want things within it, but leave them up to review.

Jude lays his cheek against Bodhi's palm, drops his gaze somewhere around Bodhi's throat. Pure supplication, with his fingers in the hems of Bodhi's clothes, testing what touch he's allowed.

It's funny, if he bothers to think about it: he's getting hard, but it makes the rest of him soft. Already pliant in Bodhi's hands, the grip on his side is the dry warmth of a palm and little else, the fingers at his collar curl just barely in to keep the grasp, more on Bodhi's clothes than his skin. Everything is firelight and a loss of focus; does he want to put his mouth on the apple of Bodhi's throat, or does he just hope Bodhi will do it to him? He can't make either happen, so he floats in the want.

Bodhi just watches Jude melt for a bit. Still learning each other like this, he doesn't get a hint of what Jude wants in particular, just drinks in the view. He's loath to disrupt anything his eyes catch on, from bright hooded eyes to the tantalizing expanse of skin revealed where he's pulled up the hem on Jude's shirt. He doesn't want to give up those sweet points of contact, either. He would be perfectly happy if Jude's hands stayed right where they are, a warm, solid connection, but he's going to have to do a little maneuvering here.

The idea of undressing someone is always appealing, but some of the logistical bits are just a bit annoying. He kisses Jude quick and messy and leans back a little to pull his shirt off entirely. There's more annoying squirming so no one gets knocked over (alright, so Bodhi doesn't get knocked over, as he's both the klutz and the one awkwardly kneeling rather than sinking into the couch), but the payoff is worth it.

He won't mind if Jude does eventually return the favor, but he's glad this was first. It's not like it's a surprise how good Jude looks shirtless, but there's just a bit of vulnerability there. Not rational, still delicious. He forgets to put Jude's hands back at first, taking a moment to just stare.

The kiss presses him back against the couch, distracts him from the work of tugging away his shirt, so the moment seems to pass without him. He's clothes and holding onto Bodhi, then he isn't, and his hands hover at their last places--equally concerned for Bodhi's staying upright. He's only a little chilly, the fire still heating the room, but he's only managed to wake up with Bodhi curled against him: it's harder to achieve in waking hours.

He doesn't know if it makes any difference, Bodhi holding him instead of the other way around. Maybe it's the contact in general.

Jude swallows, missing him in the moment more than he feels self conscious. When it was warmer he'd toss his shirt aside and chop wood while Bodhi pretended to check on the drying paper sheets; he's used to this from a distance. Anyone who's lived here long enough is probably on the skinny side, but he's glad to have chopped wood all summer and fall before this point. He sets his hands back where they were, but on the hems of Bodhi's shirt more than his skin. "Should I--" he asks, hesitating, not wanting to mind in the least if Bodhi draws the line here.

Bodhi makes an affirming noise after a pause, a cop-out he hopes sounds casual to cover for the fact that he doesn't think he knows the right words for... Permission? That's a transactional way to think about it, and maybe there's no avoiding that. He's the reason everything feels like rules and exchanges, and it's a little disturbing how much he's enjoying it. Sure, maybe intimacy like this is easier now because he's older than the last few times he tried, because he's got a better sense of proportion, but he can't shake the sense that he really likes deciding every little thing that happens.

So yes, Jude can undress him a bit, and he's not nearly as self conscious as he was afraid of being. He may never be confident about being seen, exactly, but having chosen makes it a little better.

He scoots back, and it has to be carefully this time, and therefore gracelessly. Because otherwise he really is going to fall off the couch. It's okay, though, because it improves his view even more. Yeah, wood chopping pays off. He forgets what he just agreed to for a moment, running fingertips over the curve of Jude's bicep with a crooked smile and riveted eyes.

Jude's been admired enough up close that he doesn't shrink from it entirely; he likes that Bodhi admires with his hands, too. The run of nails, fingertips over the shape of him makes him shiver, distracts him another moment from what he means to do. There's more give and take, in asking and being allowed, instead of just waiting–but he lets Bodhi distract him as well, lets it take a moment to get from yes to the act.

With Jude it's always natural. If he does what he's told it's because he wants to; if the mood simmers low and sleepy before the culmination, he doesn't push. When he undoes Bodhi's collar from the back and finally tugs it up, it's gentle, it feels like a moment made for just this, after the moment for Bodhi to drink him in with eyes and hands has had its fill. One hand winds up at Bodhi's hip, where it was last allowed, and only to steady him as pulling up the shirt puts him in a blind spot. It lets Jude look plainly at the lines of his hips disappearing into his pants, following the hem up, trying to commit what he doesn't normally see to his sieve of a memory. And when it's done, his eyes have travelled back to Bodhi's face, no harm done.

Tossing the shirt aside, he keeps the hand steadying at Bodhi's hip and sits up, his other hand brushing tousled hair back into place. The kiss is briefly initiated, but hardly chaste, a full press of lips and coaxing tongue before he pulls back to let Bodhi dictate the next move.

He didn't really expect to care about his shirt being off. Jude clearly wanted it that way, and it opens up possibilities, sure. He certainly doesn't want to take it back, but he's surprised at how much more vulnerable he feels. Jude first saw him half dressed, after all, in the midst of that punishing summer torment, and he's never really been more nervous just because he's showing more skin. Kriff, he tends to hit the human maximum of self-consciousness earlier in the proceedings than this.

It's because he cares what Jude thinks, he realizes. This isn't just the next step, not a performance he'll inevitably be mediocre at where he can only try his best. Jude's patience, Jude's gentleness with him deserve a better payoff than going through the motions. His best and hope it's good enough won't cut it.

Hoping his nerves aren't showing, he covers Jude's hands with his own again, first the one at his hip, bringing it slowly to his chest. That's good, right? Trying not to make it obvious that he's lost his confidence, he takes the other hand and twines their fingers together, then eases it back against the couch beside Jude's head, and follows the briefly interrupted kiss.

Firsts are rarely anyone's bests; Jude knows this, and he doesn't care much for attaching scales to people. Parker at his worst was still his best friend; Charlie at his worst was still his father; Bodhi at his worst was—something Jude suspects he hasn't actually seen, even that night in the dark. He hadn't been at his worst either, but there are echoes of it here.

Bodhi's kissed him enough tonight alone, he knows something's changed. Being pressed back is one of the better things to happen, tonight—his hand spasms briefly at Bodhi's sternum, as his head tilts back and he opens for the kiss, a puff of breath escaped between. In the briefest moment of space, he licks his lips, wants them to be softer, slicker, perfect—whatever Bodhi needs them to be. He wants to say whatever needs to be said, take out of his head whatever might soothe the stuff in Bodhi's, but.

Even if Bodhi managed to understand it, it might not be the right thing. It might not be the kindest thing, really, when you can't get this wrong doesn't go both ways, and Jude feels that, a lot. Sometimes he looks at Bodhi and he doesn't know where he came from, and he follows the impossibility of it with: you can get this wrong. He can make this go away, he can be the thing that puts Bodhi at his worst, whatever that is.

Which begs the choice: say something or just hold Bodhi's hand, and see if it goes right or wrong on its own.

Say—something.

Jude stays in the kiss long enough to lift his head with it, push it up and leave some space between them when he drops the weight of his head against the couch. His hand has moved up, sat the palm at Bodhi's collar and his fingers sit at the base of his throat; it's more than he was really given, and that begs its own question. "Are you alright?"

Jude's obvious pleasure helps. He's doing this right. Everything he owes his handsome artist for all these months of gentle forbearance still has a chance. And Jude being half-helpless is... That also helps. He doesn't have much to worry about if he can get results like that.

The question helps more. Jude is still being cautious, still taking care of him. Just that makes him feel better, if even more in debt he can hardly pay back, but maybe the words are more important. They--They should talk more. He's not extending the fact much beyond the here and now. The whole world outside their little circle of drafty firelit cushions might as well not exist, past or future, for all he cares. But he's suddenly aware of his own silence, and not just that he doesn't do much more than breathe in a little harder when Jude's fingers send shockwaves through every nerve in his body.

"I... Nervous," he says, almost managing to patch words together. He tries again, smiles sheepishly. "Just--Just, um, the regular kind of--It's not a me thing, it's... You." He smiles when he says it, takes a moment to tenderly, slowly run his fingers through a bit of Jude's hair and rests his palm against a marble cheek. It's not exactly pleasant, but they're the good kind of nerves, the kind that fire when things are already complicated and you don't know what you're doing and he's so much cuter than you have any right to. "Not--not a problem. Just. Yeah."

They are both men--young men--of silence. Jude more obviously than Bodhi, who takes the hum of Bodhi's babbling and sinks into it, sees it often for what it is. Just because Bodhi puts noise around his silences doesn't mean they aren't there. In this, he's more traditionally quiet, though Jude's pink-tipped ears haven't forgotten anything he's said, so far.

Jude understands most things by putting his hands on them, or drawing them, and he's limited on the ability to openly do either with Bodhi. If Bodhi hadn't been in his lap, kissing him, would he have known to ask? Would anything have even been wrong?

At least it's something he understands without much external input. "Me too," he admits, for all the steadiness of his hand on Bodhi's chest, failing to hold Bodhi up until he's sunk precisely close enough to kiss again. Jude echoes the trail of a finger over his cheek by turning his head, kissing where the line of Bodhi's rounds along his face. It's a little silly, and very up-close, and Jude winds up forehead to forehead with him in the silence that follows. Spent like this, he likes their silences just fine.

Bodhi's smile widens crookedly, eyes flickering half closed so there's nothing to see but impressions of light and shadow through his lashes. He lingers for a long moment, just like this, a chance to be quietly cuddly. He hadn't guessed that Jude's approach would be so much like his--usually he feels like he has to hurry up or lose the other party's interest. He hopes Jude really does like this, anyway. It's not at all beyond Jude to just nod along and not object.

"You--you're doing good. If that helps. I don't know if it helps." Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut, but he's going to at least try this. It could be he'll even like it, the way he liked--Right. He takes Jude's hand slowly from his chest and raises the palm to his mouth, kissing sortly and a bit messily. He's always got Jude's hands in his (when they're alone, anyway), kisses and nuzzles into them. That's not new, but doing it now, half naked and Jude's pale skin showing color even in the flickering firelight, that feels different. Something's changed tonight, but it's still... them.

It does, it doesn't; Jude finds the honest answer in the fact that he doesn't need it to. "I don't think it's that kind of nervous," he manages, before Bodhi's driving him to distraction again. He's kissed Jude's hands before--the back of his knuckles, lifted from where they swung between their bodies. Romance isn't something that's ever held his attention, even as a teenager, trying to maintain sex in a repetitive form; he thinks he finally gets it, when an idling walk stops on the tether of Bodhi's grip, and those lips brush his fingers.

He is stupid about Bodhi, for all he tries not to be. His eyes are focused and dark, a feeling sinking through him, physical weight, looking at the curl of his fingers over Bodhi's cheek, feeling lips and a little tongue on his palm.

His dick twitches under his jeans at the same moment he says, "Oh," not realizing Bodhi would do that, or how his body would respond. Jude takes a long breath, careful, through his nose. "You're doing good too, you're--" he bites the inside of his cheek; for all that he usually avoids looking directly at Bodhi's face, he can't look away. "Honestly, you could--keep doing that."

Bodhi was clearly pretty happy with the situation all along, but in this moment he brightens a little, a spike in energy if nothing else. He taught himself so carefully to watch for reactions like that, signs that he's getting this right, that he isn't broken or doomed by his own weirdness. He can make these things work right. Jude asking him to keep doing something is wonderfully reassuring, just like every increasingly obvious sign of arousal, but as always it's the voice that gets him, the low, surprised oh especially that lets him really believe he's getting this right.

And a bit more confident that he's not pushing where he shouldn't. He's put himself in a position where he has to make all the first moves, and that turns out to be really nice, but it's still good to know. He holds Jude's eyes with his own, just as uncharacteristically steady. He drags his tongue more deliberately across Jude's palm, heavy and a little greedy, determined to keep getting those delicious noises out of him. It's the impulse of the moment to slip the tip of Jude's tongue between his lips.

In the same moment, he finally gives up trying to support his own weight and maintain a little distance, leaning heavily and only sort of crookedly against Jude's chest. He's still sort of left his knees behind, but Bodhi always has to be clumsy somehow.

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.

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