He smiles very slightly, taking the compliment for what it is. The truth of the matter is, Vincent’s got a very excellent cursive, both highly readable and more simplistic than many others. Ever since he first started learning the letters and how to put them to paper, people have commented favourably on his precision. The elegance of it. His mother, in turn, smiles in public and sighs once the doors are safely closed and barred. His expression fades into neutral once more.
“I have worked along side people with unintelligible handwriting, Claude. Nothing in the world is for certain, right?” He shifts just a bit closer again, looking sideways at the other man, very consciously keeping his eyes from roaming downwards towards his hands. It would only lead his mind onwards and he’s already torturing himself enough by far. Is he blushing, though? Quite a fitting look for him, isn’t it? All rose-coloured subtlety. Imagine how that would look... whilst… Or don’t, actually. No. Heat spreading on his face as well, Vincent adds, somewhat hastily: “Why would you take note of it, though? Surely, a man with your physical skills…” He can’t finish the sentence, swallowing the last words, whatever they would have been. Physical skills indeed. He’s implying, of course, that a ballet dancer who can work his body through the air not unlike the strokes of a painter’s brush should have no difficulties with pen and paper. But his mind is taking his words into indescribable places and all he can do is hope that Claude catches his meaning regardless.
For some reason, though, he can’t help but think - even if he doesn’t… surely, they’ll work it out. Claude hasn’t once made him feel awkward or inadequate despite his slip-ups and lack of self-restraint. He’s been so kind, so very, very kind. There’s a reason why the man’s taken over the nameless stranger’s place in his dreams, has settled himself so thoroughly in the main role despite Vincent’s frantic attempts at sparing even his fictional self the humiliation of it. Of having to partake in… in that. In any of it. But Claude simply stays right where he is, all calm strength and presence, all him.
no subject
“I have worked along side people with unintelligible handwriting, Claude. Nothing in the world is for certain, right?” He shifts just a bit closer again, looking sideways at the other man, very consciously keeping his eyes from roaming downwards towards his hands. It would only lead his mind onwards and he’s already torturing himself enough by far. Is he blushing, though? Quite a fitting look for him, isn’t it? All rose-coloured subtlety. Imagine how that would look... whilst… Or don’t, actually. No. Heat spreading on his face as well, Vincent adds, somewhat hastily: “Why would you take note of it, though? Surely, a man with your physical skills…” He can’t finish the sentence, swallowing the last words, whatever they would have been. Physical skills indeed. He’s implying, of course, that a ballet dancer who can work his body through the air not unlike the strokes of a painter’s brush should have no difficulties with pen and paper. But his mind is taking his words into indescribable places and all he can do is hope that Claude catches his meaning regardless.
For some reason, though, he can’t help but think - even if he doesn’t… surely, they’ll work it out. Claude hasn’t once made him feel awkward or inadequate despite his slip-ups and lack of self-restraint. He’s been so kind, so very, very kind. There’s a reason why the man’s taken over the nameless stranger’s place in his dreams, has settled himself so thoroughly in the main role despite Vincent’s frantic attempts at sparing even his fictional self the humiliation of it. Of having to partake in… in that. In any of it. But Claude simply stays right where he is, all calm strength and presence, all him.
Almost all.