"No," Arthur starts, "no, it's not okay--"
But he finds himself silenced, immediately, when he feels the bed dip under Bruce's weight. Wide eyes watch him move, and though a part of him begins to form the words for get away from me, the feel of Bruce's hand on his face placates him.
And, inevitably-- because Arthur loves him more than anything else in the whole, wide world-- makes him whimper as he leans into the boy's touch.
Bruce says he doesn't have to apologise, but as tempting as it is to just listen, Arthur knows he shouldn't. Bruce doesn't know any better. Bruce is too young to know any better. Arthur shouldn't be thinking of him like this, not when the kid's twenty years younger than him, and he opens his mouth in a feeble attempt to correct him when--
--Bruce's lips meets his instead.
It's... clumsy, for one thing, which is a relief. When Arthur was Bruce's age he was great at kissing for the worst reasons in the world, so he's glad all Bruce does is press against him. It's exactly the kind of innocent thing Arthur wanted from him. It's sweet and it's soft and the fact Bruce is blushing when he pulls away and stammers makes Arthur's heart sing.
"You shouldn't be the one apologising," he says, and though he means it to be scolding, there's a laugh bubbling up his throat. "Bruce... oh, you don't have to kiss me to make me feel better..." Arthur's thighs shift, trying vainly to press together and hide the swell of his still-erect length. He wants to touch Bruce in turn, but knows he might just do something stupid. Something bad.
Arthur's fingers dig into the sheets, desperate. "You're the sweetest boy in the world, Tiny. I'm the one with a prob-- p-prob-HA-lem-- pffhahaha--"
The laughter starts, exacerbated by the mix of guilt and shame he feels. Arthur's head ducks and he shoves his face into the mattress in an attempt to muffle the sound, but his shoulders keep shaking.
He's still hard. God, he's still hard.