He likes Vincent's choice of words. Naturally, he's referring to Claude's talents as a dancer, but the sentence that trails off really leaves the conclusion up to interpretation, doesn't it? Returning his attention to its prior focus, in due time to catch Vincent turning his own very pointedly elsewhere, Claude raises an eyebrow as high as it will go and adverts his gaze only long enough to check both sides of the road for advancing horses, before stepping out onto the boulevard. "They're not too accustomed to working with small, thin objects, my hands," he tells the other man in a purposefully innocent voice, although there's laughter enough behind the words to make the innuendo clear. Or so one can hope, yes? After all, the oblivious might begin thinking of ballerinas and rounded female waists, concluding on those grounds, but just as Claude would never assume Vincent easily breakable, he gets the equally distinct impression that he isn't that stupid, either. Not stupid at all, in fact.

From here, they can't make out the water yet, but as they continue down Avenue de l'Opéra, Claude knows they're only a long cobblestone stretch and a few rows of tall apartment buildings from the banks. The grin fading from his face little by little, he remembers how often they would walk the same route, Pavel and him - to the same restaurant in the Latin Quarters every time, after practice or rehearsals. Sighing slightly, he reaches up and runs his kidskin-covered fingers through his hair, all golden specks carefully washed out tonight when he hoped and halfway expected someone would be waiting for him. Since that fall, he hasn't talked to anyone about what happened. Enough people knew and he couldn't think of anyone in addition who'd need to. Maybe until now.

The glance he throws to the side is as stolen as anything Claude can ever manage. Which is to say, not very much. Not very much at all.