Claude follows up on his lead, takes the cue with a precision not just owing to his stage profession. No, it’s quite obvious that between the two of them, lead and follow become two naturally interchangeable concepts, a smooth flow of give and take. Thus, when Claude pushes past his lips, Vincent responds after only a second’s pause, meeting him with ease and something bordering on new-found confidence, a wet slide of tongue against tongue. From home, he’s become accustomed to thinking of himself as a passive man, someone too afraid to act, the way he’s been for so many years now whilst his dreams alone drove him past the edge.

With Claude like this – with their bodies so close once more, the other man’s hand drifting over his chest and the scent of him filling his nostrils – he can almost believe that it’s not a matter of fantasy versus reality. That in truth, it’s simply two sides of the same coin and as luck would have it, this time it may just have landed in his favour, however shortly. Claude’s hand feels warm and gentle against the back of his neck and he breathes out slowly, relaxing once more into the warmth of their shared proximity. Vincent may be cold in general but right now, he certainly can’t feel it. The tightness in his chest pushed beyond any conscious connection.

Eyes falling shut, he runs his hand down Claude’s upper arm, his muscles hard and lean beneath his palm. Gods, but he can’t not – he can’t be expected to hold himself back now, not when the next step on the road is through that still-locked front door! Fingers ghosting over his elbow, he reaches down blindly between them, flattening his palm over Claude’s breeches right below the navel. Passive? Not right now with time passing by around them and Paris waking up to yet another slap of monotonous grey.