They part, finally. Suddenly. In the aftermath, the night feeling more chilling than he remembers it to have been just moments ago, Claude is left to gulp down air in a couple of harsh mouthfuls, his lips throbbing almost as much as his more than half-hard cock. Without taking his eyes off Vincent who looks (and sounded upon drawing back) like a startled deer, he slowly bends down to pick up his top hat that has tumbled off to the side, though still within reach by a stretch or two. He winces, though. His trousers feel uncomfortably tight at the array of motion. Obviously, he did get ahead of not just himself, but way ahead of Vincent as well. It was a wholly inconsiderate move. Between the two of them, he's the one who should be able to recognise the entire influx, the vast confusion of feelings that Vincent is undoubtedly struggling with currently. Along with the ruins of all the feelings that have come before. Claude should have known. Claude should have understood. And Claude should, more than anything, have granted him time to fall into step. Find the rhythm.
"I'm sorry," he says now, hat dangling uselessly from between his fingers, since he's not going to put it back on. He'll be heading inside in another moment or two, whatever the direction in which this thing between them will progress - the hat will be no helmet, if tonight should prove the night of all nights where the darkness manages to trip him up on his way up the stairs. The pause extends between them while Claude looks Vincent over, just to ensure that the man isn't about to run off and throw himself in the Seine. Heaven knows, he's heard of enough of their kind who have... Vincent, however, remains a dark tower with the street and its electric lights further down for backdrop. All squared shoulders before Claude's eyes and the ghost of his erection still (barely) tangible against his palm. When he's about to speak again, about to -- say goodnight, perhaps, under all circumstances something stupid and cowardly, Claude realises that he doesn't want Vincent to leave. Not like this. He wants him to stay, if nothing else, then because he wants to feel connected to someone. Again. He doesn't want to spend the night alone. Again. So, rather than bidding him goodnight, Claude says: "Come with me up."
Fully aware that he might very well be repeating himself. Accepting it, too.
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"I'm sorry," he says now, hat dangling uselessly from between his fingers, since he's not going to put it back on. He'll be heading inside in another moment or two, whatever the direction in which this thing between them will progress - the hat will be no helmet, if tonight should prove the night of all nights where the darkness manages to trip him up on his way up the stairs. The pause extends between them while Claude looks Vincent over, just to ensure that the man isn't about to run off and throw himself in the Seine. Heaven knows, he's heard of enough of their kind who have... Vincent, however, remains a dark tower with the street and its electric lights further down for backdrop. All squared shoulders before Claude's eyes and the ghost of his erection still (barely) tangible against his palm. When he's about to speak again, about to -- say goodnight, perhaps, under all circumstances something stupid and cowardly, Claude realises that he doesn't want Vincent to leave. Not like this. He wants him to stay, if nothing else, then because he wants to feel connected to someone. Again. He doesn't want to spend the night alone. Again. So, rather than bidding him goodnight, Claude says: "Come with me up."
Fully aware that he might very well be repeating himself. Accepting it, too.