Oh. They walk on, silence spreading between them in the wake of Claude’s… whatever it is. Well, at its barest level it’s a negation to Vincent’s question, implied and buried beneath layers of nerves as it may have been. But then, it’s so much more, too. If he doesn’t often do this, if it’s such a rare occurrence, then what does that make Vincent? Right now, here, walking alongside Claude and trying not to fall apart at the seams, trying not to look at him the wrong way or say something that’ll give him away…
“In that case,” he says, voice oddly pensive as he tries to gather his thoughts, “I’m honored to be here.” Making absolutely no conscious effort to emphasise his point, he manages to do so regardless by drifting closer to Claude, close enough for their shoulders to brush once more. This time, though, he decides that it’s not an accident. It’s just… a natural conclusion. Vincent’s always thought himself at least half-way alone in this world concerning his bizarre, sexual urges – maybe there are others, yes, but surely only the deranged, the bastards in the gutters. It’s still difficult to imagine this somber, calm and talented man be anything but in line with… with what, exactly?
Hands loosening slightly in his pockets, he thinks it over as carefully as he’s capable of in his current state, his body still tense enough to hurt beneath his clothes. It’s not much, granted, but even like this, he’s starting to realise that something doesn’t add up. Something about his view of the other man, idealised as it may be. Idealised, yes, and perhaps that’s the problem in a nutshell. Surely, if Claude turns out incongruent with the image Vincent’s constructed of his morality in his head, maybe the constructor needs to re-assess his calculations. His building blocks. He pushes the thought aside quickly, disturbed by himself – but regardless, it lingers.
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“In that case,” he says, voice oddly pensive as he tries to gather his thoughts, “I’m honored to be here.” Making absolutely no conscious effort to emphasise his point, he manages to do so regardless by drifting closer to Claude, close enough for their shoulders to brush once more. This time, though, he decides that it’s not an accident. It’s just… a natural conclusion. Vincent’s always thought himself at least half-way alone in this world concerning his bizarre, sexual urges – maybe there are others, yes, but surely only the deranged, the bastards in the gutters. It’s still difficult to imagine this somber, calm and talented man be anything but in line with… with what, exactly?
Hands loosening slightly in his pockets, he thinks it over as carefully as he’s capable of in his current state, his body still tense enough to hurt beneath his clothes. It’s not much, granted, but even like this, he’s starting to realise that something doesn’t add up. Something about his view of the other man, idealised as it may be. Idealised, yes, and perhaps that’s the problem in a nutshell. Surely, if Claude turns out incongruent with the image Vincent’s constructed of his morality in his head, maybe the constructor needs to re-assess his calculations. His building blocks. He pushes the thought aside quickly, disturbed by himself – but regardless, it lingers.