". . . Bruce?"
There was no answer. The weight on his back had gotten about fifty pounds heavier. Clark shifted a little. Nope, still dead weight. An arm slid down his side and landed with a soft thump on the mattress. "I do not fucking believe this," he hissed. "You fell asleep?"
It could have been worse, he supposed. Bruce could actually have been in him when he fell asleep. Not that this was much better. He sighed. "You know, it's okay to say no to sex," he said, over his shoulder. "If you're too tired, you don't have to pretend like it's fine."
No answer from the slumbering two-ton brick on his back. He could feel the evenness of Bruce's breathing, feel Bruce's muscles relax into him. It had been three nights in a row of late patrol. No, it's okay, you need your rest, he had said just yesterday. And Bruce had made that impatient gesture with his mouth, and pulled Clark in, and growled Be in my bed tonight, and that had done it, Clark had been half-hard just at the tone of voice. He had never been in Bruce's bed before—always before it had been at his apartment, out of the way of Bruce's admittedly complex life. So when Bruce's chilled tired body had slid into bed tonight, Clark's arms had wrapped him, Clark's limbs had warmed him, Clark's cock had pushed at his. Want to fuck me, do you want to fuck, and Bruce had groaned in answer.
In retrospect, it had maybe not been a sex groan.
He considered rolling over and easing Bruce into his arms, or onto the mattress. But then he might waken, and he desperately needed sleep — needed sleep in a way Clark's body would never understand. Needed sleep in a way he wouldn't, didn't, want Clark to know. Because anything Clark could do, he could do better. The thought made Clark's lip quirk in a rueful, tender smile.
"You're pretty easy to talk to, when you're like this," he whispered. Bruce's breathing had settled into slow deep wheezes. "I can say the things I can't, when you're awake."
He gave another tentative shift, to see if he could settle Bruce into a position that might at least be more comfortable, but Bruce didn't seem to be having any trouble relaxing. "God, you're heavy," he sighed. And quiet. Bruce was such a quiet sleeper. Soft breathing, never any snores. He wrapped himself in covers and barely moved, all night long.
Unfortunately, Bruce's body was relaxed, but his own was. . . not. The increased weight on his back was not at all a turn-off, and his body was still half-cranked. He had been lying here for hours, determinedly not jacking off while he waited for Bruce. And then, the idea of Bruce fucking him. . . they hadn't done that before. Most of the time, they barely had time for anything more than humping each other, or maybe quiet gasping handjobs. A couple of times now, he had fucked Bruce, and that had been. . . well, there weren't any adjectives for what it felt like when Bruce let himself come unstrung like that. For what it felt like the first time he had made Bruce groan in pleasure. The first time Bruce had moaned fuck yes, oh God while he had been fucking him.
And then, this tonight. Letting Clark into his bed. That Bruce would trust him like this. Could relax draped across him like this. It was maybe as close to an affirmation of this thing between them as Bruce was going to be able to get.
But not as close as he could get.
"You know I love you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "In love with you. Have been forever, now. You have no idea how much. I'll never say it, it's okay, you don't have to worry about that. But I love you so fucking much it aches not to say it."
The in and out of Bruce's breathing was as steady as before. He swallowed. "Tell you what else aches," he said, and pushed his cock into the mattress. The weight on top just made it feel better. He shut his eyes. Maybe he could come, just like this. Maybe he could gently offload Bruce and make it to the bathroom, maybe he could jack off there and come back to bed, and curl up around Bruce. Maybe he could ignore it, will his hard-on away. But Bruce was naked on top of him, so that wasn't very likely, was it?
"Okay, sorry, I'm just. . . having a bit of a time here. It'll. . . I'll be okay in a minute."
He practiced some of the relaxation techniques Bruce had taught him, ages ago. The deep breathing, the mindfulness—right now it was really fucking hard not to be mindful of his cock—the slow release of all his muscles, all his tension. When he had worked his whole body over, releasing all the muscles, the large and the small, his arousal was under control. He knew he wouldn't sleep for several more hours, but he no longer wanted to move. There was some story about that. A Chinese emperor whose lover had fallen asleep on the sleeve of his silken robe, and he had cut it off rather than disturb him. The love of the cut sleeve, was what they called it in Chinese. He had read that, years ago. Funny to think he hadn't understood it, back then.
He timed his breathing to Bruce's. The moonlight slid across the room. The dead weight of Bruce's body was alive, it had meaning and breath, it spoke to him. They were flying together, they were weightless.
His last thought before sleep was to cover Bruce's hand with his own, to twine their fingers as best he could. Like an anchor. He floated off into the horizon of sleep, warmed by the blanket of Bruce.
But the blanket moved—for some reason it had gone. Also for some reason the moon outside became unbearably bright. It shone hot on his face, too bright. He turned his face away. The whole room was flooded with the not-moon. He blinked at the unexpected morning, and wondered why his blanket had moved. He was on his back now, and his blanket had definitely left him. It had moved down to his legs. It was covering his legs. It was warm. It felt so good. He shifted and spread his legs more so the blanket could warm him some more. He arched so he could—Jesus Christ.
He was awake with a gasp. Bruce was sucking him. Not just sucking him—he was an inch from coming. No, not an inch—with a weak moan he surrendered to the orgasm that shook his bones. He came in Bruce's mouth without finesse or warning, with all last night's need and his body's morning insistence. "God," he shuddered, grabbing at a fistful of pillow.
Bruce made a small noise at that, and swallowed the second wave of his orgasm, and then the third. He was limp and destroyed when Bruce raised his head. His hair was pushed to one side of his head. The slant of morning sun aureoled his hair, gilded his face. His mouth was soft. With the sun on them his eyes were so light, the blue in them paled to gray, to transparency. Or maybe it wasn't the light that made his eyes transparent this morning. He was sliding up Clark's sated body now, with a kiss for the bend of his knee, the flat of his abdomen. Bruce's arms were braced on either side of him now, Bruce's face above his.
"Sorry about last night," said the sleep-graveled voice.
"I love you too."
Clark's heart stuttered—he felt the actual missed beat. He knew his face was frozen. He saw the shadow cross Bruce's eyes. "Unless I dreamed that part," Bruce said, the shadow covering his face now, and no no, Clark couldn't bear to see it, not after the sunlight before. He lunged forward and caught Bruce's mouth with his own, pulled Bruce down to him.
"Stay, can you stay a bit," Clark murmured, and he felt Bruce's back shake with a laugh.
"It's my bed, you moron," he said, and Clark laughed too.
"Right," he said. "I forget. I meant to tell you. It's a very nice bed."
Bruce's hand brushed the side of his face. "Is now."