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Just the littlest movements.
Little covert motions that could easily be passed off as other things. Scratching his thigh. Fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. Stretching his arms down and cracking his knuckles. Putting a hand to his hip in boredom.
All the while just lightly dancing his fingertips over his panties: a pinch here, a tickle there, just barely teasing himself through the fabric. Just allowing his nails to casually rake over his cock and catch on the head as he yawns, his other arm providing necessary distraction by stretching into the air. Just tapping gently at the growing wet spot with one hand, pointing over Bruce's shoulder at the screen with the other.
He tries to keep his breathing steady, because if anything would give him away from his spot behind Bruce's chair, it's that. But it's hard, so hard, to not pant through his nose as he gets closer, each little caress against his cock adding up as he patiently climbs to his orgasm. Hard to not moan as he rocks forward into his palm, leaning over the back of the chair to presumably get a closer look at the screen.
It's unfair. He always has the advantage in this strange little game he plays. Bruce can't see the motions as what they are, won't see them as anything but innocent. Acknowledging them as anything else would violate the lies Bruce tells himself.
And as he spills silently into his shorts, fingers digging into the back of Bruce's chair as he fights the urge to stroke himself off, he wonders just how far he'll have to go until Bruce no longer sees him as just a child.