Claude Laurent Bérubé (
waywardious) wrote2015-12-13 09:05 pm
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(3) church on sunday
He wakes up first, before Vincent who sleeps right through his rustling about as he gets to his feet and hobbles over to his clothing chest, fishing out a fresh pair of breeches. Despite the softness and the warmth of the sheepskins, despite the fireplace that has been burning throughout most of the night, Claude is knackered, his body feeling no less stiff and uncooperative as the range of movements he forces it through broadens. Grimacing, he glances out of the east-facing window, at the morning that's creeping across the sky in pretty touches of gold and pink. All the world really is a stage, like Shakespeare wrote. It looks like an exact copy of something tulle-thin and frilly Marise wore once.
Placing himself in the middle of his practice space, not a piece of furniture in sight to stub his toes on or stumble into, Claude goes through his usual morning routine. Stretches first, working through all positions - first to fifth, dévellopé and battements, though he skips the jumps. If they irritate Monsieur Samson downstairs, they're certain to wake Vincent up and look at him. Claude does, observes him while seating himself to warm up his feet, cracking his toes and over-extending his arches for good measure, too. With the note they ended on yesterday, he doesn't begrudge the other man any additional minute of undisturbed peace. The world will catch up with him soon enough. Reluctantly, he scurries around, placing himself in a split with his back to their little love nest, stretching his right arm over his head, pressing in against the shoulder joint with his left hand to keep the pressure up. Like this, he's staring right at the door, the bare walls, the lamps that have all gone out overnight.
The definition of emptiness.
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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.
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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.
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"Wait," he's saying, begging before he can stop himself. "Let me get these off, I just need..." Does he need to specify? With a wriggle and a strategic backwards motion into a reclining position, so kicking his legs is actually an option, Claude manages to crawl out of his underwear, his half-hard erection having grown full in the meantime and as he looks up at Vincent, reaching out for the other man and urging him by his upper arm to either lie down next to him or on top, whatever should suit his tastes, it is all but showing the way, yes?
At the back of his mind, in the non-lust-ridden part, mind you, he finds it oddly vulnerable. This. How he's so sexually responsive to Vincent who he hardly knows, whom he hardly knows anything about when he is aware that physical relations are of the least importance to him otherwise. Something to be had to keep the body sated and the mind at ease. Even someone like Sylvain, he wouldn't let this close this quickly and they've known each other for years, also sexually. Perhaps sexually more than anything else. With a deep, shaking breath, he shifts a bit uncomfortably. His entire pelvis feels overheated, burning. He remembers the feel of Vincent's mouth from the previous nights. Remembers it well. "You should flute me, love," he adds. Voice soft, only borderline teasing. The nickname doesn't register, at least not to him. "I'd really like to feel your mouth again."