He follows Claude with his gaze, his fluid, easy movements. There’s something about Claude’s built that would have you assume that he’d be the heavy sort – a square, powerful body. But the man’s nothing like that, is he? Not when he walks, not when he dances and certainly not when he… Vincent looks away quickly, suddenly mindful of his rising excitement. He doesn’t blush this time, however. Perhaps he’s too cold to manage, the joints in his fingers feeling slightly stiff. Just when he’s about to resign himself to his fate – after all, Vincent’s been freezing more or less since he was born – Claude seats himself next to him, all elegance and ease. God, the man is so unfairly attractive. And here he is, making dirty observations when he ought to be praying instead. But unlike the bright glass windows of his mother’s church, Claude’s brought him warmth; the duvet from the bed, presented to him like a matter of course. It takes him less than a second to accept it, slinging it across his treacherous lap first, then his upper body. The heat effulges him, making him feel almost drowsy from contentment and he very nearly misses Claude’s question, wrapped up as he is in goose feathers and the other man’s scent. Mm.
“Uh.” He shifts. Sideways. Enough to leave their shoulders touching, naked skin against skin. “Yes, I suppose so. Roman Catholics - my family’s not the modern sort.” Spoken with a raised eyebrow, not at the question itself but at the underlying implications of his answer. Modern would not be a word easily associated with neither Laura nor Samuel Fortesque. They flow with the stream, his parents, whilst Vincent tries not to drown amongst its waves. “I take it you’re not. Religious.”
He’s seen no symbols or signs anywhere in the room, after all. Besides, if his mother’s opinion on art and theater is anything to go by, a religious man probably wouldn’t in good conscience throw off most of his clothes, cover himself in golden dust and take to the stage. Neither would he take home a complete stranger and… well. It just doesn’t seem likely.
no subject
“Uh.” He shifts. Sideways. Enough to leave their shoulders touching, naked skin against skin. “Yes, I suppose so. Roman Catholics - my family’s not the modern sort.” Spoken with a raised eyebrow, not at the question itself but at the underlying implications of his answer. Modern would not be a word easily associated with neither Laura nor Samuel Fortesque. They flow with the stream, his parents, whilst Vincent tries not to drown amongst its waves. “I take it you’re not. Religious.”
He’s seen no symbols or signs anywhere in the room, after all. Besides, if his mother’s opinion on art and theater is anything to go by, a religious man probably wouldn’t in good conscience throw off most of his clothes, cover himself in golden dust and take to the stage. Neither would he take home a complete stranger and… well. It just doesn’t seem likely.