"Night allows us to, doesn't it? And as long as our hands can work on mechanics alone, we only lose very little," Claude answers, keeping his gaze fixed on the crossing of the two main streets ahead, the pavement uneven beneath his shoes. He smiles, warmly - but his voice is kept low, discreet, because this part of town might not be the most frequented by people of either his or Vincent's social circles, but he's learned his lesson once. About the necessary precautions, always. As such, he keeps the rather explicit implications of the innuendo in mind, doesn't verbalise it and instead leads Vincent across Rue des Francs Bourgeois and unto Rue Pavée where they're only a stone's throw away from Ganymède's entrance. Welcome to another world, he wants to say to Vincent as they draw to a halt in front of the lounge's exquisite facade. However, it remains just another comment saved for later, for more appropriate settings and times. You learn to work on cue, at the theatre. It's quite a convenient skill to possess in real life, too. Once you master it, of course... Once you master it.

Turning slightly, towards Vincent who's drawn exactly as close as convenience will allow him to, Claude inclines his chin a little, looking up at the other man's face. They're within the safer (always in the comparative) borders of the 4th arrondissement, but laws and regulations won't save them from ignorance. Simple as that. He raises one hand and runs it from Vincent's shoulder and down, less a touch and more an excuse. To touch. There's an itch to it, buried underneath. Claude frowns.

"It's in here." All of it an obscurity of heavy drapes, dark mahogany wood and glass panels without a view beyond smoky darkness. A part of him dreads that Vincent might still decide it's not for him, turn around and leave. Leave Claude to this shitty void, alone.