Multiple developments happen simultaneously. Vincent tugs him closer to his body by his waist, all long limbs and half-embraces that cause another sort of warmth entirely to spread through Claude's body. Prudence is watching them, discreetly as is her style when it's not a question of clothes or mannerisms. She's a sensitive person. As is Vincent, it seems, when he offers Sylvain no bait and only implications, soon ignoring his narrowed eyes and that all too clear warning of his. Sylvain's warnings are always unmistakable, always have been. Albeit easy to recognise and navigate, no less impossible to steer around. The man takes no responsibility for himself, idiot.

Finding Vincent looking at him, openly, Claude tires of considering Sylvain at all. He inches further into Vincent's hold, reaching up to slide his hand around to the back of the other man's neck, fingers splayed out over heated skin, burying into brown strands of hair. Then, he leans in and kisses him. They both taste like alcohol, alcohol and maleness and freedom - and Claude could get drunk on the concepts alone. When he pushes his tongue in between Vincent's lips, it's a hot slide, smooth and therefore gentle in its own right. Unapologetic, even so. He cocks his head, his other hand coming to a rest against Vincent's stomach. How often haven't Pavel and he sat in some spot around here and done this, done this freely. Certain parts of your history sink into oblivion (off to the side, Prudence is dragging off with a dangerously silent Sylvain), while others are meant for reenactment.

The true art form is learning how to distinguish between them.