Lying down is what Clark wants, moving with and settling down beside Bruce. Just two adult men sharing a bed. Clark would like to think being an alien entitles him from having to care about convention, to ignore it like it doesn't apply, but no one under this roof would really think that's the case. Whatever is in him that finds comfort in dragging the second pillow nearer and settling down at Bruce's side can't be excused in that way.

He winds an arm over Bruce's ribcage, drawing in, taking the hand resting on his hip as invitation for intimacy, continued. Clark has to rely on memory to know where the latest in bumps and scrapes are located, the older scars, and there's no real attempt made to avoid it all.

(His impulse is closer to wanting to touch them, actually, which feels morbid, and like something he will do eventually.)

"I thought you were going to kiss me when we were fighting," he says, apropos of little more than firing synapses. Second guesses that word. "Sparring. Practicing."

Just some words, coming out of his face, don't pay it any mind.