There might be a slight spring in his step tonight – and who can blame him? Such an amazing performance from the first row of all places, right in the middle! Next to rich couples and other important personages who were all pretending they couldn’t see him at all. More’s the better. When he’d been handed the ticket earlier this evening, he’d been absolutely shocked at the numbers on the small slip. He’d thought about asking whether there might have been a slight mistake; but then, he’d realised what a fool he’d be to trade this chance away. The opportunity to see… to truly see…
He almost wishes he’d been wearing something better. Almost. Because in essence, it doesn’t really matter does it? When the stage is lit, the rest of the room – and the audience, too – falls into darkness and truthfully, Vincent might as well have been naked in his seat tonight with how bared he felt. Watching like this. Knowing that only a short while ago, he’d been sitting in Claude’s apartment, talking about unimportant nonsense, practically drinking him up more so than the expensive cognac in his glass. Weeks have passed since then but nothing’s changed – at least, not for the better. His dreams… Well. Safe to say, he’s been washing his own sheets ever since. Someone ought to invent a cure for this predicament. With all the physical evidence it leaves behind it should classify as an illness well enough.
Wiping the frown off his face, he pauses as the door opens, revealing Claude. Looking quite well-dressed for the night, his top hat fitting his head and his height very nicely. Unlike Vincent who can’t wear top hats unless he wants to look like an extinguished lamp post; thus, he doesn’t. Pulling at his coat somewhat uselessly, fingers jittery, he takes a deep breath and crosses over to the other man, giving him an unhesitant smile.
“Claude! What a stunning performance tonight – with the best view imaginable.” He holds out a hand in greeting, the memory of their last handshake, of Claude’s hands, large and strong, intruding upon his thoughts. Ignoring it, he adds, “I can’t thank you enough. It was unforgettable.”
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He almost wishes he’d been wearing something better. Almost. Because in essence, it doesn’t really matter does it? When the stage is lit, the rest of the room – and the audience, too – falls into darkness and truthfully, Vincent might as well have been naked in his seat tonight with how bared he felt. Watching like this. Knowing that only a short while ago, he’d been sitting in Claude’s apartment, talking about unimportant nonsense, practically drinking him up more so than the expensive cognac in his glass. Weeks have passed since then but nothing’s changed – at least, not for the better. His dreams… Well. Safe to say, he’s been washing his own sheets ever since. Someone ought to invent a cure for this predicament. With all the physical evidence it leaves behind it should classify as an illness well enough.
Wiping the frown off his face, he pauses as the door opens, revealing Claude. Looking quite well-dressed for the night, his top hat fitting his head and his height very nicely. Unlike Vincent who can’t wear top hats unless he wants to look like an extinguished lamp post; thus, he doesn’t. Pulling at his coat somewhat uselessly, fingers jittery, he takes a deep breath and crosses over to the other man, giving him an unhesitant smile.
“Claude! What a stunning performance tonight – with the best view imaginable.” He holds out a hand in greeting, the memory of their last handshake, of Claude’s hands, large and strong, intruding upon his thoughts. Ignoring it, he adds, “I can’t thank you enough. It was unforgettable.”