(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.

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[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.