Claude wets his lips and Vincent’s already ahead of him – when he speaks the words, it’s like a dam breaking in his heart. Expression blank for all of five seconds, his hands clenching into fists by his sides and his stance rigid from holding back, Vincent finally gives in and steps forward, the distance between them shrinking to null. With every step, the sense of proximity explodes in his mind, slap upon slap of something that’ll be terribly painful once it’s come and gone. But while it lasts… while it’s there…
Answering only in the physical sense, Vincent reaches forward and flattens his palms gently against Claude’s front, layers of fabric a literal barrier beneath his hands. It doesn’t matter because he’s touching him and his body’s already tingling from it, blood pumping through his veins as fast as he can breathe in the air between their bodies. God. He wants… he can’t… Eyes narrowing in the darkness, gaze fixed on Claude’s face, the almost sculptured lines of his brow and nose, Vincent leans down without further ado and presses his lips to Claude’s mouth.
There’s a rising panic in the back of his mind at the thought of doing this, of finally crossing a line that he’s never even drawn in the first place. But lingering much like a silver sea of fog above it, there’s an odd sense of exhaustion. Of impatience. It’s so difficult to navigate, all this darkness and shame, because it’s unknown territory, a strange intrusion upon his mental space. This, on the other hand – the feel of Claude’s lips, soft and wet against his own, and the flatness of his upper body beneath his hands… This isn’t difficult. This isn’t difficult at all.
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Answering only in the physical sense, Vincent reaches forward and flattens his palms gently against Claude’s front, layers of fabric a literal barrier beneath his hands. It doesn’t matter because he’s touching him and his body’s already tingling from it, blood pumping through his veins as fast as he can breathe in the air between their bodies. God. He wants… he can’t… Eyes narrowing in the darkness, gaze fixed on Claude’s face, the almost sculptured lines of his brow and nose, Vincent leans down without further ado and presses his lips to Claude’s mouth.
There’s a rising panic in the back of his mind at the thought of doing this, of finally crossing a line that he’s never even drawn in the first place. But lingering much like a silver sea of fog above it, there’s an odd sense of exhaustion. Of impatience. It’s so difficult to navigate, all this darkness and shame, because it’s unknown territory, a strange intrusion upon his mental space. This, on the other hand – the feel of Claude’s lips, soft and wet against his own, and the flatness of his upper body beneath his hands… This isn’t difficult. This isn’t difficult at all.