You gotta stop being so easy, Smallville, is what he thinks to himself, because he's been called that enough by literally everyone he has any affection for -- Bruce, Lois, Perry -- that it's entered into his internal monologue in moments of self-awareness. Maybe it's just something about the act of touching that's entrancing. From Bruce, or from anyone. Maybe they've been lonely people a lot.

His hand is pliable and he watches Bruce map out lines with rough fingertips, nerves tingling. Not desensitised, even if he maybe should be, for how often he gets thrown through walls. He starfishes his fingers out, folds them back over Bruce's knuckles. Exactly what Bruce didn't want, all according to plan.

Inside his chest, his heart wrings a little, and his gaze lifts up, unshy about proximity.

He feels a twinge; inevitable, given topics. He had frequent fights with dad in those weird later years, one he never got to finish, or work it out in the end. It's not the first time he's felt this twinge, and it doesn't stall him, not anymore, it just passes through like a cold wind until it's gone. He strokes his thumb down the edge of Bruce's.

"You'd be welcome to stay. It'll get kind of hectic," admittedly. He doesn't imagine it'll be Bruce's scene, especially if he hates more of Christmas than just the heart pangs it brings about. So he adds, crooked smile, "But now's just fine."