"I've been sorry for a long time," Claude admits, as an extension of Vincent's words. It's said with a slight shrug, though. Yes, it was tragic. Yes, it might just have ruined him for good in certain aspects, but life is made up of a million parts, isn't it? Just because these pieces can't be restored, doesn't mean he can't work with the motif as it remains - incomplete, but as a dancer, he's learned to deal with the eternal quest for perfection where the horizon will never truly be within reach. Glancing up at Vincent, he manages a smile; not thin or strained, but plenty curved and warm in its honesty. "You're doing marvellously, Vincent."
Outside the Opera, Claude is a very difficult man to disappoint. If it's not a question of choreography and movement, rules are meant to be disregarded, if they fail to address the situation you find yourself in. Ask anyone, Claude Bérubé is ever the gentleman, but he's also as informal as they come and takes life in stride. Whatever happens tonight, after dinner - Claude doesn't expect that Vincent could let him down, even if he consciously tried. Perhaps because he couldn't imagine the other man wanting to. Try. Consciously. Lines mean edges and edges can be sharp, you won't hear him deny it, but behind Vincent's very handsome armour, Claude doesn't feel even the notion of arms aimed at him. He likes that, it's admirable.
They cross the bridge, their reflections blurry and disturbed in the rippling Seine. Underneath their feet, the passing carriages and heavy trotting of the horses pulling them shakes the very foundation on which they're walking. Then again, isn't that the lesson he's been taught? This ever-trembling nature of living, as if at the foot of a slumbering volcano.
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Outside the Opera, Claude is a very difficult man to disappoint. If it's not a question of choreography and movement, rules are meant to be disregarded, if they fail to address the situation you find yourself in. Ask anyone, Claude Bérubé is ever the gentleman, but he's also as informal as they come and takes life in stride. Whatever happens tonight, after dinner - Claude doesn't expect that Vincent could let him down, even if he consciously tried. Perhaps because he couldn't imagine the other man wanting to. Try. Consciously. Lines mean edges and edges can be sharp, you won't hear him deny it, but behind Vincent's very handsome armour, Claude doesn't feel even the notion of arms aimed at him. He likes that, it's admirable.
They cross the bridge, their reflections blurry and disturbed in the rippling Seine. Underneath their feet, the passing carriages and heavy trotting of the horses pulling them shakes the very foundation on which they're walking. Then again, isn't that the lesson he's been taught? This ever-trembling nature of living, as if at the foot of a slumbering volcano.