Claude doesn't laugh. He might have chuckled, under different circumstances, another day, but Vincent sounds so earnest and the moment is vulnerable enough that the sound is easily quelled. Quickly, he leans up and presses a fleeting kiss to the other man's earlobe, lips descending fluidly into a row of movements. Shapes, forming words. "You look edible and trust me, they'll want to eat you, all of them." After all, Claude knows most of the men here quite intimately and if Vincent should prove not to be everyone's type from the start, not a single soul in this establishment will find it difficult to at least recognise his potential. Claude can guarantee it.

So, he grasps the large, intricately designed bronze handle and opens one of the heavy-set doors, holding it open for Vincent and waiting for the other man to enter first. A part of him finds the idea of Vincent stepping into the lounge and attracting all eyes, all attention immediately, incredibly amusing - followed then by Claude which will undoubtedly send a right tidal wave of oh's through the place. If nothing, he's an artist, he thrives on the attention, on being watched and spun stories around. "After you, love," he says, nodding inside where the dark and narrow hall only leads to the next, the final door. Do trust, no unintended gaze will see anything out of the ordinary at the Ganymède. Because no unintended gaze will ever get that far.