He does freeze. There’s no other way to put it, no gentler or less embarrassing term. For a few long seconds, he can’t breathe, let alone move. The lounge is shrouded in a heated sort of darkness, plenty of oil lamps placed generously around the room and leaving the heavy, wooden floor lined in slaps of light. And good God, the faces… faces everywhere… Realising that he’s being more or less eaten up just standing here like a pole, he feels Claude moving up behind him, resting his chin lightly on his shoulder. Leaning back very slightly, he looks away from one pair of rather enthusiastic eyes, the man in question a good fifteen years older than him. Aging well, though. That’s… yes.

“Uh.” A welcome beverage. Right. Taking that as a cue to move (forward, why bother getting more specific), he lowers his voice a fraction, slowing down to minimize the distance between their bodies. He looks around again, noting the way people shift their ample attention from him to Claude, the atmosphere shifting in turn from curiosity to something that feels a lot more like familiarity. It wouldn’t surprise him – Claude seems like a social person in his own way and besides, a man who takes to the stage so well can’t possibly go without an audience in his private life, can he? Hah.

“A glass of whiskey would be lovely.” He surveys the room for an empty table, deciding to leave it to Claude to get them seated in case he has his own preferences. Regarding this, too.