An accountant? His first association of accountancy is rows by rows of numbers. Dust dancing in the air, drying ink, the slightly cramped smell of small places. Then again, he finds it incredibly easy to imagine Vincent's fingers holding a pen, striking the lines and adding the swirls of a two and a five. An accountant - yes, he can imagine it, now that Vincent is telling him, but he might have put his money on something just slightly more flimsy in nature. A tailor's assistant, if not a tailor himself, perhaps.
Somewhat unconsciously correcting his gloves, tugging them back over his wrists because they tend to slip down, smooth enough to slide over his skin, Claude smiles - another small tug near the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure your handwriting is something I should take note of, in that case." Their footfalls dull and uneven across the newly repaved Place de l'Opéra, they steer around the carriages making their way into the night. At this hour, the traffic is nightmarish, everyone with somewhere to be and someone to see finding themselves in transit. "I hear it's a work-related injury for your kind, to wield an immaculate cursive."
His own is barely readable, if he's not concentrated enough and Heaven knows, the concentration he needs to manage anything beyond a scrawl is not something he often begrudges the world. He can do very neat things with his feet, thus the point just remains lost on him. Pavel used to tease him about it. Called it a proof that he lacked sensitivity. Naturally, he would fall blissfully silent when Claude put his hands to an altogether better use... The blush sneaks up on him and he doesn't catch it in time. A slight frown and he fixes his gaze on the corner where Avenue de l'Opéra crosses Boulevard des Capucines.
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Somewhat unconsciously correcting his gloves, tugging them back over his wrists because they tend to slip down, smooth enough to slide over his skin, Claude smiles - another small tug near the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure your handwriting is something I should take note of, in that case." Their footfalls dull and uneven across the newly repaved Place de l'Opéra, they steer around the carriages making their way into the night. At this hour, the traffic is nightmarish, everyone with somewhere to be and someone to see finding themselves in transit. "I hear it's a work-related injury for your kind, to wield an immaculate cursive."
His own is barely readable, if he's not concentrated enough and Heaven knows, the concentration he needs to manage anything beyond a scrawl is not something he often begrudges the world. He can do very neat things with his feet, thus the point just remains lost on him. Pavel used to tease him about it. Called it a proof that he lacked sensitivity. Naturally, he would fall blissfully silent when Claude put his hands to an altogether better use... The blush sneaks up on him and he doesn't catch it in time. A slight frown and he fixes his gaze on the corner where Avenue de l'Opéra crosses Boulevard des Capucines.