(2) after and before.

[waywardious]

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.

Comments

[waywardious]

Perhaps faster than Claude would have expected (his stamina almost as well-developed in private as it has been over time in more official settings), Vincent strikes a rhythm with him - an even, deep, unyielding pace that leaves him to gasp for his breath, more loudly and more harshly than Vincent himself even as the other man repeatedly only just barely manages not to choke on the impressive amounts of cock he's sucking down his throat and without much prompting from Claude at all. Claude leans in over him, buries Vincent's head in shade, darkening his already undefinable shade of brownish hair, his hips working forward in little trembling thrusts to uphold the friction. The suction. Every single sensation... Fingers curling and uncurling along the curve of Vincent's skull, Claude doesn't even attempt to hold back while his climax builds. It builds like a stark muscle spasm along the already taut muscles of his inner thighs, up between his legs, to his balls and travelling up the entire length of his shaft. "You're..." he begins, groans, desperately clinging to the side of Vincent's face with one sweaty palm. "You're going to... I'm..." And then he simply can't process the words anymore, pleasure exploding throughout his entire lower body and his pelvis pressing forward as if it were living a life of its own. Outside of his control. Moaning, Claude spends himself in an endless cascade of long, hard spurts down Vincent's throat, eyes fluttering shut and world narrowed to nothing beyond that. The darkness and the pulsations and the intensity. The sheer intimacy of it all.

Only slowly, he regains his senses. Every exhalation eating away at the inhalation that follows, he lets his body stabilise itself in the buzzing wake of his orgasm, suddenly realising that the blood flow to his legs has been cut off and that every part of him suddenly aches, the culmination of his sexual desires having opened up for the post-performance flood of physical reactions. Doubled, too. The tiredness. The discomfort. However, the true wonder of sex, of course, is how none of it matters, not in comparison.

Thus, he rather unceremoniously slides down on his butt, gingerly beginning to extract his legs from their imprisonment beneath his own weight. Casts a long, lazy glance in Vincent's general direction.

[thecountofthree]

As he’s been riding on instinct the entire time, Vincent does in some way note the way Claude’s slowly ascents from pleasure to pure, sexual gratification. There’s something about the way he pushes forward into his mouth, something about the way his muscles tighten and his breathing gets steadfastly more desperate… yes. The signs are there. But it does shake him out of his post-orgasmic haze, the way it feels when Claude quite simply spends himself down his throat, his cock going down that last, crucial inch. He can’t gasp – he can’t breathe, can’t moan, can’t do anything besides swallow for all that he’s worth, all the while wondering what it would have tasted like on the back of his tongue. As it is, he mostly gets the texture - thick, heavy, slick. It goes down easily enough, much easier than the girth of Claude’s cock, his jaw aching from the strain of taking it in, his lips almost numb. Pulling back gingerly, he feels oddly empty as he wipes a hand across his mouth, tongue wetting his lips almost subconsciously. Christ. Christ. Between his legs, his own cock is as hard as before, wetness dripping from its tip. His hand has stilled, however, every part of his body equally breathless.

He never thought… he’s often imagined himself doing this, taking another man’s cock. Licking it all up, so to speak. But he’s never thought that he’d actually… Face heating up, the aftermath threatening to crash over him all at once, he looks down at nothing, the sheepskins taking up his field of vision with an almost calming neutrality. His heart is beating too fast, however, because all the white can’t mask the taste of skin and arousal still coating the inside of his mouth. As it will for many, many nights to come. He’s aware of Claude looking at him, collapsing in a not quite dignified heap of (beautiful, amazing) limbs. Vincent wants nothing more than to simply… close the distance once more, maybe ask for the chance to give it another try, maybe simply attempt it…

It’s like two, separate parts fighting for dominance inside of him – and the worst part is, he knows with absolute certainty which one he’s rooting for.

[waywardious]

Seated more comfortably now (though, never as comfortably as having your cock sucked, of course), Claude observes Vincent in silence for a long moment, letting the inevitable drowsiness settle in his entire system. His muscles feel like jelly and he's not certain he'd trust his legs to carry his weight, were he to stand up. Thus, he doesn't. He lies down on his side, facing Vincent completely and opening up his arms slowly, slowly. The man looks desperate, more than anything. Desperate to run away from the reality of what they've just done and desperate to do it all over again, if one is to judge by the hardness of his cock, a long and by all definitions incredibly beautiful rise over pelvis and abdomen. Claude follows its lines with his eyes, the length and the spread of darker blues and purples beneath the sweaty skin where veins are running along the shaft. Yes, beautiful...

Waving one hand without too much insistence, he lets his head fall back onto the sheepskins, the hairs tickling the left side of his face gently, like a caress. A deep breath and he speaks, softly: "Come here." It's not an order. It's not much of anything, truly, because Claude feels completely worn out and he can't remember when the aftermath was this welcome last. This good. Vincent does something to him and it's quite spectacular, admiration and flowers aside. And, if nothing else, Claude has always been a man of the spectacular, it's the world he lives in, isn't it?

Currently, though, Vincent is staring emptily down at the mess they've made of everything around them, perhaps especially in the figurative sense. Claude has seen it before. This post-coital regret. The doubts and the guilt. Some men are simply more prone to it than others, Claude (for example) has never been one to nurture it, not really. Even as he has had as much to lose as anyone, he's never regretted a single cock sucked, a single arse buggered, a single man loved. Vincent, it seems, might be of a different mould. Might live in a milieu where -- Well. Don't they all? Others just placed further from the centre of it than the unfortunate majority.

[thecountofthree]

Claude lies down and extends an invitation – a lazy and wholly undemanding sort and for that, doubly appreciated. Vincent looks up, follows him with his gaze for a long, uncertain moment. Eyes darting away from him to the exit on the other side of the room where the darkness has eaten up all details of the wooden door, he tries to swallow. Realises immediately that there’s nothing in his throat to swallow in the first place. It’s dry, even more so than the well of courage he’s been invigorated by all evening. Instead, there’s just this. Claude’s open arms, Vincent’s own hard, undeterred cock and his empty hands.

Blinking, he exhales. His chest feels too tight even so, like there’s something locked up inside of it that he can’t manage to rid himself of, even breathing as slowly, as carefully as he does. As he has been all his life, ever since he first realised exactly what a disappointment he’d become. The thought doesn’t drown him in self-pity – really, self-pity is the last thing he’d ever indulge in. His life is at least decent. Gray’s a colour too of a sort, comfortably stuck as it is between blacks and whites. At least he hasn’t lost a lover to the gallows, just because life doesn’t bend its neck to those who might have treasured (and deserved) the gesture. Jaw tightening, he sits up straighter and looks at Claude more directly, face impassive. Then, wordlessly, he crawls over to him on his hands and knees, the physical length of distance traversed within less than two seconds and the rest of it… the rest of it, born. For now.

Settling down on his side, his cock hard still between his thighs and the feel of arousal lingering beneath his skin, he shifts into the warmth of Claude’s arms. Perhaps he ought to feel embarrassed by this – by seeking out the embrace of a man he knows only barely. By seeking out the embrace of any man, period. Then again, he ought to be embarrassed by much right now and really, there’ll be a Sunday fit for prayer soon enough. This… this is something else. That much, at least, he can tell, even if the actual nature of it confuses him. He looks at Claude, eyes searching his face, marveling at the way his own, dull grayish-brown eyes seem warmer somehow whilst reflected back to him. As is his way, of course, so very inherently.

[waywardious]

As Vincent lies down next to him, Claude shifts down the other man's body, arranging himself with easy access to all things of importance. Like the slope of Vincent's neck, extending into shoulder where he rests his face, pressing it into the angle of conjunction. All blissful shade and the sharp scent of Vincent's body, his sweat and his arousal and something much more personal than any such temporarities. Humming lightly in pleasure, he presses a kiss to the very, very first inch of well-defined shoulder, their chests pressed together and the hint of chest hair extending across Vincent's pecs in sparse trails. If he wasn't so spent, God knows he would be getting hard again just from the thought, the teasing sensation of softness over his nipples. Claude smiles, delegates another kiss to another part of Vincent's shoulder and draws back in order to mutter: "Aren't you a work of art, Vincent..." Only to ease back into position, one hand slipping down Vincent's stomach, fingers splayed out wide and covering a good third of the displayed skin. Warm to the touch. Slightly sweaty. Utterly delicious.

Inching just a bit closer, as close as they can get without Claude turned elsewhere and Vincent's cock burying into his ass (and wasn't that an idea worth cultivating), Claude follows the jutting line of Vincent's hipbone with his fingertips, letting himself be led straight to the crotch, the light touch of hair there as well and the immense expanses of hard, throbbing cock. He sucks in a sharp breath, the arousal an entirely mental state at this point, closing his palm lightly over the curve of the base, fingers following suit soon after. The hold tight, lots of pressure up along the underside as he drags out the first stroke.

Vincent's cock is equal parts length and warm hardness - not a balance you strike often, not so very perfectly, at least. Claude's an artist, he strives. He strives for this and holding it between his hands in the most physical sense is really not something you are allowed to achieve too often, on stage. Or in life. It's a once in a lifetime experience, isn't it? "You're perfect," he says then, speaking directly into Vincent's skin, nose nestled snugly along the trembling mount of Vincent's Adam's apple. Hand initiating a slow, but harsh rhythm, palm smearing out the droplets that Vincent's cock is leaking across the exposed roundness of the head for every downward motion.

[thecountofthree]

He rests his chin lightly against Claude’s shoulder, mouthing a semi-wet trail from his jaw and over his neck, a mindless exercise. His mind is drowning once more, first in the feel of Claude’s body pressed up against his, warm and solid – and then, second, the feel of his hand, trailing downwards over his hipbone. Happily, the touch isn’t light enough to make his skin twitch; instead, his breathing simply slows down almost on cue, trembling still as Claude’s hand closes around the length of his cock. God. Eyes falling shut, he lifts up slightly, enough to support his weight on his elbow (and not, as an alternative, on Claude’s turned head). Craning his neck only slightly, he buries his nose in the hairs along Claude’s neck, his scent rounded and hot, leaving his breathing just a bit less restricted in return.

The words are harder to process than the physical caresses and it’s not that he doesn’t want to hear it, it’s just… it’s just. It’s painful to believe sometimes, isn’t it? And tonight, the pain’s no less real even if belief is a foreign concept, something new and very-much untried. Shifting, he breathes out shakily as Claude starts stroking his cock, the pace and the roughness of his palm exactly perfect. Hips working with small but powerful jerks, he lets Claude take him close to the edge once more, the need for release more subtle but no less urgent than before. Rather than settling primarily in his balls and along the shaft of his cock, it’s a feeling rooted deep within his core, rushing through his blood almost faster than the pulse of his heart.

Behind his eyelids, there’s pressure building, too. It’s familiar and unwelcome, always unwelcome, but right now he can’t be bothered to hold it back, afraid to affect the climax approaching fast within his system. It’s a question of priorities, just like this night in its entirety, like the money he spends on ballet tickets rather than new clothes or food. Thus, he simply bends his head, leaving his hair to fall across his forehead and eyes and hopefully obscure what’s bound to come, even as his climax starts building in his thighs and lower back. Seconds, minutes later, it erupts – all over Claude’s fingers and shaking through his body like a quake, forcing water from his eyes as well. This time, he’s soundless, forehead resting against Claude’s shoulder and neck, hands resting limply against the sheepskins.

[waywardious]

It's faster, somehow, this time around. The entire act. Rushed, even as the pace is no more desperate or hurried than before. Claude feels Vincent move, lips trailing along his jaw until he lifts himself up a little, just enough to leave Claude's movements unrestricted. Not weighed down by their proximity, close enough that Vincent's face is buried in Claude's hair and his breathing hot puffs of air over the top of his head. Claude works Vincent's cock benevolently, generously, fast, wrist aching after the first minute, because the angle is awkward. Not that he cares, not with how Vincent's heaving inhalations and heavier exhalations (no sounds, no sweet words now) are telling him of the other man's impending orgasm.

When he climaxes, it's an eruption of hot semen all over Claude's hand, stray droplets up his stomach, a trace or two up his own, too. Claude waits for the first settlement, feeling how Vincent is shaking against him, palpable proof of his physical exhaustion. His cock throbs hotly between his fingers, losing rigidity only little by little, so Claude holds on to the sensation of hard flesh, girth and length as long as possible. When he lets go, it's gingerly, indeed, shifting away enough to glance up at the other man's face. Beneath the obscuring shadows of his bangs, the light catches in --

Uncaringly drying his dirty fingers off in the sheepskins, Claude twists his way up on eye-level with Vincent, brushing his hair out of his face and pressing a kiss to his brow. Saying nothing. There's nothing to say, when all comes down to it. Vincent's just been shown a world totally removed from everything he knows and now, it'll be bureaucracy and politics. Visa applications, passport checks, the works. Not all journeys are worth the trouble. Not for everyone. So Claude just turns onto his back, coaxing Vincent closer in an unspoken invitation to claim his chest, should he want to.

After all, Claude might be a brick wall physically, but he has learned how to adjust and all brick was clay originally. Couldn't be truer for him either.

[thecountofthree]

They’re men, of course, and motherly gestures are reserved for the other sex (supposedly, ‘softer’; sometimes lines aren’t truly lines at all) but even so, there’s something terribly careful and caring – gentle – about the way Claude brushes his bangs out of his eyes and kisses his forehead. He can’t help the way he leans into it, not the touch itself necessarily, but the implication. The unexpressed acceptance underneath.

When Claude lies down, his hands urging him to follow suit with no dominance or force to speak of, Vincent follows his initiative without hesitation. It feels like he’s lying down forever, his body slow and muscles unresponsive, every small glimmer of vigour sprayed out across Claude’s fingers, across his stomach and the sheepskins. There’s nothing left but a dazed kind of resignation – the knowledge that once he shuts his eyes, there may only be darkness left once he opens them again. All the same… at least he won’t be blind. Not as such, not anymore. Lying down fully on his side, he shifts closer almost without thinking, accepting Claude’s chest as his new, favourite pillow. He’s broad and warm, much preferable to any bed, his chest completely smooth beneath Vincent’s chin. Brow furrowing, he reaches down with one hand and runs his fingers lightly down Claude’s flat stomach, following the line of his treasure trail before flattening out his palm over his abdomen, his cock resting some inches further down, heavy and spent. He feels silly to realise so very late in the game – that Claude clearly shaves his chest for his roles, obviously so. Imagine, then, what this wonderful pillow would feel like if he didn’t…

Sniffing, his tears already drying on his cheeks as tiredness simply flattens all other emotions in its wake, he manages a weak smile, gaze moving from Claude’s body to the shadows on the floor, broken up in uneven patterns by the fireplace. “I should have known,” he says, voice low and flat, devoid of most nuances. “Dancers – you truly give everything to the arts, don’t you? Whatever it takes.” Compared to broken toes and deceased lovers, surely hair isn’t much to speak of. On the other hand, it’s one thing on a list longer than most outside the world of theatre could procure and the thought, for some reason, gives him strength. There’s something on the other side – no matter what he’ll choose to part with once the dust has finally settled.

[waywardious]

Claude's eyes are already fluttering shut when Vincent's fingers slip down his stomach and there's a moment where he finds himself thinking that the other man is going to attempt waking the beast all over again. Claude likes him. He likes him a lot (he realises), but like is no recipe for miracles. No, that takes stronger feelings and a lot of hard, hard work. About to reach down and redirect his hand, though, Vincent ends up simply flattening his palm over his skin and peace is restored. Claude's eyes close. Behind the empty darkness of his eyelids, it takes him a moment to process Vincent's words as he comments on what he was apparently figuring out in the most physical sense.

Whatever it takes? Claude manages a slight smile, manages not to think of Pavel and curls his left arm around Vincent's waist, keeping him close to his body, adding to the weight of his head on his chest. It's comfortable and rather cosy, but it'll be cold in the morning, if they're planning to sleep like this. Here. With his free hand, he yanks the nearest sheepskin free from its constraints beneath his arse and tugs it into place over first his own front, then Vincent's. In natural succession.

"We are the arts," he replies. Meaning that it's only natural, everything that they give. Themselves, too. Well, as natural as shaving your very, very natural chest hair off to fit into costumes effortlessly. Everything comes at a certain price. As Vincent already knows and will soon discover all over again, Claude's aware. And as Claude himself will be reminded, if he's supposed to just... let Vincent go tomorrow. With no promises extended.

None expected.