When he lands in front of his own door, Claude fishes out his key with nimble fingers, the entire routine so well-known that he could do it in his sleep. Might just have, too. Once or twice. The main difference is the presence of Vincent behind him, Vincent who has followed him quietly... Normally, Claude doesn't bring his men home with him. There are rooms upstairs at Ganyméde for the same reason, to provide a place to go for those who couldn't take their lovers with them home, even if they wanted to. After Pavel, Claude has rarely wanted to. Sylvain hasn't been here enough times to count on two hands and he's been the only exception, the past years. Before Pavel? Before Pavel, nothing was fixed. Nothing was holy. Swallowing, he steps through the door, leaves it open for Vincent to close and lock while Claude himself shrugs out of his coat, hangs it away on the coat tree along with his hat. As always, his flat is freezing cold.

Turning around, he gestures somewhat aimlessly around the large room with one arm. "I need to fire up, so just..." A pause while he looks Vincent over. Despite the row of windows all around them, the light is sparse and the other man's face all but drowned out by greyness. Claude knows his own face doesn't look much better. They'll need to do something about that, he thinks. Definitely. "Make yourself comfortable."

With that, he walks over to the fireplace and throws a few logs into the cold heap of ashes. Bends down and stuffs enough hay underneath to light the building, were he to be careless. He isn't. He rarely is. The flame eats into the kindling fast, grows and casts long orange-yellow tongues along the floor. The heat is palpable. Like an onslaught. Leaving it to catch on, Claude migrates from lamp to lamp (and he's got plenty, he likes the colours), turning them on one by one until the room is all polychromes. All warmth. The perfect excuse to loosen his bow tie.