He glances at his watch just as he enters the square. Just on time, as he prefers it. Vincent is many things, possibly deplorable things too – but tardy isn’t one of them. Resisting the urge to run his hand through his hair, the long strands slicked back into submission with triple the care of his usual efforts, he straightens up and looks around. For any signs of his face, familiar by now after months of dreaming, first amidst the audience and then... in bed. As soon as he spots him in the corner across the grass, his heart seems to just pause. In his chest. Christ, he’s really doing this, isn’t he? Meeting up with this man again, this man he’s already… Drawing a long, shaky breath he squares his shoulders and pushes the thoughts aside. It’s easier this time than when they last met. Whether or not that’s a good sign, he’s not about to ponder. He’s got better things to do.

Crossing the square and caring little about the state of the grass beneath his shoes, he very deliberately ignores the pitiful little path strung along the sides. If Claude had been one of his mother’s girls, he might have chosen to follow it for the sake of outward propriety (and, beneath it, the chance to simply let time slip away). But as is true with most things regarding their relationship, he’s continuously doing things he’d… not have expected of himself. In any other context.

As he draws up to the bench, watching Claude positively bask in what little sun remains, he starts to smile almost instinctively, his shoulders relaxing by their own accord and his hands leaving his pockets quickly. It’s an almost compulsive urge to gravitate towards the warmth of the other man, the symbolic stretch of sunlight strewn across his face. For a moment, it very nearly overwhelms him, leaving him simply… standing there. Looking at him, drinking him up.