He’s about to answer Claude’s comment with something complimentary – but then, he goes tumbling sideways, arms flailing for balance as the other man bounces into him. Had it been someone else, he would have been quite unappreciative of the gesture but as it is, all he can truly think about is how Claude’s suddenly so close, the sense of proximity emphasised by the tingling in his arm and shoulder. And then, before he can fall flat on his face in an embarrassing heap of limps, that strong hand – strong and steady – closes around his upper arm and pulls him to a stop. Balance restored while he finds his feet, his heart beating fast enough to leave his head rushing from it.

For a long moment, he just tries to regain his composure, following along shakily, Claude’s grip loosening only slightly as they walk on. Swallowing his nerves, he tries to push all the wrong thoughts aside once more, wondering how he can even remain acquainted with this man in the long run if this is what he does to him, to his mind and body and soul. It’s a losing battle. At some point, he’s bound to ruin it all and is it really worth the resultant pain? Is it?

Glancing sideways at Claude, noting the awkwardness of his laugh, the slight stumble in their conversational flow, he finally smiles. “Quite alright. As you can see, I’m no dancer myself.” His hands tighten harshly in the fabric of his coat. Raising an eyebrow at Claude’s hand still curled around his upper arm, he adds, “It’s hardly going to break me.” It’s an almost impossible feat, however, keeping the underlying resignation out of his voice. There’s a flatness to it, it seems. Despite his best intentions.