He watches as Claude takes his body through various exercises, none of them familiar to Vincent who’s spent most of his life sitting down or running about, producing no art save for seemingly endless numbers in blacks and reds. Perhaps he could have been a dancer if someone had thought to set him up for it – he’s never been particularly clumsy, though he doubts he’d be able to withstand the sort of pain Claude goes through to make the magic happen. All the same, the thought’s faintly amusing and his lips quirk upwards a fraction. Imagine the two of them as dancers… entwined on a stage, limb by limb…
Shifting slightly, a by now rather familiar heat spreading in his groin, he cocks his head slightly at Claude’s answer. I’m sorry he says. Vincent’s about to correct him, to tell him how meaningless such a sentiment is. After all, hasn’t Claude handed him a bit of heaven in return for an altogether miserable bouquet of roses? But then, he adds those last words to his sentence and all Vincent can think is relief. Once more, an almost overpowering sense of relief that maybe, just maybe, there’s something at the end of this other than… than hopelessness. The return to nothing much. Unwillingly, he glances out of the window, the church bells silent once more but his non-attendance an irrevocable fact, just like the sticky traces on his thighs and stomach, the tingling waiting just beneath his skin.
“My parents were expecting me. For church.” He draws one long, slim leg up underneath his body, a chill spreading down his thigh and calf. His voice changes slightly, goes from cool to something less categorical. “Did you really, though?” Pause. “Or were you merely being polite as ever?” He’s not looking for reassurance, not as such but in this society, in their time and age, politeness is not just a matter of decency. Sometimes (more often than not), it is a mask for other things.
no subject
Shifting slightly, a by now rather familiar heat spreading in his groin, he cocks his head slightly at Claude’s answer. I’m sorry he says. Vincent’s about to correct him, to tell him how meaningless such a sentiment is. After all, hasn’t Claude handed him a bit of heaven in return for an altogether miserable bouquet of roses? But then, he adds those last words to his sentence and all Vincent can think is relief. Once more, an almost overpowering sense of relief that maybe, just maybe, there’s something at the end of this other than… than hopelessness. The return to nothing much. Unwillingly, he glances out of the window, the church bells silent once more but his non-attendance an irrevocable fact, just like the sticky traces on his thighs and stomach, the tingling waiting just beneath his skin.
“My parents were expecting me. For church.” He draws one long, slim leg up underneath his body, a chill spreading down his thigh and calf. His voice changes slightly, goes from cool to something less categorical. “Did you really, though?” Pause. “Or were you merely being polite as ever?” He’s not looking for reassurance, not as such but in this society, in their time and age, politeness is not just a matter of decency. Sometimes (more often than not), it is a mask for other things.