waywardious: (sauté |)
Claude Laurent Bérubé ([personal profile] 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.



thecountofthree: (I kept the first)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-11-23 08:37 pm (UTC)(link)
There might be a slight spring in his step tonight – and who can blame him? Such an amazing performance from the first row of all places, right in the middle! Next to rich couples and other important personages who were all pretending they couldn’t see him at all. More’s the better. When he’d been handed the ticket earlier this evening, he’d been absolutely shocked at the numbers on the small slip. He’d thought about asking whether there might have been a slight mistake; but then, he’d realised what a fool he’d be to trade this chance away. The opportunity to see… to truly see

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.”
thecountofthree: (the better claim)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-11-24 08:03 pm (UTC)(link)
Truth be told, the offer of a joined dinner is appreciated. A long day in the dusty office, marking accounts and wondering why the numbers never seem to match up the first time around has left him famished. His mother packed him lunch but for some reason, the past many weeks he’s had little inclination to actually indulge in anything she makes for him. He’s tried not to think about the incongruity; the way his fantasy life has seemed to override everything else, leaving no room for her well-meaning gestures. Surely, he’s not taking his inner turmoil out on her – why else would he give the food away rather than take it back home and put it on the table for all to see? In any case, his smile warms at the suggestion as much as the (all too brief) touch of Claude’s hands around his own. Those hands. He’s dreamed… God. Pushing the thought away hastily, he follows Claude’s lead.

“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.
thecountofthree: (grassy and wanted wear)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-11-24 08:54 pm (UTC)(link)
There’s no physical pause to his step, though his mind comes to a rather sudden stop. Brief, but altogether insistent. You were the reason. He looks away, eyes searching the ground aimlessly as they continue, trying to think of an appropriate response that won’t simply make things worse for him. Claude’s walking close enough that a single inch to the side would leave their shoulders touching. His body is starting to feel light already and they haven’t even exchanged more than the barest pleasantries! Shaking his head slightly, he manages a smile, just a bit shaky around the edges.

“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.
thecountofthree: (one traveler long I stood)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-11-25 05:47 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh, he can imagine – vividly – how hard it would be for most people to resist Claude’s charms. He can imagine. With a soft chuckle and a shake of his head, he pushes his hands into the pockets of his coat, feeling chilled despite the gentleness of the night. It’s always the same with him, frailty above all else. But what can a man do, really, aside from combat the symptoms as best as possible?

“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.
thecountofthree: (miles to go)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-11-26 06:42 pm (UTC)(link)
He’s about to answer Claude’s comment with something complimentary – but then, he goes tumbling sideways, arms flailing for balance as the other man bounces into him. Had it been someone else, he would have been quite unappreciative of the gesture but as it is, all he can truly think about is how Claude’s suddenly so close, the sense of proximity emphasised by the tingling in his arm and shoulder. And then, before he can fall flat on his face in an embarrassing heap of limps, that strong hand – strong and steady – closes around his upper arm and pulls him to a stop. Balance restored while he finds his feet, his heart beating fast enough to leave his head rushing from it.

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.
thecountofthree: (sorry I could not travel)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-11-28 01:56 pm (UTC)(link)
Claude lets go and it’s a mercy just as well as a torment. The loss of touch makes him shiver, an odd chill spreading through his upper body for a brief second before dissipating. Returning his focus to the road ahead, he rubs his arm with one, stiff hand, trying to think of a way to answer without revealing the absolute boredom of his general existence and coming up empty. Very fitting, when you think about it. Easily broken? He's never been close enough to danger to test it, has he?

“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.
thecountofthree: (if I should ever come back)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-11-28 08:57 pm (UTC)(link)
He smiles very slightly, taking the compliment for what it is. The truth of the matter is, Vincent’s got a very excellent cursive, both highly readable and more simplistic than many others. Ever since he first started learning the letters and how to put them to paper, people have commented favourably on his precision. The elegance of it. His mother, in turn, smiles in public and sighs once the doors are safely closed and barred. His expression fades into neutral once more.

“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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thecountofthree: (to where it bent)

(later)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-12-01 08:10 pm (UTC)(link)
It’s been a feast, really, of luxurious foods – crackers, cheeses of all kinds and sizes, even a few grapes, though the wine itself was an imported pleasure. France remains too famished, still, from the wine catastrophe of the sixties and seventies and certain expenses are only for those who can cheat themselves to a greater part of the riches. Vincent’s parents aren’t prone to indulging in wine but he himself… well. Even the German production has something to offer if you ask him and luckily, Claude’s chosen to do exactly that tonight. The dinner’s been marvelous, the best in ages. Then again, not unlike Claude, he’s been feeding upon his own solitude for far too long. Following the other man down the dark alleyway leading to his main door, he realises that there’s a very faint spring to his step now – a sense of freedom, knowing that… that he’s found this man, even if he’ll have to leave him behind tonight and wait for the opportunity to see him once more from afar. Even if he’ll never get another chance to be this close to him, to… to breathe him in.

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.
thecountofthree: (miles to go)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-12-03 04:30 pm (UTC)(link)
He doesn’t notice the girl creeping about amidst the shadows until Claude salutes her, receiving nothing but a somewhat constipated look in return. Vincent follows her with his gaze mostly by instinct, returning his attention to Claude the moment he regains sufficient conscious control over his reflexes. Eyebrow raised, he pauses when Claude does, a half-smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

“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.
thecountofthree: (if I should ever come back)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-12-03 06:48 pm (UTC)(link)
Claude wets his lips and Vincent’s already ahead of him – when he speaks the words, it’s like a dam breaking in his heart. Expression blank for all of five seconds, his hands clenching into fists by his sides and his stance rigid from holding back, Vincent finally gives in and steps forward, the distance between them shrinking to null. With every step, the sense of proximity explodes in his mind, slap upon slap of something that’ll be terribly painful once it’s come and gone. But while it lasts… while it’s there…

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.
thecountofthree: (the better claim)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-12-03 07:32 pm (UTC)(link)
Claude pushes back against him and suddenly, they're front to front in a way he couldn’t even imagine (though he can, yes, once his eyes are closed and the night’s open and limitless around him). The feel of proximity, of being this close to someone else is making him feel lightheaded and he curls his fingers in the fabric of Claude’s jacket, holding on for dear life as he leans in just a bit further yet.

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.
thecountofthree: (really about the same)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-12-03 08:44 pm (UTC)(link)
He’s busy drowning in the feel of Claude’s tongue pressing into his mouth, the taste of him soft and rounded. It’s so overwhelmingly hot as well, each wet stroke against his tongue invoking a sense of urgency, sparks leaping through the rest of his body. He does pay note to the way Claude runs his hand down his chest but all he can think is stimulation, his body eating it all up and his mind staggering behind, making no valid attempts at catching up. God, but he’s never thought that kissing someone would feel like this. Every poor girl he’s taken out on strolls, to evening arrangements and parties – inevitably, at some point during every such arrangement, he would be left to wonder why the thought of intimacy repulsed him so, left him so cold and disinterested. He’d felt like… like a monster. But this – this is…

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.
thecountofthree: (diverged)

[personal profile] thecountofthree 2015-12-05 03:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Claude's words echo in his mind like a flock of birds, taking flight towards the light. For a long moment, he just stands there with his hands clenched by his sides, his lips still tingling from the kiss and wonders how he's supposed to reject this. Not how do I reject him? or why don't I leave. Rather, it's a sense of disbelief - that leaving would be the right thing to do, the only proper solution. And that no matter how hard he tries to envision his mother's disappointment (disappointment requires some kinds of expectations first, though, doesn't it?), he can't for the life of him imagine something he'd feel less inclined to do.

"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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