Claude doesn’t move away and that in itself is its own conclusion, isn’t it? To this thing, to whatever they have left now. After last night. Leaning closer, Vincent finally looks back at Claude, gaze grey. Feeling tired somehow despite his sleep-in, despite the night’s many releases.
“It’s far enough.” He doesn’t specify. When he leaves, he’ll make sure to scribble down his address for Claude, leave the initiative in this apartment because there’s nowhere in Rue de la Roquette that it would truly thrive. He’s been living his life pacing about in the same, ridiculous circle and whilst they’ve managed to break it together this time, it seems such a fragile thing compared to 25 years of holding back. An easy miracle to undo, to turn it all into a trick of the light. Blinking harshly, he manages not to let his frustration run away with him, gaze fixed on Claude’s face, on the contours of his cheekbones, of his jaw and nose. According to some, men aren’t beautiful, exactly, unless you’re talking about Gods or giants – they’re handsome or attractive at the most. But surely… surely, concerning Claude, anything less would be a vast understatement.
“Claude…” He shifts. Turns to face him more fully, staying within reach of his arm. “I wanted you to know…” Pause. Sigh. Brow furrowing, his chest feeling suddenly tight again, he simply leans in close, a slow, even motion. When he presses his lips against Claude’s, there’s a gentleness about it that has nothing to do with hesitation. Sometimes, words only serve to disrupt the conversation, to make interaction bland and fragmented. And if there’s one thing he doesn’t want to leave the other man with, it’s the feeling that… that he doesn’t care. Really, he probably cares more than he can stand. At length.
no subject
“It’s far enough.” He doesn’t specify. When he leaves, he’ll make sure to scribble down his address for Claude, leave the initiative in this apartment because there’s nowhere in Rue de la Roquette that it would truly thrive. He’s been living his life pacing about in the same, ridiculous circle and whilst they’ve managed to break it together this time, it seems such a fragile thing compared to 25 years of holding back. An easy miracle to undo, to turn it all into a trick of the light. Blinking harshly, he manages not to let his frustration run away with him, gaze fixed on Claude’s face, on the contours of his cheekbones, of his jaw and nose. According to some, men aren’t beautiful, exactly, unless you’re talking about Gods or giants – they’re handsome or attractive at the most. But surely… surely, concerning Claude, anything less would be a vast understatement.
“Claude…” He shifts. Turns to face him more fully, staying within reach of his arm. “I wanted you to know…” Pause. Sigh. Brow furrowing, his chest feeling suddenly tight again, he simply leans in close, a slow, even motion. When he presses his lips against Claude’s, there’s a gentleness about it that has nothing to do with hesitation. Sometimes, words only serve to disrupt the conversation, to make interaction bland and fragmented. And if there’s one thing he doesn’t want to leave the other man with, it’s the feeling that… that he doesn’t care. Really, he probably cares more than he can stand. At length.