… pause. He catches Claude’s eyes for half a second before looking away, the colour rising in his cheeks intensifying. Rather a lot, too. Not too accustomed to working with small, thin… He gulps, throat feeling suddenly dry, wondering how to proceed from here. Because by now, he’d have to have been an idiot not to notice how Claude’s been catching his every misstep and rather than correct any of them, he’s… simply followed his lead. The man may be a dancer and a fantastic one at that – but considering the subject matter, it’s beyond generous of him to keep playing. Isn’t it. Unless of course…
Biting his lip, he runs one hand through his hair quickly, every muscle in his body seemingly tense. There’s a slight shake to his hand again, a tremble running right beneath the skin as his blood rushes just a bit faster through his veins. God. His… his fantasies, his dreams… Surely, he’s simply forgetting himself again, deceiving his senses because he’s too weak to withstand the temptation. Eyes searching the ground uselessly, he finally looks back at Claude, managing nothing even close to a smile this time, his voice just a bit thinner than normal, audibly frail around the edges.
“Claude, I…” A quick breath as he squares his shoulders somewhat, knowing exactly what he looks like when he slumps, “Forgive me, but I… I wonder if you often invite your loving audience out for post-performance dinners.” True, there’s no question mark at the end of his sentence, not in his voice either or in his facial expressions. Whether Claude wants to treat it as a question, however, is entirely up to him. All he knows is, this talk about hands and sizes and whatever else is making him feel lightheaded and incredibly silly at the same time and if he doesn’t in some manner verbalise his confusion, it won’t take very long before it drives him mad.
no subject
Biting his lip, he runs one hand through his hair quickly, every muscle in his body seemingly tense. There’s a slight shake to his hand again, a tremble running right beneath the skin as his blood rushes just a bit faster through his veins. God. His… his fantasies, his dreams… Surely, he’s simply forgetting himself again, deceiving his senses because he’s too weak to withstand the temptation. Eyes searching the ground uselessly, he finally looks back at Claude, managing nothing even close to a smile this time, his voice just a bit thinner than normal, audibly frail around the edges.
“Claude, I…” A quick breath as he squares his shoulders somewhat, knowing exactly what he looks like when he slumps, “Forgive me, but I… I wonder if you often invite your loving audience out for post-performance dinners.” True, there’s no question mark at the end of his sentence, not in his voice either or in his facial expressions. Whether Claude wants to treat it as a question, however, is entirely up to him. All he knows is, this talk about hands and sizes and whatever else is making him feel lightheaded and incredibly silly at the same time and if he doesn’t in some manner verbalise his confusion, it won’t take very long before it drives him mad.