Claude's eyes are already fluttering shut when Vincent's fingers slip down his stomach and there's a moment where he finds himself thinking that the other man is going to attempt waking the beast all over again. Claude likes him. He likes him a lot (he realises), but like is no recipe for miracles. No, that takes stronger feelings and a lot of hard, hard work. About to reach down and redirect his hand, though, Vincent ends up simply flattening his palm over his skin and peace is restored. Claude's eyes close. Behind the empty darkness of his eyelids, it takes him a moment to process Vincent's words as he comments on what he was apparently figuring out in the most physical sense.

Whatever it takes? Claude manages a slight smile, manages not to think of Pavel and curls his left arm around Vincent's waist, keeping him close to his body, adding to the weight of his head on his chest. It's comfortable and rather cosy, but it'll be cold in the morning, if they're planning to sleep like this. Here. With his free hand, he yanks the nearest sheepskin free from its constraints beneath his arse and tugs it into place over first his own front, then Vincent's. In natural succession.

"We are the arts," he replies. Meaning that it's only natural, everything that they give. Themselves, too. Well, as natural as shaving your very, very natural chest hair off to fit into costumes effortlessly. Everything comes at a certain price. As Vincent already knows and will soon discover all over again, Claude's aware. And as Claude himself will be reminded, if he's supposed to just... let Vincent go tomorrow. With no promises extended.

None expected.