(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

[thecountofthree]

The touch of Claude's fingers draws out his smile for just a bit longer as he turns his head obediently to allow the light kiss, just a brief touch of his lips against his cheek. It's enough to send hot chills running down his spine, though, the coldness of the night forced into the background. Watching as Claude steps away and takes his beautiful lips with him into the shadows, he realises that he's known all along, ever since he decided to buy the other man flowers back then and perhaps even earlier, too. He's known the way, yes, in many more ways beyond the relative innocence of Claude's words.

Following along, he tries not to wince at the tightness of his trousers. Scaling stairs is, apparently, not the thing to do when you've just been busy getting... passionate. He's had embarrassing situations before, naturally, as he's been assured goes for every man with at least a glimmer of virility. But as opposed to those situations when he feels mostly ridiculous about his lack of self-restraint, right now there's... a sense of urgency, too. An expectation, though he's got no idea whether Claude wants to... to...

Taking two steps at a time and trying not to bump into Claude on the way, he scowls at himself and his own stupidity. The man's just been... been showing him quite obviously what he wants to do. He's hardly inviting him up for a game of cards, now is he? Not that Vincent would know, right, seeing as the most exciting thing he gets up to on a daily basis is discovering and rectifying sets of numbers that don't match up. Christ. He swallows, running a hand through his hair, fingers close to gripping the strands on their way.

[waywardious]

When he lands in front of his own door, Claude fishes out his key with nimble fingers, the entire routine so well-known that he could do it in his sleep. Might just have, too. Once or twice. The main difference is the presence of Vincent behind him, Vincent who has followed him quietly... Normally, Claude doesn't bring his men home with him. There are rooms upstairs at Ganyméde for the same reason, to provide a place to go for those who couldn't take their lovers with them home, even if they wanted to. After Pavel, Claude has rarely wanted to. Sylvain hasn't been here enough times to count on two hands and he's been the only exception, the past years. Before Pavel? Before Pavel, nothing was fixed. Nothing was holy. Swallowing, he steps through the door, leaves it open for Vincent to close and lock while Claude himself shrugs out of his coat, hangs it away on the coat tree along with his hat. As always, his flat is freezing cold.

Turning around, he gestures somewhat aimlessly around the large room with one arm. "I need to fire up, so just..." A pause while he looks Vincent over. Despite the row of windows all around them, the light is sparse and the other man's face all but drowned out by greyness. Claude knows his own face doesn't look much better. They'll need to do something about that, he thinks. Definitely. "Make yourself comfortable."

With that, he walks over to the fireplace and throws a few logs into the cold heap of ashes. Bends down and stuffs enough hay underneath to light the building, were he to be careless. He isn't. He rarely is. The flame eats into the kindling fast, grows and casts long orange-yellow tongues along the floor. The heat is palpable. Like an onslaught. Leaving it to catch on, Claude migrates from lamp to lamp (and he's got plenty, he likes the colours), turning them on one by one until the room is all polychromes. All warmth. The perfect excuse to loosen his bow tie.

[thecountofthree]

He steps inside and shuts the door, his fingers trembling as he turns the key. Can’t blame it entirely on the cold, either, can he, what with heat spreading through his body with increasing persistence. Though the steps were harsh on his… his arousal from their doings in the alleyway, they haven’t truly killed it to any noticeable degree. From all those sweaty nights, he knows quite well that it’s not even as hard as it could be – but it’s making his movements just a bit stiff, regardless, as he turns back towards Claude, the door safely locked behind him. Following the other man’s movements, the flames lightening up the room with that particular abruptness only reserved for fire (in whichever incarnation), he stands still, hands clenching an unclenching by his sides.

Make yourself comfortable, he said. Well, please. Comfortable is what he’d like to be but the road to getting there… He swallows again, reaching up to loosen his collar somewhat, feeling choked up and overheated. Without another word, he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it away to the side. It’s like a replica of his last visit, only not at all. How many times hasn’t he seen this very room, emerging through the darkness of his dreams with all its coloured lamps and the expanses of floor clearing away his mental barriers? And with all of Paris, stretching beyond the windows? How many times, indeed. It doesn’t exactly help him now.

As Claude loosens his bowtie, Vincent finally catches up with his body in full and consequently, the situation too. If he wanted to fool himself into thinking that this was merely politeness on Claude’s part once again, he’d have no legs to stand on to maintain the illusion any longer. Instead, he very stiffly removes his dinner jacket, too, the faded black satin cool and soft between his fingers. His shirt feels very white all of a sudden, the simple, dark-green vest properly buttoned up, yet slightly loose around his frame. It’s always the same between spring and summer – once winter’s finally release its grip on the world, it takes his body a bit of time to replenish itself. Not that it matters right now, what with Claude being… right there, possibly more than ready to… He steps closer, if nothing else then to take advantage of the heat slowly filling up the room.

[waywardious]

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.

[thecountofthree]

He watches almost without blinking as Claude crosses over to him, taking the jacket from him and leaving it on the bed, every movement a testament to the gentle grace seemingly inherent to him. Christ, what a voice, too. He looks back at the armchair, wondering for a moment if he’ll ever get up if he sits down like this – all strung up, his cock growing harder and harder between his legs. Shifting from foot to foot, he finally just. Turns away and shuffles over to the chair, trying not to wince as the fabric of his breeches scratch against his skin. Itchy cotton – but better than nothing, naturally. Imagine that. Sitting down, he undoes his bowtie somewhat more swiftly, going on habit rather than anything else. It’s always one of the first items he discards at night and not just because it’s the logical thing to do. He hates wearing it; if it wouldn’t be completely scandalous, he’d never wear anything around his neck ever. He’s thought about ascots… as if he needs to bait his mother any further than he already does, simply by being who he is.

Expression a bit flat, he pushes every thought of his family and daily life away, focusing instead on Claude as he spreads out a flock of sheep – or what’s left of them, anyway – on the floor by the fireplace. His feet start to tingle immediately. Lord, they look so comfortable… And warm, too. He’s seen lots of sheepskins in the country, of course, whenever they’ve visited his father’s extended family. Usually (but not exclusively) attached to the sheep in question. But they’ve never actually owned any because those kinds of expenses would be ludicrous, considering his father’s income. Almost subconsciously, he toes out of his shoes – Claude did tell him to make himself comfortable and if those skins aren’t meant to warm his feet, then truly nothing is.

Whether they’re meant to warm other parts of him too… that’s the better question, isn’t it? I’ll be all yours, he said. And right now, sheepskins included, Vincent honestly can’t think of a single thing he’d rather have.

[waywardious]

When Vincent accepts the invitation and seats himself in the armchair, he comes face to face with Claude. Across a distance bridged by the wool of dead sheep and the expanding heat of the fire, Claude looks him over. Meets his eyes first and then, lets his gaze drop all the way down his front. From his loosened collar, no longer held together by his bow tie, to his crotch where the outline of his hard cock is visible enough that Claude's own responds in kind. He manages a single, hard inhalation - one eyebrow rising slightly, he then catches a glimpse of Vincent's feet working off his shoes and with the curve of a smile, he mirrors him. Wriggles his feet out of the tight restraints of the leather, his toes throbbing in gratitude, still sore from a month and a half of constant work. You won't hear him complain, naturally, but the sheepskins are there for a reason, don't be fooled. Ouch.

Pushing his shoes out of the way rather unceremoniously, his woolen socks soon follow. The thick cotton of his shirt feels cool to the touch as he starts unbuttoning the long row of buttons, but the motions are so ritualised by now that he can do it blindly, his attention still clinging to Vincent's long frame, on perfect display in front of him. He'd really love for Vincent to shed his shirt as well, but he won't pressure him. Claude's patient and he'd much rather that the other man follows at whatever pace suits him. All Claude can really do is show the way and hope.

Thus, he shrugs out of his shirt, the coming of April having caused him to finally part with his singlet. Although he may look it, judging by his smooth chest, Claude isn't a hairless person - he can't go a day without shaving unless he wants to look unfittingly rugged and slovenly, but stage life requires certain sacrifices. The girls offer their toes. Claude, instead, has had to rid himself of some of his body hair. Throwing the shirt onto the bed where it joins Vincent's dinner jacket like a juxtaposed exposition of contrasts, he proceeds to work the front of his trousers open, too many layers weighing down on the sensitive length of his cock. Breeches, thick velvet and distance...

[thecountofthree]

It takes him longer than it should, perhaps, to realise that he’s being watched. Truth be told, he’s too busy watching - because Claude may have a beautiful body in general, regardless of his state of dress but Vincent isn’t a fool. The past many nights, he’s been staring himself blind from his spectator seat, not at a fully-dressed and proper man but at a semi-naked god. And as Claude reveals his upper body, each layer of fabric shed without any traces of hesitation (the confidence, he thinks, of a man who doesn’t need to flaunt his riches), he finds himself almost transfixed by the sight of him. The golden layer of his costume has been rinsed away, of course, but even without it, there’s a tint of colour to his skin that Vincent’s white complexion couldn’t attain even with the right kind of summer exposure. Pausing, he sits back without truly thinking, eyes narrowing very slightly in the darkness as he takes him in – the flat expanses of skin, stretched out effortlessly over the pronounced muscles in his chest and upper arms. Though every male dancer on stage has a special sort of bodily appeal for the way they train themselves – yes, he’s been looking, he couldn’t help it – Claude’s… there’s something different about him. Still. Objectively speaking, not just because Vincent’s trousers are getting tighter by the second.

Realising exactly what Claude’s looking at, Vincent shifts hurriedly forward, a rush of colour spreading in his face again. Is it wrong of him, sitting here, mostly dressed when Claude’s quite obviously… ? Without meaning to (or maybe not), his gaze shifts downwards to Claude’s trousers, the bulge between his legs visible beneath his breeches. The sight – and the thought that follows – makes him pause with his hands clutching his knees, fingers digging in with almost painful force. All he can think is that this is perfect – this is what he’s always… Except in his dreams, he knew exactly what to do and how to proceed, whereas now… Looking away, he fingers the buttons on his vest, movements sloppy and uncoordinated as he works them open one at a time. Shrugging out of it, he leaves it on the chair, beyond caring enough to treat it with respect. It’s old, it’s worn, it’s basically dead.

Shirt falling more loosely around his body, he finally toes out of his socks. The floor is cool beneath his feet but he’s too busy returning his hungry gaze to the half-naked man in front of him to care. His mind is already running ahead of him, his body yearning to touch, to grip and to hold and to… to… With a frown, he tears his gaze away and gets to work on his shirt, getting about three buttons down before he’s got to take a break, breathing and fingers working too fast, out of step.

[waywardious]

And there goes. Vincent discards of his vest and starts working on his shirt, though he only gets three buttons down before courage seems to fail him somewhat. Before that, however... Claude saw. Claude saw the way he was looking at him, all narrowed eyes and hunger, like a starving man and when it comes to these things, aren't they all? Pushing his trousers down his hips, sensing how they are dragging their own weight to the ground easily, sliding over the cotton of his breeches, Claude steps out of the fabric and leaves it in a sorry heap. Vincent has amazing fingers, doesn't he? Long and elegant, pianist-like. A harsh, focused breath through his nose before he finally just steps forward, reaching over to cover Vincent's hands with his own, the slide of skin against skin an onslaught of different temperatures and the raw impact of touch.

"Here," he says, voice still deep (hoarse, rusty), but tone gentle, "let me." The shirt comes undone between his hands soundlessly, the quiet only disrupted by their shared, shaking breathing. He isn't coming to Vincent's rescue, nothing so innocent. It's simply that Vincent's chest will be right there, a few layers further in and Claude wants to feel him. He... wants to feel him. His breeches are getting downright uncomfortable and he should do something about that. In a moment.

For now, he just cocks his head, watching Vincent for another couple of seconds. When the other man is sitting down like this, Claude's the taller one, but it's a temporary advantage, he knows. So, he should claim it, shouldn't he? The opportunity. Leaning in without saying anything, fingers having forced the last button into submission, exposing a thin singlet underneath, Claude presses his lips against Vincent's. Hard. The angle is awkward, but so are splits. See if he cares.

[thecountofthree]

Claude steps in, takes over without any presumptions. His hands are warm, broad and steady on top of his, and Vincent feels the way his breath catches in his throat once more, eyes following the lines, the very light curves of Claude’s shoulders. Down, down, over the expanses of his chest and if he… if he had the courage, he could reach out now, he could touch him just like that. Instead, he sits perfectly still as Claude opens his shirt, the cold from the room dispelled by the feel of Claude’s proximity, first and the fire, second. The singlet underneath certainly doesn’t do much of anything except itch, but Vincent doesn’t take what little shelter it provides from the cold for granted, either. It’s better than nothing. And when Claude leans in and kisses him, ‘better’ suddenly gains a whole new potential.

It’s not a hesitant kiss, either. To be truthful, ‘hesitant’ probably isn’t a word one should associate with Claude in general, though his quiet attitude and calm approach to people might fool someone less inclined to care. Leaning in, he reaches up with one hand and runs his hand over Claude’s neck, fingers slipping down over his collarbone and digging into his shoulder. It’s a grip, nothing less. And Claude’s body, his every signal actually, is saying quite clearly – hold on as much as you like. He’s never thought about it before but truly, this is something very unique to men. This altogether physical sort of strength, the kind that would only make a woman look foolish and contrived in comparison.

Deciding that some initiative might just be more proper than sitting back like a blushing virgin, Vincent shrugs out of his shirt, managing not to break the kiss in the process. Then, with all the reluctance of a man thirsting for more, he draws away and meets Claude’s eyes with something a little closer to self-possession. The natural self-confidence that he’s always exhibited in all other matters of life lingering just beneath the surface.

“Please…” He takes a quick breath, not enough to do much besides leave his voice a few keys too light. “Let me get this off.” With that, he leans out of Claude’s personal space as much as he can bear (eyes flickering past the bulge in his trousers once more because it’s right there, he really can’t just…) and pulls the singlet over his head, taking only a few seconds to fold it and drop it in a pile on the floor along with the vest and the shirt.

[waywardious]

Vincent draws back and Claude lets him, lips burning in the wake of their brief connection. Watching the other man as he pulls the singlet over his head, his hair ruffled slightly when he emerges once more, he has to cool them down. His lips and himself, licking his bottom lip without much conscious thought. There's nothing but lines to find on Vincent, elongated and pronounced lines, the sharp jut of ribs and the curve of his shoulders. A thin, light spread of hair across his pecs, almost unnoticeable unless you're looking. And Claude's looking. Dear God, is he looking... His cock has now grown fully hard in the too-tight embrace of his breeches and he reaches down slowly, untying the waistband quickly and efficiently. Treats this particular garment with much greater care than the rest, seeing as the risk of his cock getting tangled in the fabric is very much real. Wriggling out of the breeches, they slide down his thighs, over his knees and he kicks them off the rest of the way, the relief stark. He only notices the change to his breathing when he returns his attention to Vincent, his chest heaving as if he'd been carrying stones. All this way. Maybe he has. In an altogether figurative sense.

Straightening up fully, Claude glances towards the sheepskins. Looks at Vincent again, trying to find the right words. He's currently thinking with his body, as he tends to do. His fingers tingling with the urge to touch, to feel the outline of Vincent's chest, feel the hills and the valleys, feel his nipples harden against Claude's palm. The need to venture further down and -- The heat is rising in his cheeks now and he moves over to the altar he's built in front of the fireplace. He might have been Vincent's idol first, but tonight Claude would really like to idolize him. There's certainly enough to admire.

The right words don't come to him, he's moved beyond them, so Claude just sits down on the sheepskins, leaving plenty of room for Vincent to join him. Should he want to. And Claude is counting on his desire at the moment. Is counting on him to follow in his own way, in his own time, but don't let his own time drag on forever. The head of Claude's cock is practically kissing his abdomen, he's that aroused.

[thecountofthree]

He can feel the way Claude’s watching him and as he looks up to meet his eyes, he’s met with the sight of his breeches, untied and well on their way down his hips.

For a long moment, it feels like he can’t breathe.

Though he’s been trying not to think about it too carefully (and failing, naturally, as is his way in these matters), Vincent’s definitely considered this more than once – how the bulge beneath Claude’s dancing garments has always seemed so very pronounced, almost sordidly so. While it started out as something very shocking and… overwhelming, he’s later come to associate the ballet and its well-endowed male silhouettes with a special sort of freedom. Something to look at, as if doing so were altogether common place. However, it’s seemed… rather obvious to him that Claude would have to be… well. He is, obviously. Eyes eating it up, his big, hardened cock, the spread of pubic hair running up to his navel, he feels his own body respond – a deep, heavy sensation of warmth, spreading through his abdomen, every last inch of him well and truly affected. He wants to… it’s…

Jaw setting, he rises from his seat as Claude settles down on the sheepskins. He does note how the other man leaves him room to join but even if he hadn’t, Vincent wouldn’t really have cared - all he can think is that were he to lie on the cold, hard floor, it wouldn’t deter him from getting his hands on that magnificent man. The underlying fear – the shame, the knowledge that he ought to feel humiliated by his own, despicable mind – is forced to the background by something much stronger, much hotter and more instinctual than anything he’s ever felt before. Closing the distance between them, he pauses only to untie his trousers and slide them down his hips, the material pooling around his feet as he steps out of them with smooth, fluid movements. He may have been clumsy and stiff throughout the evening but surely… surely, this is not the time to fight what’s already there. Clearly, this… whatever it is – clearly, it’s settled beneath his bones in a way that can’t be undone or ignored, even if everything else is uncharted territory. Very uncharted and oh God, he mustn't think about it.

Settling down carefully next to Claude, undoing his breeches singlehandedly and leaving them gaping around his hips, he ignores the chill of anxiety raking down his back and leans in again, pressing his lips against Claude’s with enough force to channel away most (if not all) of his nervous energy.

[waywardious]

When Vincent rises from the armchair, Claude recognises immediately that they've moved beyond concepts such as leading and following. Following the other man with his eyes as he moves to stand in front of him, discarding yet another layer (his breeches somehow only enhancing the long, beautifully rounded outline of his hard cock underneath), Claude feels the intimacy vividly. Theirs. They might not be touching yet, but he feels it and it makes his breathing catch in his throat. Vincent, undoing his breeches one-handedly and leaving the fabric gaping around the head of his cock which would undoubtedly prove a thing of beauty - had Claude been granted a chance to study it further, seats himself on the sheepskin stretched out next to Claude's half-sprawled figure. Leaves everything in this wholly disorderly state and leans in to capture his lips in another kiss. A new one, full of want and entitlement. Gone is the mask of insecurity. Just as Claude would expect, really.

Smiling, Claude parts his lips and all but shoves his tongue over the soft curve of Vincent's bottom lip. In between, too, coaxing the other man to come, making the advance smooth by running both hands down Vincent's sides and dragging him over on top of himself by the hips, rolling onto his back in one fluid motion to accommodate his weight. Vincent is light, no heaviness at all bearing down on top of him, but the length of his cock is palpable against Claude's thigh and he already feels himself drowning in it. This welcome presence. This.

Once he feels their bodies aligning, regaining a balance, he reaches up and runs his fingers through Vincent's hair. Raking his nails over his scalp, down his neck, flattening his palm over one perfectly arched shoulder, his tongue pushing into the heat and depth of Vincent's mouth with enough force to necessitate a response, he's sure. No, he's sure Vincent won't be late in reclaiming any lost territory. Or, more importantly, occupying new land.

[thecountofthree]

Claude pulls him down on top of him and it’s the best thing he’s ever experienced (sure to be topped by other things, yes, he’s got no doubts at all), the feel of his hard body stretched out beneath his own. In his dreams, he’s always wanted to… to take charge. Over this – this side of himself and to some extent, the man he’s been admiring from afar for so long, as he’s swept his heart with him both on stage and beyond the closing curtains. It’s an odd thing, realising that at least some aspect of his brain has always known. Despite his trepidation, it’s – he’s - always known.

Letting himself drown in Claude for real, pressing his tongue in between his lips and going with the pace, he takes his time to indulge. There’s no way back – instead, he’s got multiple paths forward, all of them worth exploring. Claude’s mouth is warm and tastes of the night they’ve both enjoyed, the warmth of his body translated effortlessly into the wetness of his mouth. Breathing in deeply, he pulls back just for a second, just to move his arm enough to entwine his fingers in Claude’s hair, once more tightening to a grip. Where as he’s been grasping at empty air all evening, suddenly his hand is full – and isn’t it just a miracle? Definitely feels like it.

Claude slides his hand down his neck and onto his shoulder, the touch making his skin break out in goose bumps despite the heat seemingly burning him up from the inside out. There’s a soft groan right at the back of his throat and he lets it out, shifting slightly on top of the other man. It doesn’t happen on purpose, really – the way he accidentally presses his hips downwards, Claude’s hard cock sliding up against his through the fabric of his breeches. The sensation is – is… Freezing, he draws away from the kiss only by an inch, lips hovering right above Claude’s, close enough to leave their breaths ghosting across each other’s mouths. A different sort of kiss. Then, he presses his hips downwards with a lot more intent, the feeling of Claude’s length rubbing up against his making his body positively ache for more.

[waywardious]

Starving might have been the most appropriate term to ascribe to Vincent, Claude realises as the other man kisses him, all tongue and wet intrusion, the associations leaving his cock throbbing from arousal. Then, Vincent thrusts his hips forward enough for his cock to slide along the length of Claude's own and the pleasure surges through him violently enough to knock all air out of his lungs. He's almost (almost) relieved when Vincent draws back and leaves his mouth free to gasp for breath. Gasp, gasp, gasp. They're staring at each other in a moment of waiting, where Vincent seems to struggle with the exact mechanisms, only to repeat the motion. But harder, much harder, the friction making Claude groan loudly, his head falling back onto the soft wool and hips bucking up to meet the pressure just right. Just right.

The breeches are in the way, though. They must go. Forcing himself to lift his head and press his face into the side of Vincent's neck, Claude lets one hand slip down between their bodies, wriggling enough to not get caught between the rise of rib cages or trapped in the fall of stomachs. There's nothing romantic about it, not in any traditional sense - how he shoves his hand, palm flat against Vincent's abdomen, beneath the already loosened waistband. His fingers brush over the head of Vincent's cock first and Claude proceeds with the proper carefulness. Soft fingers wrapping around the shaft, the upper part of it, as it is. It's long. Vincent's cock is... long. He hears himself utter something not too dissimilar to a whimper, his pelvis pressing up against the back of his own hand like an extension of the sound. He's so aroused, he can't remember when he last... when he...

A long, outdrawn jerk of his hand up Vincent's cock and he simply can't wait anymore. He's patient, but he's no saint. He's no statue made of wood. "Take them off, please," he begs, voice muffled and decidedly throaty.

[thecountofthree]

Claude sounds amazing, gasping against his neck. He’s losing his mind in all of this and it’s utter bliss, a way beyond his dark and dreary life that he’s never truly dared to hope that he’d find. Hips jerking forward as Claude meets his thrust, he’s already feeling the hindrance of his breeches when Claude pushes a hand down his stomach. And further. Breath leaving his throat like a moan this time, low and raspy, he keeps still for a second as Claude’s fingers close around the shaft of his cock. He’s got nothing to compare to, except for his own hand and that certainly can’t compare in any shape or form. Claude’s hand is steady still and so hot, almost overwhelmingly so, and instinctually he wants to thrust into his palm, to… to get more, much more.

Then, Claude’s words break through the haze of pleasure threatening to permanently cloud up his judgment. He’s speaking into his neck, basically, lips moving across his skin and it’s another sort of touch, yet another. He exhales shakily, drawing back enough to reach down with his other hand, fumbling with the hem for a second or two before figuring out the angle. With a sharp jerk, he pulls his breaches away from his hips, his cock springing free, head pressed up against his abdomen. Sitting back (Claude’s hand slipping away from his cock and what a terrible lack, what torture), he manages to get them off the rest of the way, completely unimpressed with his own athletics and very much beyond caring, too.

Refusing to allow his brain to catch up with him now, he leaves his breeches lying in a pile on the floor out of sight and shifts right back. Too caught up in his body, he’s almost shocked at the feel of Claude’s naked body against his bared legs and lower body, every sensation tripled in intensity and his cock positively hard as a rock. God. It’s… It’s… Gaze searching out Claude’s, he pauses, arms keeping his body hovering at least some inches above his. Enough to leave the head of Vincent’s cock brushing against his, a mere implication of what it could be. What it’s going to be.

“Is this…” He pauses. Reaches up with one hand slowly, fingers slipping into Claude’s hair once more. “Is this right?”

[waywardious]

Right? The question almost escapes him, focused as he is on the teasing proximity of Vincent's front, close enough to emit warmth and strength and promise (their cocks bumping almost playfully - Claude's muscles trembling in response), but Claude does see Vincent's lips move and the sound follows closely after. He smiles as Vincent's fingers dig into his hair again, angling his head into the caress, lifting his chin enough to let his lips brush lightly along that sinful jawline. Not until he reaches the other man's ear does he reply. "It's perfect," he says. Breathes heavily over Vincent's earlobe, his nose burying into soft strands of hair coloured a deep red by the fire. "You're perfect, Vincent."

It's more than a compliment, of course. Claude isn't cheap with his compliments ever - he'll give praise when praise is due and he is so very good at seeing the positives, yes? Telling Vincent that he's perfect goes beyond niceties, however. It's not merely for the sake of appearances, because the man certainly has appearances covered, look at him. Claude takes a deep breath and shifts beneath Vincent's body, pushing his cock up along the beautifully long length of Vincent's, the pleasure of the sudden slide of skin against skin almost maddening. He closes his eyes. Rests his forehead against Vincent's cheek as he reaches down between them again and wraps his fingers around both their girths this time. He's got big hands, but no piano-fingers like Vincent. He can't close the circle completely, but he doesn't need perfection anyway. Not here. Not with Vincent halfway pulling him along and halfway dragging the both of them to these momentary halts that are good for contemplation. Consideration. The important things.

With a slow, steady, firm rhythm, he starts stroking their cocks, together. Pushing in against his own fingers, in against the underside of Vincent's cock at the same time, the backside of his eyelids is a soothing brown that goes well with Vincent's scent in his nostrils - a heated blend of sweat and need. Want. If Vincent wants to take over, he will be Claude's guest, but as any good host he figured a tour of the premises will serve as a safe start.

[thecountofthree]

Claude’s voice comes last – following the touch of his lips against his jaw, his hair soft against Vincent’s brow and his breath hot. Eyes falling shut, Vincent feels himself blush harder than ever, his hand tightening slightly in Claude’s hair. Perfect, he says. Perfect. The word reverberates inside his mind, very much a singularity amidst what feels like heaps of disapproval and disregard. He never complains because life is what it is – but with Claude lying right here, presenting such a different view, such a fantastical one, he can’t help the sense of overwhelming relief. If someone like this would… then surely, he’s not quite as wrong as his daily existence might imply. Surely not.

About to lean down and kiss him once more, having already realised that he’ll never get enough of Claude’s amazing mouth, he pauses at the feel of Claude’s hand slipping down between them. Heading in just the right direction too, though if he really… Christ, he can’t… Eyes snapping open, he gasps out loud as Claude wraps his fingers around his cock, realising very late indeed that he’s… grasping the both of them. Leaving them rubbing against each other, an almost maddeningly soft slide of skin on skin. His fingers feel so good, his palm hot and tight… It’s a wholly instinctual thing (natural), falling into step with him and Vincent’s rocking his hips back and forth before he knows it, thrusting into his grip.

“Oh – oh, Claude, that’s perfect, that’s so… good…” His words are broken up by his shattered breathing, eyes still closed and sweat forming on his brow. The heat from the fire only adds to the overall sensation of nearness, of being so very close to someone else, to this particular man. Of being encased. Pleasure rushing down the shaft of his cock with every move of his lower body, he reaches down blindly and rests his palm over Claude’s hand, a mirror of his actions earlier when Vincent’s hands couldn’t quite manage his shirt or the consequences. This time, however, there’s no insecurity left – just that odd sort of assertiveness again, the unconscious realisation that this is right, this is exactly right and he knows what to do to make it work.

[waywardious]

Anatomy is a strange thing, indeed. Claude knows his body's workings better than he knows any other aspect of his own self, but any addition of limbs (like now as Vincent lies sprawled out on top of him, all weight and pressure and heat against his skin from head to where their feet are grazing as well, Claude's thighs spread and trembling around Vincent's hips) requires double work to uphold the necessary smoothness. Halfway preoccupied with the sound of Vincent's mumbling close to his ear, Claude shifts beneath him to allow the other man's hand better access to the destination he's strongly expecting it's headed towards. He's already breaking out in a slight sweat, the fire blazing within the constraints of the brick wall and his arousal seeming no less all-consuming. At the feel of Vincent's palm sliding over the length of his fingers and the rise of his knuckles, he manages a comfortable sigh, withdrawing his hand without a second thought. He knows what Vincent's fingers look like, after all. They're better suited to the task than -- than --

Reaching up with both hands now, he buries all ten of his own fingers into Vincent's hair, gently tugging his head into an angle that'll allow Claude to kiss him, his lips feeling smooth and hot and slick when Claude claims them back. It's a blind journey, the way his mouth slides over the contours of Vincent's face, their noses bumping and their breaths mingling like melting fog. The groan isn't even a conscious sound. It escapes him before he has realised that it was waiting in the wings of his throat, perhaps all along. When he rocks his pelvis up against the underside of Vincent's cock again, into the grip of Vincent's fingers, the words finally come. Naturally. As if the way Vincent talks is addressing something deep within, luring it out at long last. "I can feel you," he mutters, drawing back from the kiss only long enough not to get the clarity drowned in their mixing saliva and the dark, dark depths along Vincent's tongue. Pushes up just a tiny bit harder against Vincent's body, his muscles working almost angrily to support the motion. "I can feel you," pant, pant, pant, "you feel like Heaven on Earth, like this..."

And one hand slips down to Vincent's shoulder once more, ventures down his chest with no final goal beyond the exploration itself, fingertips ghosting over the outline of muscle mass, over one nipple and lingering there for the sheer pleasure of it. Vincent's, yes. As well as his own.

[thecountofthree]

Vincent may feel like Heaven – and what a metaphor, so fitting of this thing between them despite what anyone else would think – but Claude sounds like it, too, his voice broken up by pants, dark and heavy against his lips. Everything is a blend of sensations, of Claude’s hands in his hair, a grip, steadiness. His body, strong and hard beneath his own. And the feel of Claude’s magnificent cock sliding back and forth against his palm and the underside of his shaft, wetness coating his fingers and making the movements slippery. God. God. How can any of this be wrong, how can it possibly be anything other than perfectly right, exactly as it ought to be? Pleasure shooting through his crotch and lower body as he follows Claude’s movements, he leans down to recapture his lips, pausing only to breathe. To gasp, rather, like a man close to drowning, except like this the only true fear is loss - loss of the element Claude’s helping him claim, finally, after all too many years.

“You’re amazing.” His French is reduced to a bunch of syllables thrown together, his lips moving against Claude’s, tongue drawing wet patterns against his mouth. “Claude. You’re better than anything else, the absolute best.” There’s a tremble in his voice as Claude fingers his nipple into hardness, his body almost overly sensitive from arousal. He can feel it building now, in his groin and further down – the edge waiting for him not too many more minutes ahead, waiting for him to throw himself right off it in a way he never has before. There’s something about Claude, about lying here with him and pleasuring him with his own, quiet desperation – it’s making him believe that maybe, just maybe, rather than crushing himself when everything’s said and done, he might possibly take flight instead.

Keeping his hand as steady as he can, fingers locked around their cocks and managing the whole, combined girth only just, he draws away from the kiss, feeling strangely oversaturated. His world is getting steadfastly narrower, body working against his mind to reach its goal. But oh, how he’d like to prolong it – to make this last all night and maybe all day, too. If he thinks about it too much, however, he’ll have to think about the end and he couldn’t possibly, not now. There’s nothing there to pursue. Where as here with Claude…

Everything’s within reach.

[waywardious]

The pace picks up, from the desperation in Vincent's voice as he speaks, directly into Claude's mouth, sounds reverberating between his parted lips, to the rhythm with which they are pushing up against each other, Vincent's fingers a strong and slick pressure around his entire length, the harder he thrusts upwards. Claude moans loudly, eating up the tail-end of Vincent's words and putting them away for sometime later when they will mean so much more. His balls feel heavy and tight at this point and although he's not quite at his breaking point yet, he's well on his way and he can tell, can feel that Vincent has broken into the first few steps of a spurt already, steps ahead. Drawing back, their lips parting hotly (wetly) and his hips pulling out of Vincent's grip reluctantly, regretfully, he stares at the huge expanses of the other man's face, features a blur of shade and proximity. Led by his hand on Vincent's chest, he slides his left arm around the narrowest range of hipbone, around the paper-thin curve of Vincent's waist and grabs hold, his fingers in his hair only tightening more, perhaps painfully so, but the stability is essential. Besides, although he's by no means a cruel lover, Claude shan't deny that he may find the thought of Vincent whimpering absolutely intoxicating...

"Don't move," he instructs, holding his breath as he flips them around, rolling Vincent's smoothly onto his back with the ease born of a lifetime throwing around ballerinas certainly twice his size, but double his mass and height is only an issue, if you are not rightly balanced. Now leaning in over Vincent rather than the other way around, careful to keep his weight on his knees so that he won't be crushing anything vital beneath a slipping hip or a wayward elbow, Claude rests himself on one flattened palm against the sheepskins as they lie all bundled up next to Vincent's face. Bends his neck to lick a long, experimental trail from Vincent's ear and down over his collarbone, protruding something horrible, like see-through calligraphy. From there on, the nearest nipple is only a single push downwards and Claude closes his lips over it, the heated nub rising under the tip of his tongue like a well-trained soldier. He keeps the suction lazy, attention shifting to the soft skin on Vincent's inner thigh that he's mapping out, palm sliding upwards and fingers fully splayed, wanting all of it. All the sensations, everything there is to feel. Everything Vincent will give him.

[thecountofthree]

Everything changes, the world going topsy-turvy as Claude flips them around, pulling at his hair in the process with enough force to make him gasp. If it’s a whimper, he doesn’t particularly want to admit to it, though his voice is certainly high-pitched enough to merit the accusation. His hand falls away to grip Claude’s shoulder instead, wholly instinctual, his body following Claude’s lead with an obedience owing not only to their differences in strength. After all, one thing he’s always been told: Vincent is not the obedient type. It takes more; such as the way Claude keeps steering them about in the safest way imaginable, as mindful as he’s attractive. Leaning back his head, the sheepskins soft and pleasant, Vincent leaves his hand trailing down Claude’s broad shoulders instead, fingers digging into his back, drawing mindless, circular patterns without beginnings or ends.

“Yes.” He almost can’t recognise himself, his voice harsh and throaty, every sound infused by the pleasure building in his body as Claude licks his way down his body. “Oh, please… please don’t stop, you mustn’t…” His words degenerate into a moan, long and basic, as Claude tongues his nipple into hardness, pleasure rippling down his upper body. Without quite knowing why, he entangles one hand in Claude’s hair, a grip this time with enough force to leave the strands straining between his fingers. Holding on for dear life, one might say. His hand’s warm and heavy against his thigh and he can’t stop himself from shifting upwards, trying in vain to regain some sort of stimulation against his cock. He should probably be embarrassed by his own desperation but then again, why start now? Why indeed?

Hand trailing down the side of Claude’s face slowly, fingers splayed out against his cheek, he opens his eyes and looks down. The sight of him leaning in over his body, all golden-tinted skin and muscles shining from sweat – it’s better than anything he’s ever imagined. Awake or asleep. Even the dreams Claude keeps providing him with from performance to performance… they’ve always been restricted by Vincent’s own limitations, haven’t they? For once, reality simply stands without comparison.

[waywardious]

Yes, Vincent says, whimpers - although it's blurring into a plea, but Claude will take it anyway. The sound of his voice an echo of simple, unadulterated want and Claude's cock responding by positively leaking all over the sheepskins. He'll need to slip his laundry lady some extra, to get rid of such revealing stains from already difficult material, but the money will be well spent, if you ask him. Sucking in a sharp breath, he leaves the other man's nipple be, because there's more important territory waiting ahead, further down and the pace is catching up with his own system now, too. Thus, he pushes himself slowly down Vincent's front, one hand keeping him pinned at the midriff and the other wandering through an angelically blonde forest of pubic hair, closing tightly around the base of Vincent's cock. When he turns his head to the side, he's staring down Vincent's flat stomach, directly at an Eiffel Tower-esque beauty of length and steely strength, the foreskin fully retracted. He doesn't hear himself curse under his breath, all he can truly focus on is his own need to taste it. Feel the hardness of it, get acquainted with the flavour, the texture of his fluids and... With one last, hard shove (all but crushing Vincent's frame into their bedding), Claude moves on eye level with the entire thing. Slowly releases his grasp, flexing his wrist enough to stroke the length, substituting his palm with his lips once the head bursts through the tight hole of his curling fingers. It's throbbing warmly against his tongue as he licks softly over the exposed skin, tip slipping into the slit and following the curve underneath the head, continuing forever and ever. He hollows his cheeks, breathes through his nose and sucks in another inch, the feeling of penetration amazing.

Fluting has always been a weirdly ambivalent practice to him. It's faster and less laborious than buggering, but perhaps for those very reasons, it has also always seemed more mechanic to him. Heartless, somehow. Claude might simply have spent too many years on his knees in front of Ludovic and his harem, but it took Pavel to truly teach him the wonders of it. Lips and tongue and the tight constriction of throat. He groans. Presses his tongue up against the pronounced string running along the underside of Vincent's cock, knowing just how the pressure will make everything burst.

[thecountofthree]

When Claude shifts further down his body, his hand falls away towards the floor, the sheepskin warm underneath his fingers. Relaxing back as much as possible, he returns his gaze to the ceiling, the darkness stretched out thinly above him by the multiple colours of the lamps and the flames in the fireplace. They’re alive, the shadows, dancing before his eyes. Much like Claude on stage, much like his mouth and tongue mapping out his body. When his hand closes around his cock, Vincent very nearly bucks upwards, remaining in place mostly due to Claude’s palmed pressed against his stomach. Instead, there’s just a small jerk of his hips, a loud exhalation of breath. God. What is he… why…

He understands only when something very hot and very wet pushes over the head of his cock, a pleasure unlike anything he’s ever felt whilst masturbating making his eyes widen. He usually just finishes himself off as fast as possible, the climax something to be overcome rather than enjoyed. But now… like this… Back arching upwards, he finds himself almost desperate for more, ready to beg and plead without restraint if only if would make the other man… give him…

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, Claude I… I can’t, I’ll…” The words positively tumble out of him, completely unrestricted as Claude takes him in, his lips closed around the width of his cock. His mouth is so impossibly hot and tight, his tongue pressing in on something completely amazing and really, he can’t be expected to maintain himself in any fashion now, surely not! Hands grasping for something, anything, he goes straight for Claude’s hair once more, all ten, long fingers digging in and holding on. There’s pressure building up in his balls quickly now and he can’t even begin to hold back, can’t possibly consider whether keeping himself in check might be more prudent, less rude, whatever. He can’t. Instead, he lets it wash over him after another few, constricted breaths, climax eating him up from the inside and out.

[waywardious]

He shouldn't be surprised. By quite a lot of it, of course, but by the shift of language especially. Shouldn't be surprised that Vincent can wield the coarse dictionary of a sailor in a situation that calls for it, but it amuses him even so. Under different circumstances, he might have chuckled, but currently Claude finds himself too preoccupied with keeping his lips wrapped tightly around Vincent's cock while the other man jerks up against his mouth, the urgency and the evident tightening of his balls preparing Claude for what's coming like a courteous warning. No warning needed, however - not with him pushing an additional inch further down over his pulsating length, the head of Vincent's cock sliding along the back of his throat (though, not far enough back to make him gag) and making him close his eyes in enjoyment. There'll be semen pouring into his mouth in a second or two, but the first time is always a fast affair and he doesn't doubt Vincent's virility will leave him starving for more, before Claude even stands a true chance of complaining. Should he want to. He doesn't.

And, a second later, Vincent does spend himself, erupting all over Claude's tongue like a spurting volcano and his semen is hot and thick and burning enough to permit the comparison. Men all taste differently and so do their fluids, Vincent's holding a sharp edge beneath the rounded quality of it. Claude relaxes his throat with relative practice, swallows the entire load and waits for the first bouts of muscle spasms to subside before drawing back, moving into a seated position with his arse on his heels and his palms resting flatly against his own thighs, framing in the very impressive hardness of his cock. It's almost painful. Almost.

Because Vincent does look very, very beautiful this way.

[thecountofthree]

When he spends himself in Claude’s mouth, Vincent cries out, his voice echoing off the bare walls around them. Hands clenched almost convulsively in Claude’s hair, he thrusts upwards a couple of times as Claude draws away. He’d feel bereft at the loss of heat and in a way, he does - but truthfully, his cock feels so oversensitive now, he almost can’t bear the thought of anymore stimulation. Gasping for air, he stares upwards blankly, chest heaving and his arms falling down limply by his sides, wrists seemingly boneless. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Can’t. Speaking involves thinking and thinking isn’t something he’d like to do now, preferably not ever. Is it possible to just. Engage in all manners of sex with Claude for the rest of eternity and forget the rest?

God knows it should be.

Swallowing, he finally sits up, resting his weight on his elbows. Claude’s looking at him, his cock exactly as hard and impressive as you’d expect and though Vincent’s body can’t currently perform beyond a limp muscle spasm or two, his eyes are already more than prepared to eat him up. Holding out one arm very lazily, he beckons to the other man, a loose, unguarded wave of his hand. “Come here,” he says, somewhat surprised at the hoarse quality of his voice. Even more surprised, though, at his own initiative – he’s never actually… but surely, it can’t be so difficult, it’s a cock (and how!), it needs… to go somewhere. Yes. Face flushing again, he runs his fingers through his hair, long strands settling back against his head. Out of his face, as it were.

Maybe it’s the complete relaxation of his body melting into his mind, but there’s not a grain of nervousness or anxiety left – just the knowledge that in a few seconds, he’ll be sucking Claude’s cock down his throat as far as it’ll go and even if it chokes him, he’ll love every single minute of it.