He doesn’t notice the girl creeping about amidst the shadows until Claude salutes her, receiving nothing but a somewhat constipated look in return. Vincent follows her with his gaze mostly by instinct, returning his attention to Claude the moment he regains sufficient conscious control over his reflexes. Eyebrow raised, he pauses when Claude does, a half-smile tugging at the side of his mouth.
“Yes. Here you are.” And here they are, too. Vincent looks upwards past the dark windows of the first, second, third floor – and further up, even, to where the sixth floor touches the sky. He was there the other night, wasn’t he, weeks back? He truly was. But right now, he can’t tell whether they’re waiting to… to write another chapter on this story or possibly acting out the epilogue. He wouldn’t blame Claude, not for anything in the world, but there’s a shimmer of hope flittering about in his chest and it’s making it so very difficult to be rational about this. Arms falling to his sides uselessly, he shifts from one foot to the other and back again, gaze slipping from the bricks to the ground.
For a long moment, he tries to come up with something to say. He even makes an attempt, voice low and words thin from breathing too shallowly, air stuck in his throat along with most of his courage. “Uh, Claude. I wanted to say…” He trails off. Looks up at Claude’s face, eyes searching his (so beautiful, brown with specks of grey, warmer than anything else around them, warmer than Vincent, too). But he doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t know what to do because he knows all too well what he wants to do.
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“Yes. Here you are.” And here they are, too. Vincent looks upwards past the dark windows of the first, second, third floor – and further up, even, to where the sixth floor touches the sky. He was there the other night, wasn’t he, weeks back? He truly was. But right now, he can’t tell whether they’re waiting to… to write another chapter on this story or possibly acting out the epilogue. He wouldn’t blame Claude, not for anything in the world, but there’s a shimmer of hope flittering about in his chest and it’s making it so very difficult to be rational about this. Arms falling to his sides uselessly, he shifts from one foot to the other and back again, gaze slipping from the bricks to the ground.
For a long moment, he tries to come up with something to say. He even makes an attempt, voice low and words thin from breathing too shallowly, air stuck in his throat along with most of his courage. “Uh, Claude. I wanted to say…” He trails off. Looks up at Claude’s face, eyes searching his (so beautiful, brown with specks of grey, warmer than anything else around them, warmer than Vincent, too). But he doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t know what to do because he knows all too well what he wants to do.