Claude Laurent Bérubé (
waywardious) wrote2015-11-23 08:52 pm
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(2) after and before.
The post-performance bustle is always exceedingly pronounced on closing night. The dressing rooms reverberate with the chatter of the ballerinas and the loud shouting of the danseurs, trying to hear themselves above the rush of water and clothes. Claude has slipped relatively unseen through the commotion, narrowly avoiding Jules and managing to excuse himself when Marise makes a brave attempt at cornering him. He has no idea whether he’ll actually meet Vincent at all, on the street once more, but his entire system is overwrought from the emotional charge it required to dance like he did tonight. Watched, all over again, by a pair of non-judgmental eyes. The rest of the company may be headed for their scheduled parties, but he fully intends to go easy on himself tonight. Grant himself just a little elbowroom.
So, out of his costume and his makeup – tonight (at least) wearing a vest over his shirt, he thumps his brown top hat into position on his head and shrugs into his coat. Slides on a pair of kidskin gloves, but no scarf tonight, because April has brought along gentler winds and kinder temperatures.
Opening the heavy door leading out, right at the heels of the first corps girls, he feels the initial gusts of contentment seep into his system. He danced that variation better tonight than he has ever danced anything in his entire life; he doesn’t even care if his promotion remains obscured in the fogs of the future. He danced like Pavel taught him. Like Pavel inspired him to. All the while, someone watched him and Claude hopes to God that Vincent doesn’t decide to simply disappear back into the crowd.
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He almost wishes he’d been wearing something better. Almost. Because in essence, it doesn’t really matter does it? When the stage is lit, the rest of the room – and the audience, too – falls into darkness and truthfully, Vincent might as well have been naked in his seat tonight with how bared he felt. Watching like this. Knowing that only a short while ago, he’d been sitting in Claude’s apartment, talking about unimportant nonsense, practically drinking him up more so than the expensive cognac in his glass. Weeks have passed since then but nothing’s changed – at least, not for the better. His dreams… Well. Safe to say, he’s been washing his own sheets ever since. Someone ought to invent a cure for this predicament. With all the physical evidence it leaves behind it should classify as an illness well enough.
Wiping the frown off his face, he pauses as the door opens, revealing Claude. Looking quite well-dressed for the night, his top hat fitting his head and his height very nicely. Unlike Vincent who can’t wear top hats unless he wants to look like an extinguished lamp post; thus, he doesn’t. Pulling at his coat somewhat uselessly, fingers jittery, he takes a deep breath and crosses over to the other man, giving him an unhesitant smile.
“Claude! What a stunning performance tonight – with the best view imaginable.” He holds out a hand in greeting, the memory of their last handshake, of Claude’s hands, large and strong, intruding upon his thoughts. Ignoring it, he adds, “I can’t thank you enough. It was unforgettable.”
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It's tradition. Usually something the company enjoys together across ranks and internal fighting; these after-parties on the last day of a run, especially if the run has been as successful as this one. La Bayadère has undoubtedly earned Jules a greater profit than the man has seen since... since... Tonight, however, Claude would honestly rather celebrate with someone who thinks him better for his charisma than certain of his fellow dancers who (in the wake of the catastrophe back then) would prefer and have suggested he take it to another venue. All of it. The dancing, the charm and the physicality. All of it. God knows, Strauss would pay up front.
Looking Vincent over without being too blatant about it, he gives him a fair chance to consider his response. He's tall. Taller than Pavel. Definitely taller than Claude, although this is by no means a great feat, Claude being on the shorter side. The back door opens behind them and he hears the first ballerinas scatter into their close-knit groups, milling past them without a care in the world, seemingly. He knows their feet must hurt. La Bayadère is no laughing matter, technically. Out the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Marise's blackish-brown curls bouncing merrily up and down. She, in turn, catches sight of him as well. Eyes moving alertly from him to Vincent. The briefest pause, before she waves at him and continues into the night with the others. He only greets her halfway, her back already turned and his attention focused solely on the other man.
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“Please, lead the way. I’m sure you must be starving – that was quite an exertion tonight on your part.” He turns away, starts towards the street further down. The Latin Quarters – that’s a good hour’s walk from here. Turning his head slightly to glance at Claude with a raised eyebrow, he adds, “You very much swept me off my feet.”
He’s aware of the romantic implications of the phrase. This time, however, he doesn’t redden or chide himself – after all, it’s innocent enough and Claude’s such a decent man. Unlikely to get offended, consequently, and really; it’s the god-honest truth. Tonight, Vincent watched him and almost felt like he was soaring himself while the bronze idol left the ground behind, the golden dust glittering in the stage light. Besides, over the past weeks his dreams have become more intense, less unforgiving and it’s been almost like a transition – going from terror and humiliation to resignation. He’s not taking it out on anyone, is he? So long as he keeps himself under control outside the confines of his private quarters, aside from God himself, he’ll be the only judge.
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The past month has been one long blur of constant practice, rehearsal, training - Claude has lost a good couple of kilos in weight, because he gets home too late to eat a proper dinner. And a month ago, all the exertion would have been well worth it just for the obvious attention that Jules has finally been paying to him, for once in the capacity of ballet master rather than friend. Even so, it isn't the rising promise of a promotion at long last which has kept him on his toes, in every sense. No, at the back of his mind that hopeful, non-intrusive but altogether insistent air of Vincent's has spread, like a fog. Like a sickness, if Claude would ever characterise another person as such. You were the reason, he tells the other man and it isn't flattery. It isn't empty speak. It's the honest-to-God truth. Claude hasn't danced for anyone but himself since Pavel died. Perhaps what has been missing all along (aside from the obvious, the obvious) was this realisation that dancing should never be reduced to a singular affair. In that regard, all ballet is a pas de deux.
So, certainly, Vincent is no dancer - despite the pretense of his lines. The audience, though, is always only another participant to partner. In the end, the steps mean nothing, if no one is around to interpret their meaning.
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“That means the world to me, Claude.” He’s trying hard not to be excessive or blatant but all the same… there’s something about the other man that inspires honesty in him, even with all the lying he does on a daily basis to the world and to himself as well. He couldn’t possibly take what he’s offered, innocent as it may still be, and devalue it with something uncaring or superficial. Not from Claude. It wouldn’t be right. “I…” Pause. A deep breath. “The ticket you got me – however did you manage to get me such an amazing seat? The lady next to me seemed afraid that I’d steal her diamonds in the dark and her lord husband was too busy staring at the ballerinas on stage to notice.” A quiet laugh as he straightens up a bit, waving a hand in the air mostly as an afterthought. “At times, I swear I could almost feel you fly by right above my head.”
Not almost. Literally, like a gust of wind as Claude whirled across the stage, his movements so powerful and so fast that the air around him had to give in to his lead. He’s not going to get that poetic about it, however; no need to take advantage after all. No need to encourage it.
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Raising an eyebrow, partly at himself, partly at the question, he leads the both of them around the corner onto Rue la Fayette where the electrical lighting is stark and chases their shadows behind them which is undoubtedly the fitting place for them to be, tonight. "The ballet master has yet to find a successful way to withstand my charms," he answers, keeping a chuckle at bay mainly due to the fact that it is a gross understatement. As bad as Claude has felt for the disaster that struck their repertory two seasons ago, it cannot compare to the guilt that has been eating away at Jules - at seeing his rising star rot amongst the corps dancers who possess no skills to help reinvent the company's dying style. If nothing else, then for the sake of his own vanity. "Other than that, it's an in-house secret that the middle seat of the first row is never sold until last minute, should the President need to show favours."
They have had memorable incidents, backstage, where it's been announced that they were performing for foreign ministers, ambassadors, delegates, even the President's mistress only five minutes before going into the wings. Compared to that sort of pressure, dancing for Vincent was the greatest pleasure, in every conceivable way.
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“The rich are a curious class of people, aren’t they? They cheat and commit fraud without even a blink of the eye – no wonder they see treachery everywhere.” He should know. Monsieur LeBeau is very much a prime example. Vincent knows for a fact that multiple aspects of his business go either undetected on the accounts or are re-classified for private needs. The man’s never going to admit it – and Vincent’s never going to expose him, either – but the fact is, riches are inherently dirty. Filthy, as you might say. “It’s good, knowing that no one truly deserving missed out tonight because of me.”
Perhaps it’s just an accident. Surely. His body merely happens to gravitate in the direction of Claude’s with enough momentum that he can’t avoid it – the sudden body contact, their shoulders rubbing against each other for at least a few seconds before he recoils, putting at least an additional foot between them. Behind him, his shadow jumps along the ground along with his long legs, Claude’s contour a solid block of see-through black streaked across the street.
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"Paris isn't exactly a deserving city, when it comes to ballet-goers," he replies. Moving across the distance on light, soundless feet. "They're an unforgiving bunch, the audience. Unlike you."
The compliment is followed by a bump of his shoulder against Vincent's upper arm, good-naturedly, almost playful. However, Vincent is by all means lightweight and Claude shoves him a noticeable stumble to the side without truly meaning to. Quickly, he reaches up and closes his fingers around his arm, steadying him with practiced ease. At least, he's not in unaccommodating pointe shoes. "Sorry," he adds, laughing a bit awkwardly. Only loosens his grip minimally, for effect. To finish on a satisfactory note.
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For a long moment, he just tries to regain his composure, following along shakily, Claude’s grip loosening only slightly as they walk on. Swallowing his nerves, he tries to push all the wrong thoughts aside once more, wondering how he can even remain acquainted with this man in the long run if this is what he does to him, to his mind and body and soul. It’s a losing battle. At some point, he’s bound to ruin it all and is it really worth the resultant pain? Is it?
Glancing sideways at Claude, noting the awkwardness of his laugh, the slight stumble in their conversational flow, he finally smiles. “Quite alright. As you can see, I’m no dancer myself.” His hands tighten harshly in the fabric of his coat. Raising an eyebrow at Claude’s hand still curled around his upper arm, he adds, “It’s hardly going to break me.” It’s an almost impossible feat, however, keeping the underlying resignation out of his voice. There’s a flatness to it, it seems. Despite his best intentions.
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"You don't strike me as someone easily broken, Vincent," Claude says by way of acknowledgement. His lighter voice and narrow build aside, Vincent truly doesn't give off the air of spoils and privilege that often underlies the frailty of the upper classes. Then again, resilience and force has always been a stamp of the French working class, called middle class these days because society is changing all around them in the wake of the growing industry. Whatever name - these were the people who beheaded kings and accomplished revolutions. Not people to mess around with. "What do you do for a living?"
Something that earns him enough to attend the Opera. And something which keeps his hands incredibly soft.
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“I’m an accountant.” He speaks the word without much sentimentalism or indeed, much of anything. He’s never hated his job, he’s got a head for numbers and order – really, it’s the most logical thing he could do. Sometimes, however, logic becomes a rather numb excuse for motivation. “My father…” He swallows without meaning to. “My father’s acquaintance owns a somewhat sizeable dressmaker’s business. He was kind enough to give me work.”
It’s not that getting a job by himself would have been impossible but truly, using your family connections remains a much less vulnerable approach to the market. Naturally, his father owes his friend for taking Vincent in years back and keeping him on – and indeed, favours slip from hand to hand, solidifying the arrangement in a way that a flawless performance never could. LeBeau doesn’t come out of that deal any poorer and obviously, if he did, there’d be no deal to speak of at all. He knows what they’re like, all of them. His father always looks quite ashen when they talk about it. But he’s chosen to accept that the world works as it does, that in order to provide for his household, he’ll have to endure those who’d take advantage.
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Somewhat unconsciously correcting his gloves, tugging them back over his wrists because they tend to slip down, smooth enough to slide over his skin, Claude smiles - another small tug near the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure your handwriting is something I should take note of, in that case." Their footfalls dull and uneven across the newly repaved Place de l'Opéra, they steer around the carriages making their way into the night. At this hour, the traffic is nightmarish, everyone with somewhere to be and someone to see finding themselves in transit. "I hear it's a work-related injury for your kind, to wield an immaculate cursive."
His own is barely readable, if he's not concentrated enough and Heaven knows, the concentration he needs to manage anything beyond a scrawl is not something he often begrudges the world. He can do very neat things with his feet, thus the point just remains lost on him. Pavel used to tease him about it. Called it a proof that he lacked sensitivity. Naturally, he would fall blissfully silent when Claude put his hands to an altogether better use... The blush sneaks up on him and he doesn't catch it in time. A slight frown and he fixes his gaze on the corner where Avenue de l'Opéra crosses Boulevard des Capucines.
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“I have worked along side people with unintelligible handwriting, Claude. Nothing in the world is for certain, right?” He shifts just a bit closer again, looking sideways at the other man, very consciously keeping his eyes from roaming downwards towards his hands. It would only lead his mind onwards and he’s already torturing himself enough by far. Is he blushing, though? Quite a fitting look for him, isn’t it? All rose-coloured subtlety. Imagine how that would look... whilst… Or don’t, actually. No. Heat spreading on his face as well, Vincent adds, somewhat hastily: “Why would you take note of it, though? Surely, a man with your physical skills…” He can’t finish the sentence, swallowing the last words, whatever they would have been. Physical skills indeed. He’s implying, of course, that a ballet dancer who can work his body through the air not unlike the strokes of a painter’s brush should have no difficulties with pen and paper. But his mind is taking his words into indescribable places and all he can do is hope that Claude catches his meaning regardless.
For some reason, though, he can’t help but think - even if he doesn’t… surely, they’ll work it out. Claude hasn’t once made him feel awkward or inadequate despite his slip-ups and lack of self-restraint. He’s been so kind, so very, very kind. There’s a reason why the man’s taken over the nameless stranger’s place in his dreams, has settled himself so thoroughly in the main role despite Vincent’s frantic attempts at sparing even his fictional self the humiliation of it. Of having to partake in… in that. In any of it. But Claude simply stays right where he is, all calm strength and presence, all him.
Almost all.
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(later)
Hands no longer chronically stuck in his pockets, he gestures upwards at the windows far above their heads, a faint light emitted from some of them whilst others seem black as night. “You have a lovely place to live, Claude. Especially when you consider some of the alternatives in this area – imagine having no views except for these bricks!” A wide wave of his arm in the general direction of the walls surrounding them. Vincent’s not spoiled when it comes to living arrangements, not by far, but it’s still a fact of truth that Claude’s apartment with its views to the sky seem just a bit above the rest; stairs and lack of commodities not withstanding.
It doesn’t feel odd anymore, thinking about it. About Claude’s apartment and the fact that he’s already visited, that he knows what it looks like inside. It goes with the rest of this evening, really – with drawing closer and closer to him, listening to him talk, imagine him living his life, a life without all the dirty and sinful humiliations that Vincent keeps ascribing his own afflictions. The more he discovers, the more he realises that his views have been twisted and turned. Possibly he’ll never be more than this – but then again, Claude will always be exactly this much and maybe that’s just a superior mode of thinking.
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"The first couple of years after I left the dormitories at the Opera, I lived in the basement of a building rather close to the Seine," he says, the hint of laughter audible as he pauses, tapping the brim of his hat at Mademoiselle Samson as she passes them by, all but pressed up against the opposite wall. Undoubtedly out without her father's knowledge or approval again. He smiles. She glances over his shoulder curiously, at Vincent's tall, slender frame, staring rather blatantly until they have moved out of each other's view. Claude ignores her. Undoubtedly, her father has complained about Claude's lifestyle often enough. Sounds travel in their complex. As do rumours. "During the storms that would hit us over the course of autumn, the Seine rose uncontrollably and I'd wake up to ankle-deep water in my room. When my father expanded his business and raised my allowances accordingly, I decided that I needed to get as far off the ground as possible. So here I am."
He concludes the observation with a nonchalant gesture of his hand, the one nearest to Vincent, by his side. After all, it's not just an end born of practicalities, though practicalities have their place. Claude wouldn't be dancing, unless he enjoyed the physical experience as well as the notion of being up in the air. Drawing to a halt in front of the front door to his stairway, he purses his lips slightly and turns to face Vincent fully. The brick wall behind him casts the both of them in a discreet shadow, Vincent's features muted, but his silhouette stark. A tower of darker nuances.
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“Yes. Here you are.” And here they are, too. Vincent looks upwards past the dark windows of the first, second, third floor – and further up, even, to where the sixth floor touches the sky. He was there the other night, wasn’t he, weeks back? He truly was. But right now, he can’t tell whether they’re waiting to… to write another chapter on this story or possibly acting out the epilogue. He wouldn’t blame Claude, not for anything in the world, but there’s a shimmer of hope flittering about in his chest and it’s making it so very difficult to be rational about this. Arms falling to his sides uselessly, he shifts from one foot to the other and back again, gaze slipping from the bricks to the ground.
For a long moment, he tries to come up with something to say. He even makes an attempt, voice low and words thin from breathing too shallowly, air stuck in his throat along with most of his courage. “Uh, Claude. I wanted to say…” He trails off. Looks up at Claude’s face, eyes searching his (so beautiful, brown with specks of grey, warmer than anything else around them, warmer than Vincent, too). But he doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t know what to do because he knows all too well what he wants to do.
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"Would you mind if I kissed you?"
So, he blurts it out as if it isn't an important question. As if it weren't loaded. Vincent has an amazing mouth - his built, long and lean, lends itself to striking lines and his lips aren't much different. Somewhat thin, but sharply emphasised. Every quirk stark, like a contrast on its own. Claude has been watching those two perfect parallels part all night as they've stuffed themselves with cheese and although he's been good, although he hasn't entertained the thought, he has a certain collection of mental images to choose from. Of Vincent's lips opening to something else. His tongue, his cock, he'd find it difficult to pick only one. With the question posed, in a relatively friendly, relatively warm voice, Claude proceeds to just stand there. Holding Vincent's gaze and waiting for his cue. He has training, one must assume. It's the world they live in.
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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.
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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.
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When Claude pushes his tongue against his lips, it takes him at least a second (more possibly three) to understand what’s happening. He’s never – not the touch of someone else’s tongue and it’s so good, like another barrier of intimacy, broken. Following the other man’s lead, Vincent parts his lips as well, breathing in harshly and exhaling before pressing his tongue lightly against Claude’s. Just the very tip of it, just… but oh. Oh. Eyes falling shut, he sighs, shoulders relaxing for the first time in what feels like ages. When Claude groans, the sound rushes straight through his system, pooling very heatedly between his legs. Ignoring that - there’s a time and a place, perhaps, and he doesn’t want his body to ruin this - Vincent leans into the touch of his fingers before freeing one hand and pushing Claude’s hat further down his head, already on the verge of toppling off against the brick wall. Like this, he can… he can… yes. Running his fingers through Claude’s hair slowly, long fingertips stroking over his scalp, he realises that he could do this all night, no problem. Just the two of them, right here with their bodies and mouths pressed together, sharing an intimacy that he’s never truly known to exist. His dreams are nothing in comparison, less than the weight of a passing thought.
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Caressing down along the side of his tongue with just the tip of his own, Claude returns his hands to Vincent's body. He's getting ahead of himself, he can tell - probably getting ahead of them both, but beyond the physical aspect of it, how hard he's slowly growing in his trousers and how hard he can feel Vincent growing in his, Vincent's desperation is not only contagious. It's simply not just his anymore. Claude's gone too long at this point, without any real emotional investment in another human being. It's... simply been too long. The feeling of being adored is even less foreign than the feeling of needing someone else. Of wanting someone else for more than the five minutes the basics take, behind all the finesse. Vincent wants him. Claude had forgotten...
It's an automatic slip, born of too many hurried trysts where time was of the essence. One hand abandons the vast expanses of Vincent's chest and starts travelling down, down over his stomach, down over the front of his trousers, although his coat upholds a relative modesty. Claude's inhalations are shallow and fast, by now. They're hardly even parting, just breathing into each other. He presses his entire palm inwards, an overabundance of fabric eating up the brunt of it, but the gesture unmistakable regardless.
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Claude’s hand slips further down and suddenly, his palm is pressing in between his legs, right up against his – and it’s definitely hard by now, embarrassingly so. Vincent yelps, managing by some miracle not to bite down on Claude’s tongue as he jumps backwards, the loss of body contact almost painfully stark. A part of him wants to keep going, of course it does – the part that wouldn’t care about (would relish) being naked and depraved right in the middle of a public alleyway. The rest of him is mortified, his mind suddenly bearing down with all the accusations, all the blame and all the guilt. Why can’t he control himself? What’s this, why can’t he just…
Blinking, he runs his hands down his clothes, movements frantic, managing to brush out neither the wrinkles in the fabric nor the sudden discovery of touch, of physical nearness. More importantly, inside his mouth the taste of Claude – of his warmness, of the underlying passion – lingers. The wetness along his lips, same. He’s doing nothing to wipe them clean, either; rather, he’s just staring owlishly at Claude, everything suddenly pulled to a stop though every inch of his body – and really, his mind, too – remains desperate to proceed.
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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.
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"Yes." The word nearly tumbles out of him, his voice hoarse. Stepping closer once more, he takes another deep breath and smiles, managing for at least a few seconds to dispel any worries from his expression.
This shame... It doesn't belong to this here between them, whatever it is. It may be for him to bear but surely, what they just shared - what Claude just gave him without words or greediness - surely, something like that can't damn him in any way that his own thoughts haven't already. And even if it does... what then? Maybe that's the true question right there and maybe it's fine for him to have no answer now - beyond the obvious, a repetition:
"Yes, I'd love to."
Even if he'll be walking blindly up those stairs in the dark, just like last time he'll be in excellent company.
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"You know the way," he comments. As much an observation about Vincent's earlier visit as a careful recognition of the powerful stuff of which instincts are made. He doubts either of them is unsure about what's going to happen, once upstairs. The difference is just a matter of experience; the detail of their expectations... He'll have to be conscious of that, won't he? Be slightly more in control of himself than he managed down here, of all places. Unbeknownst to Vincent, Claude grimaces and starts mounting the stairs. Like an expedition. His record for covering all six floors is just short of a minute. Tonight, he'll take it slower for Vincent's sake, but not by much.
He can tell, after all, that it's not capability or willingness that would hold the other man back. No, it would be all the rest, but don't think he's underestimating it. Not by far.
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