It's difficult to describe, the emotions Vincent evokes in him by way of simple greeting, of simple acceptance - which really isn't so simple after all, if you ask the vast majority, even a fair few of the men in here. Prudence positively lights up, fans herself vigorously with the hand that Vincent was good enough to kiss and meets Claude's gaze with that distinctive approval that he wouldn't need nor want from anyone else, unless they were telling him how high to kick his working leg. She's only five years his senior, is Prudence, yet she's been a fixed part of the milieu for far longer than even some of the oldest regulars. Nicolas once told him that he's had her visiting for almost as long as he's been in business... And here is Vincent, as new as they get and he understands. Will you look at it.
Actually, Vincent is certainly looking at something and following the other man's gaze, sliding in next to him - close enough to also make room for Prudence, he finds Sylvain staring at him, Vincent, them. The combination not defined or fixed. Yet, the air thick with tension. Come now. Sylvain, honestly. Raising an eyebrow slightly, Claude all but sinks in against Vincent's side, his muscles having relaxed into something warm and welcoming at this point, all signs of nervousness gone. If it's going to be a question of possessiveness, Claude prefers to pick his owners.
"Sylvain, darling, come here and say hello to Monsieur Fortesque like a good boy," Prudence orders, all mother hen and as aware of the power games at stake as anyone. She waves one hand lazily. Sylvain moves slowly around the pool table, all feline on the prowl. His eyes are daring Claude to be equally dismissive.
"I would kiss you, if you were within reach, of course," Sylvain comments, coming to a halt in front of the table. Ignoring Vincent blatantly.
"There's a reason for everything, of course," Claude replies, taking a long drag of his cognac. He's never taken well to these sort of challenges. In turn, Sylvain's eyes narrow, turning on Vincent finally.
no subject
Actually, Vincent is certainly looking at something and following the other man's gaze, sliding in next to him - close enough to also make room for Prudence, he finds Sylvain staring at him, Vincent, them. The combination not defined or fixed. Yet, the air thick with tension. Come now. Sylvain, honestly. Raising an eyebrow slightly, Claude all but sinks in against Vincent's side, his muscles having relaxed into something warm and welcoming at this point, all signs of nervousness gone. If it's going to be a question of possessiveness, Claude prefers to pick his owners.
"Sylvain, darling, come here and say hello to Monsieur Fortesque like a good boy," Prudence orders, all mother hen and as aware of the power games at stake as anyone. She waves one hand lazily. Sylvain moves slowly around the pool table, all feline on the prowl. His eyes are daring Claude to be equally dismissive.
"I would kiss you, if you were within reach, of course," Sylvain comments, coming to a halt in front of the table. Ignoring Vincent blatantly.
"There's a reason for everything, of course," Claude replies, taking a long drag of his cognac. He's never taken well to these sort of challenges. In turn, Sylvain's eyes narrow, turning on Vincent finally.