Claude leaves for their drinks, patting his arm lightly on the way and leaving him feeling suddenly quite alone. Blinking, he resists the urge to fiddle with his hair, thinking that it might just make him seem either desperate for attention or really, just desperate in general. Instead, he drifts towards the bar slowly, watching Claude have what appears to be a completely nonverbal conversation with the bartender, the two of them obviously well-acquainted. For a moment, he can’t stop himself from wondering exactly how much – but then, he realises that the older gentlemen is still looking at him and really, isn’t this persistence just slightly rude? Gaze hardening a bit, he raises his chin and stares right back, almost recoiling at the eyebrow waggle he receives in return for his efforts. Christ. With a gulp, he returns his attention to Claude who’s returning at just the right time to lead him away. To another room, even, which doesn’t hugely improve the situation but at least it affords him some time to catch his breath along with his bearings.

He spots the gentleman in the dress first, obviously, seeing as he’s squealing like a lady and dressed like one, too. On the other hand, here’s Vincent, entering an establishment that’s sure to put a black mark on his sinner’s register for the rest of his life – he can hardly blame anyone else for following their own inclinations, odd as they may seem. Seating himself, he notes the way the shorter gentleman with the cue stares at Claude, something unreadable happening in his face that he can’t quite gauge. Managing a smile to mirror Claude’s, albeit a lot more restricted, he leans back and stretches out his legs slightly, feeling the need to… take up some space. For once.

In this place, it seems the thing to do. To claim your own territory. And isn’t that a pleasant change, one he’s never even known that he needed.