And there goes. Vincent discards of his vest and starts working on his shirt, though he only gets three buttons down before courage seems to fail him somewhat. Before that, however... Claude saw. Claude saw the way he was looking at him, all narrowed eyes and hunger, like a starving man and when it comes to these things, aren't they all? Pushing his trousers down his hips, sensing how they are dragging their own weight to the ground easily, sliding over the cotton of his breeches, Claude steps out of the fabric and leaves it in a sorry heap. Vincent has amazing fingers, doesn't he? Long and elegant, pianist-like. A harsh, focused breath through his nose before he finally just steps forward, reaching over to cover Vincent's hands with his own, the slide of skin against skin an onslaught of different temperatures and the raw impact of touch.

"Here," he says, voice still deep (hoarse, rusty), but tone gentle, "let me." The shirt comes undone between his hands soundlessly, the quiet only disrupted by their shared, shaking breathing. He isn't coming to Vincent's rescue, nothing so innocent. It's simply that Vincent's chest will be right there, a few layers further in and Claude wants to feel him. He... wants to feel him. His breeches are getting downright uncomfortable and he should do something about that. In a moment.

For now, he just cocks his head, watching Vincent for another couple of seconds. When the other man is sitting down like this, Claude's the taller one, but it's a temporary advantage, he knows. So, he should claim it, shouldn't he? The opportunity. Leaning in without saying anything, fingers having forced the last button into submission, exposing a thin singlet underneath, Claude presses his lips against Vincent's. Hard. The angle is awkward, but so are splits. See if he cares.