If asked, Bruce would say that when it's easy, it's because that a longing for something this-shaped existed before that shape was filled with a person. The acceptance of moodiness, the creak of a headboard underneath a light touch, a particular kind of ugly honesty that's taken as comfortable. Is comfortable. Have you ever wanted to be as fucked up as you actually are, and know that the other person in bed with you is, too. It's great - better - when that other person is good, and making you good. They're surely doing something positive for each other, here, too, but there is a difference between the kind of honesty that compels the purchase of a wedding ring and the kind that forgives murder attempts.

If asked, Bruce wouldn't actually say anything. But that's what he'd think.

"What are we moderating?" is murmured into Clark's mouth, a rasp of gravel that's as much his voice as it is his perpetual state of five-o-clock. He wonders sometimes what it feels like against skin that can't be irritated by it. His heart is steady, elevated now from interest, and not fumbling with his own weak spots. He closes a hand over the back of Clark's head and kisses him, like everything barely-there all evening was just lying in wait for this. The hand at his middle pushes at elastic, encouraging his pants down and off of him, devoid of any instinct for coyness.