These days, when the common man thinks of ballet, he'll inevitably think of the ballerinas, for whatever reason. Their exposed legs in a world of heavy, ankle-length skirts. Their pointe work which makes them appear as something other-worldly. Take your pick. As such, one could easily be fooled to believe that Claude has navigated a woman's world, behind the walls of the Opera, but one couldn't be further from the truth. For over a decade, Claude lived in single-sex dormitories. Among men as detached from ordinary life as he himself. Men with whom he grew up. Men with whom he became a man in every imaginable way. Beyond his own existence - yes, Claude knows a thing or two about the male gender. The brush of Vincent's shoulder, innocent as it may be, doesn't go unnoticed and he halfway forgets, halfway discards the comment on the rich, because there is something much more significant at stake, he can tell.

"Paris isn't exactly a deserving city, when it comes to ballet-goers," he replies. Moving across the distance on light, soundless feet. "They're an unforgiving bunch, the audience. Unlike you."

The compliment is followed by a bump of his shoulder against Vincent's upper arm, good-naturedly, almost playful. However, Vincent is by all means lightweight and Claude shoves him a noticeable stumble to the side without truly meaning to. Quickly, he reaches up and closes his fingers around his arm, steadying him with practiced ease. At least, he's not in unaccommodating pointe shoes. "Sorry," he adds, laughing a bit awkwardly. Only loosens his grip minimally, for effect. To finish on a satisfactory note.