They’re men, of course, and motherly gestures are reserved for the other sex (supposedly, ‘softer’; sometimes lines aren’t truly lines at all) but even so, there’s something terribly careful and caring – gentle – about the way Claude brushes his bangs out of his eyes and kisses his forehead. He can’t help the way he leans into it, not the touch itself necessarily, but the implication. The unexpressed acceptance underneath.
When Claude lies down, his hands urging him to follow suit with no dominance or force to speak of, Vincent follows his initiative without hesitation. It feels like he’s lying down forever, his body slow and muscles unresponsive, every small glimmer of vigour sprayed out across Claude’s fingers, across his stomach and the sheepskins. There’s nothing left but a dazed kind of resignation – the knowledge that once he shuts his eyes, there may only be darkness left once he opens them again. All the same… at least he won’t be blind. Not as such, not anymore. Lying down fully on his side, he shifts closer almost without thinking, accepting Claude’s chest as his new, favourite pillow. He’s broad and warm, much preferable to any bed, his chest completely smooth beneath Vincent’s chin. Brow furrowing, he reaches down with one hand and runs his fingers lightly down Claude’s flat stomach, following the line of his treasure trail before flattening out his palm over his abdomen, his cock resting some inches further down, heavy and spent. He feels silly to realise so very late in the game – that Claude clearly shaves his chest for his roles, obviously so. Imagine, then, what this wonderful pillow would feel like if he didn’t…
Sniffing, his tears already drying on his cheeks as tiredness simply flattens all other emotions in its wake, he manages a weak smile, gaze moving from Claude’s body to the shadows on the floor, broken up in uneven patterns by the fireplace. “I should have known,” he says, voice low and flat, devoid of most nuances. “Dancers – you truly give everything to the arts, don’t you? Whatever it takes.” Compared to broken toes and deceased lovers, surely hair isn’t much to speak of. On the other hand, it’s one thing on a list longer than most outside the world of theatre could procure and the thought, for some reason, gives him strength. There’s something on the other side – no matter what he’ll choose to part with once the dust has finally settled.
no subject
When Claude lies down, his hands urging him to follow suit with no dominance or force to speak of, Vincent follows his initiative without hesitation. It feels like he’s lying down forever, his body slow and muscles unresponsive, every small glimmer of vigour sprayed out across Claude’s fingers, across his stomach and the sheepskins. There’s nothing left but a dazed kind of resignation – the knowledge that once he shuts his eyes, there may only be darkness left once he opens them again. All the same… at least he won’t be blind. Not as such, not anymore. Lying down fully on his side, he shifts closer almost without thinking, accepting Claude’s chest as his new, favourite pillow. He’s broad and warm, much preferable to any bed, his chest completely smooth beneath Vincent’s chin. Brow furrowing, he reaches down with one hand and runs his fingers lightly down Claude’s flat stomach, following the line of his treasure trail before flattening out his palm over his abdomen, his cock resting some inches further down, heavy and spent. He feels silly to realise so very late in the game – that Claude clearly shaves his chest for his roles, obviously so. Imagine, then, what this wonderful pillow would feel like if he didn’t…
Sniffing, his tears already drying on his cheeks as tiredness simply flattens all other emotions in its wake, he manages a weak smile, gaze moving from Claude’s body to the shadows on the floor, broken up in uneven patterns by the fireplace. “I should have known,” he says, voice low and flat, devoid of most nuances. “Dancers – you truly give everything to the arts, don’t you? Whatever it takes.” Compared to broken toes and deceased lovers, surely hair isn’t much to speak of. On the other hand, it’s one thing on a list longer than most outside the world of theatre could procure and the thought, for some reason, gives him strength. There’s something on the other side – no matter what he’ll choose to part with once the dust has finally settled.