He has a way he goes about this - kissing - that he holds himself away from, tonight. Always edging on just too aggressive, having grown too old or too bitter for both patience and gentleness, halfway punishing himself for sexual desire by denying any room for catharsis barring the physical; certainly he has no room for comfort, or care.

Except for now. Now, when the only roughness is the faint scrape of his artful five o'clock shadow against Clark's perfect skin, and when Bruce doesn't push at all until the younger man shifts into it. Even then it's soft, barely more than tentative. Like maybe he'll break this spell by being himself, and so he's careful, lips only parting once he's thought about it specifically, seeking out the core of that unearthly warmth.

His other hand finds his side, padded by woolen socks and the faint crinkle of paper.

He didn't think it was possible for them to be this way with each other. When they'd been sparring, in that moment when he knew, Bruce had figured it would be like his most prominent dreams (and nightmares). Violent. Clashing. Clawing for the energy that had bloomed with such fire between them-- and would that be bad? It was passionate, after all, and he thought if they'd have anything it would be an extension of that-- getting each other out of their systems, or worsening the addiction, who knows.

This is something else entirely.