Vincent, rather pointedly, glances at Claude's hand, fingers still gripping him by his upper arm even as they've ventured at least five steps down the street and the other man's no more due to fall than a tall, windswept tree in the prime of health. Releasing his hold on him, Claude retreats with a given respect and obvious reluctance - Vincent may be thin underneath his Inverness, but he's certainly still the perfect display of sinewy muscle and physical presence as only men ever manage. It has been a long time since Claude stopped questioning why his attractions swung the way they do. He touches enough women in his professional life to know even the most trained ballerina body has nothing on the feeling of the masculine. One must be allowed to have preferences, he supposes. In this country, at least, it won't get you killed, although there's something to say for social death as well...

"You don't strike me as someone easily broken, Vincent," Claude says by way of acknowledgement. His lighter voice and narrow build aside, Vincent truly doesn't give off the air of spoils and privilege that often underlies the frailty of the upper classes. Then again, resilience and force has always been a stamp of the French working class, called middle class these days because society is changing all around them in the wake of the growing industry. Whatever name - these were the people who beheaded kings and accomplished revolutions. Not people to mess around with. "What do you do for a living?"

Something that earns him enough to attend the Opera. And something which keeps his hands incredibly soft.