Keeping an eye on the fireplace, Claude only turns towards Vincent halfway, meeting his forward advance with a slight smile. The man looks about as ruffled as a chick that has fallen out of its nest and considering the situation, the comparison should be rather accurate, too. However, men like them - the two of them... They'll all have to leave the safety of the familiar behind at some point to get where they want to be. Where they need to be. It seems Vincent's time is now and despite everything, despite the hesitancy and the distance, Claude feels almost honoured at being part of the process. He can't recall having ever felt this way before either.
With a hard tug, the bow tie comes undone and Claude discards it carelessly on the nearest chair. Starts unbuttoning his vest (thick oriental silk, mahogany in colour and sleek like porcelain glazing), one mother-of-pearl button at a time, his fingers well-acquainted with the movements. Just another choreography on a microscopic scale, isn't it? Once it's open, both his jacket and the vest follow the bow tie's lead, landing in an only slightly less messy heap (wrinkles won't do, so he controls himself) while Claude himself walks over to Vincent, taking his dinner jacket from between his fingers and gesturing towards the remaining, free armchair.
"Give me another moment and I'll be all yours, Vincent," he says, voice a pitch lower than normally, because he can make out the faint outline of Vincent's chest - jutting bones and oblong muscles beneath the white cotton of his shirt. His cock feels heavy between his legs, a massive throbbing of blood and something less physical. Something more than just arousal. He quirks his lips slightly at Vincent, before turning away and crossing over to his bed, folding the dinner jacket nicely (respectfully) as he places it on top of the covers. Then, he digs out the sheepskins he always keeps at the foot of his bed, to warm his feet after a day of harsh abuse.
They make no sound as he spreads them out over the floor in front of the fireplace, no bundles in sight. Vincent will thank him in the morning when he wakes up without any knots gnawing their way down his neck and back. If he stays, of course. A fleeting hint of a frown and Claude straightens up, running a hand through his hair slowly.
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With a hard tug, the bow tie comes undone and Claude discards it carelessly on the nearest chair. Starts unbuttoning his vest (thick oriental silk, mahogany in colour and sleek like porcelain glazing), one mother-of-pearl button at a time, his fingers well-acquainted with the movements. Just another choreography on a microscopic scale, isn't it? Once it's open, both his jacket and the vest follow the bow tie's lead, landing in an only slightly less messy heap (wrinkles won't do, so he controls himself) while Claude himself walks over to Vincent, taking his dinner jacket from between his fingers and gesturing towards the remaining, free armchair.
"Give me another moment and I'll be all yours, Vincent," he says, voice a pitch lower than normally, because he can make out the faint outline of Vincent's chest - jutting bones and oblong muscles beneath the white cotton of his shirt. His cock feels heavy between his legs, a massive throbbing of blood and something less physical. Something more than just arousal. He quirks his lips slightly at Vincent, before turning away and crossing over to his bed, folding the dinner jacket nicely (respectfully) as he places it on top of the covers. Then, he digs out the sheepskins he always keeps at the foot of his bed, to warm his feet after a day of harsh abuse.
They make no sound as he spreads them out over the floor in front of the fireplace, no bundles in sight. Vincent will thank him in the morning when he wakes up without any knots gnawing their way down his neck and back. If he stays, of course. A fleeting hint of a frown and Claude straightens up, running a hand through his hair slowly.