The compliment borders on something tangibly romantic in nature and Claude doesn't let it slide. Rather, he hangs on to those exact words with all his strength and if nothing else, his training has ensured that it's abundant. Thus, when he falls into step next to Vincent, he allows only the shortest of distances to separate them. Their shoulders aren't touching, but their shadows blend on the ground, stretching across the cobblestones and out onto Rue Gluck. "I should be the one to say that, shouldn't I?" He cocks his head, turns it enough to follow the outline of Vincent's profile, his lines clean and pointed even in the dark. One should think the man was a dancer, too. "You were the reason I was flying, after all."
The past month has been one long blur of constant practice, rehearsal, training - Claude has lost a good couple of kilos in weight, because he gets home too late to eat a proper dinner. And a month ago, all the exertion would have been well worth it just for the obvious attention that Jules has finally been paying to him, for once in the capacity of ballet master rather than friend. Even so, it isn't the rising promise of a promotion at long last which has kept him on his toes, in every sense. No, at the back of his mind that hopeful, non-intrusive but altogether insistent air of Vincent's has spread, like a fog. Like a sickness, if Claude would ever characterise another person as such. You were the reason, he tells the other man and it isn't flattery. It isn't empty speak. It's the honest-to-God truth. Claude hasn't danced for anyone but himself since Pavel died. Perhaps what has been missing all along (aside from the obvious, the obvious) was this realisation that dancing should never be reduced to a singular affair. In that regard, all ballet is a pas de deux.
So, certainly, Vincent is no dancer - despite the pretense of his lines. The audience, though, is always only another participant to partner. In the end, the steps mean nothing, if no one is around to interpret their meaning.
no subject
The past month has been one long blur of constant practice, rehearsal, training - Claude has lost a good couple of kilos in weight, because he gets home too late to eat a proper dinner. And a month ago, all the exertion would have been well worth it just for the obvious attention that Jules has finally been paying to him, for once in the capacity of ballet master rather than friend. Even so, it isn't the rising promise of a promotion at long last which has kept him on his toes, in every sense. No, at the back of his mind that hopeful, non-intrusive but altogether insistent air of Vincent's has spread, like a fog. Like a sickness, if Claude would ever characterise another person as such. You were the reason, he tells the other man and it isn't flattery. It isn't empty speak. It's the honest-to-God truth. Claude hasn't danced for anyone but himself since Pavel died. Perhaps what has been missing all along (aside from the obvious, the obvious) was this realisation that dancing should never be reduced to a singular affair. In that regard, all ballet is a pas de deux.
So, certainly, Vincent is no dancer - despite the pretense of his lines. The audience, though, is always only another participant to partner. In the end, the steps mean nothing, if no one is around to interpret their meaning.