So far, he realises, Claude’s been almost too good about asking about his life – his work, his handwriting, his interest in ballet. Though he can’t by any means be called a non-communicative person, the contrast now between their prior conversations and this veritable rush of information – it’s almost startling. Not unlike a dam breaking, though with as much restraint as you’d expect of Claude with his marvelous footwork and precision. He glances sideways at the waters of the Seine, lights reflected off its surface and leaving its dark, murky depths looking quite unfriendly by comparison. They’re not merely scraping the surface anymore, are they? Because Claude’s not just telling him about his unlucky friend, hanged for keeping his back straight against his own home country. He’s not just telling him about his own fall from grace, either, though those elements by themselves are heartbreaking enough to make him swallow, words of comfort stuck in his throat. No, because this man… this friend of his…
“I – you two were…” He swallows, colour welling up into his cheeks once more, not from embarrassment at the subject matter but from the stupidity of the question. Because really, at the core of it, what does it matter in light of all the rest? Not one bit. Instead, he shakes his head quickly, his grip on Claude’s arm tightening subconsciously. “I’m sorry. I…” Pause. There really is not much else to say, is there? “Claude.” A deep breath and then, voice softer still: “I’m deeply sorry.”
Beneath it all, there’s relief. A stark sense of relief, something he can’t even begin to acknowledge or deal with because what are his own, personal troubles against this tragic tale? Vincent’s lived a peaceful life, a boring life too, certainly, but utterly devoid of danger to both himself and his family. Except, perhaps, for whatever hazards his father may subject himself to at work to take home his daily living. When Vincent was younger, his mother once dreamt for him to train and later work as a farrier – his father, in response, had put his foot down. A rare occurrence indeed, but this idea he wouldn’t hear. The thought of burning fire, of harsh metals and dangerous animals were too much for him to bear and Vincent, in turn, silently thanked him from the bottom of his weak little heart. He’s never imagined loving someone and losing them in such a horrendous fashion; even his nightmares, in comparison, seem pale and pitiful.
no subject
“I – you two were…” He swallows, colour welling up into his cheeks once more, not from embarrassment at the subject matter but from the stupidity of the question. Because really, at the core of it, what does it matter in light of all the rest? Not one bit. Instead, he shakes his head quickly, his grip on Claude’s arm tightening subconsciously. “I’m sorry. I…” Pause. There really is not much else to say, is there? “Claude.” A deep breath and then, voice softer still: “I’m deeply sorry.”
Beneath it all, there’s relief. A stark sense of relief, something he can’t even begin to acknowledge or deal with because what are his own, personal troubles against this tragic tale? Vincent’s lived a peaceful life, a boring life too, certainly, but utterly devoid of danger to both himself and his family. Except, perhaps, for whatever hazards his father may subject himself to at work to take home his daily living. When Vincent was younger, his mother once dreamt for him to train and later work as a farrier – his father, in response, had put his foot down. A rare occurrence indeed, but this idea he wouldn’t hear. The thought of burning fire, of harsh metals and dangerous animals were too much for him to bear and Vincent, in turn, silently thanked him from the bottom of his weak little heart. He’s never imagined loving someone and losing them in such a horrendous fashion; even his nightmares, in comparison, seem pale and pitiful.