Claude lies down and extends an invitation – a lazy and wholly undemanding sort and for that, doubly appreciated. Vincent looks up, follows him with his gaze for a long, uncertain moment. Eyes darting away from him to the exit on the other side of the room where the darkness has eaten up all details of the wooden door, he tries to swallow. Realises immediately that there’s nothing in his throat to swallow in the first place. It’s dry, even more so than the well of courage he’s been invigorated by all evening. Instead, there’s just this. Claude’s open arms, Vincent’s own hard, undeterred cock and his empty hands.
Blinking, he exhales. His chest feels too tight even so, like there’s something locked up inside of it that he can’t manage to rid himself of, even breathing as slowly, as carefully as he does. As he has been all his life, ever since he first realised exactly what a disappointment he’d become. The thought doesn’t drown him in self-pity – really, self-pity is the last thing he’d ever indulge in. His life is at least decent. Gray’s a colour too of a sort, comfortably stuck as it is between blacks and whites. At least he hasn’t lost a lover to the gallows, just because life doesn’t bend its neck to those who might have treasured (and deserved) the gesture. Jaw tightening, he sits up straighter and looks at Claude more directly, face impassive. Then, wordlessly, he crawls over to him on his hands and knees, the physical length of distance traversed within less than two seconds and the rest of it… the rest of it, born. For now.
Settling down on his side, his cock hard still between his thighs and the feel of arousal lingering beneath his skin, he shifts into the warmth of Claude’s arms. Perhaps he ought to feel embarrassed by this – by seeking out the embrace of a man he knows only barely. By seeking out the embrace of any man, period. Then again, he ought to be embarrassed by much right now and really, there’ll be a Sunday fit for prayer soon enough. This… this is something else. That much, at least, he can tell, even if the actual nature of it confuses him. He looks at Claude, eyes searching his face, marveling at the way his own, dull grayish-brown eyes seem warmer somehow whilst reflected back to him. As is his way, of course, so very inherently.
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Blinking, he exhales. His chest feels too tight even so, like there’s something locked up inside of it that he can’t manage to rid himself of, even breathing as slowly, as carefully as he does. As he has been all his life, ever since he first realised exactly what a disappointment he’d become. The thought doesn’t drown him in self-pity – really, self-pity is the last thing he’d ever indulge in. His life is at least decent. Gray’s a colour too of a sort, comfortably stuck as it is between blacks and whites. At least he hasn’t lost a lover to the gallows, just because life doesn’t bend its neck to those who might have treasured (and deserved) the gesture. Jaw tightening, he sits up straighter and looks at Claude more directly, face impassive. Then, wordlessly, he crawls over to him on his hands and knees, the physical length of distance traversed within less than two seconds and the rest of it… the rest of it, born. For now.
Settling down on his side, his cock hard still between his thighs and the feel of arousal lingering beneath his skin, he shifts into the warmth of Claude’s arms. Perhaps he ought to feel embarrassed by this – by seeking out the embrace of a man he knows only barely. By seeking out the embrace of any man, period. Then again, he ought to be embarrassed by much right now and really, there’ll be a Sunday fit for prayer soon enough. This… this is something else. That much, at least, he can tell, even if the actual nature of it confuses him. He looks at Claude, eyes searching his face, marveling at the way his own, dull grayish-brown eyes seem warmer somehow whilst reflected back to him. As is his way, of course, so very inherently.