Out the corner of his eyes, just at the very edge of his vision, he's conscious of how Vincent's hands ball into fists at his sides. Nevertheless, he doesn't attempt to keep the other man away when he steps forward - one, two, three steps and fingers flattening out over his chest, against the layers of clothes falling like another sort of curtain between them, as if the act is up. Looking at Vincent, how his eyes mould around an uneven (almost jagged) change of reaction, Claude can see that he might not have hit closer to home, had he tried. His lips, when their mouths collide, Vincent taller by half a foot - but good enough to bend down, are heated and strong. An insistent, albeit perhaps also quite desperate slide over Claude's own. Claude, in turn, draws in a sharp breath through his nose and pushes back up against him, balancing his weight on the front of his feet. Not demi-pointe, not offstage. The rest of it is instinctual. His hands reach up and bury into the front of Vincent's coat, dragging Vincent with him the half-step back it requires for Claude to find himself with his back to the wall and the shadows providing as much safety as they'll ever find like this, out in the open for all intents and purposes. Their fronts pressed so close together that Claude is willing to swear he can sense Vincent's breathing, absorbing the motion with his own body.

Slowly, he parts his lips. Cocks his head for a better angle and runs his tongue over the other man's bottom lip, the sharp line of it, as if drawn by quill. Dear God, he doesn't want to scare Vincent off now, not now with his proximity a very efficient shield indeed against... all of it. All that came before this moment. A breathless groan and he manages not to just push past his lips, instead focusing on raising one hand and running his fingers experimentally up the side of his neck, following the jutting edge of jaw into the soft strands of hair at the nape. He feels good. He feels good and soft and hard and strong. In every measure that matters.