This slow, gentle exploration is normally too slow, too sentimental, for Rupert's liking but here, between Rupert's pain and Jonas's tremble and the bottle of wine between them, it's forgivable. Needed, in fact. It's about as much as his hazy thoughts can handle. That gentle unevenness in Jonas's breath leaves Rupert wondering if Jonas is the one in pain, not him. It takes a moment to remember that it can't be pain - Jonas was unhurt and Rupert knows this - but it must be something else. Maybe sadness? Is he crying? Rather than break this kiss again (Jonas is so careful, so caring - it would be mean to break that gentle concentration) he gentle skirts his knuckles against Jonas's exposed cheek, expecting to feel tear tracks and finding smooth dry skin instead. And that breathy tremble still there...

Nerves, then. Or longing. Nervous longing. Two ideas that Rupert wants to chase away with kisses, to be replaced with confidence and surety. But his battered head and the wine are making him lazy; he pulls away from the kiss again, this time to sprawl on his back with both hands and a hooked leg encouraging Jonas to roll with him, to settle against him comfortably within kissing distance. Because this is his answer to nervous longing: to be open and generous, to let Jonas arrange himself in a way that suits him, without pressure or expectation. It's not backing off, it's an invitation.