This close, Vincent smells like soap - a clean, crisp scent that fills his nostrils completely and Claude lets himself be pulled closer, their chests colliding, sliding up along each other with layers of fabric in between. All air leaves him, lips wet but closed where they are meeting Vincent's. His hands slide along the slope of Vincent's arms, fingers closing over his where they are sprawled out over his waist. Then, firmly, he pushes himself away, rather impressed with the only slightly breathless quality of his breathing. He laughs, masking it almost completely. "Thank you," he says, well aware that it's the best reply currently. It was a gift and he appreciates it, but if more than just the bow needs to come off, this really isn't the place for it. Turning on his heel, he hurries over to pick up his jacket, throwing it over one arm and extending the other towards Vincent. "Ganymède is right around the corner, if you'll let me..."

A shake of his elbow. An invitation.

Further down the road, Claude can glimpse Rue des Francs Bourgeois and on the other side (well, in his mind, anyway), the very source of Rue Pavée where Ganymède is waiting. All appearances and masks on the outside and all disregard, all discard inside. It should surprise him if Vincent doesn't end up loving it, if not for the eccentricities there, then for its pure freedom.