He allows it all to take its natural course. How Vincent speaks first, but finds that words don't truly embody what he's trying to express, proceeding to lean in closer instead and press his lips against Claude's. Softly. The distinct feeling of morning is clinging to them, a chapped aftermath of last night and the hesitant knocking of the approaching day, but Claude likes it. The rawness of it. The complete lack of facade, masks and salvaging makeup. God knows, he gets enough of that at the theatre. Life is all the more beautiful for how it can't pretend. How it doesn't even try. Indeed, if the world is a stage, people are the actors, but any actor would know that the stage sees more than just the performances themselves, fully-fledged and finished. There's rehearsals, there's missed cues and mistakes, there's the breaks in between when roles fade into nothing. Just like now.
So, Claude follows the curve of Vincent's shoulder blade with his hand, up his back, to the nape of his neck where he takes hold. A gentle hold, more of a caress of warm palm and splayed out fingers. Cocking his head and shifting for a more comfortable position, a better angle, he leans in and deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue in between Vincent's lips without much of a prelude. Not beyond the wet slide itself, spreading over Vincent's bottom lip hotly. His mouth is heated and he tastes like himself, no feasts of wine and cheese, just him. Full and slightly harsh. Oh, Claude likes that as well. With a hum at the back of his throat in approval, he pushes the duvet aside with his other hand, fingers colliding only a bit clumsily with the flat expanses of the other man's chest.
Whatever Vincent is telling him in this way, tasting like man and need and assertiveness, Claude wants to respond to. Honestly and openly. Certainly, he doesn't want Vincent to think he's required to define his future only in the light of last night, but neither does he want him to doubt whether he's allowed to, should he want... Rather, Claude would really prefer to convince him that good things could be awaiting them, without promises and guarantees.
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So, Claude follows the curve of Vincent's shoulder blade with his hand, up his back, to the nape of his neck where he takes hold. A gentle hold, more of a caress of warm palm and splayed out fingers. Cocking his head and shifting for a more comfortable position, a better angle, he leans in and deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue in between Vincent's lips without much of a prelude. Not beyond the wet slide itself, spreading over Vincent's bottom lip hotly. His mouth is heated and he tastes like himself, no feasts of wine and cheese, just him. Full and slightly harsh. Oh, Claude likes that as well. With a hum at the back of his throat in approval, he pushes the duvet aside with his other hand, fingers colliding only a bit clumsily with the flat expanses of the other man's chest.
Whatever Vincent is telling him in this way, tasting like man and need and assertiveness, Claude wants to respond to. Honestly and openly. Certainly, he doesn't want Vincent to think he's required to define his future only in the light of last night, but neither does he want him to doubt whether he's allowed to, should he want... Rather, Claude would really prefer to convince him that good things could be awaiting them, without promises and guarantees.