thecountofthree | (5) the other side

Entry tags:

(5) the other side

Characters: Claude, Vincent.
Date: June 17th, 1893.
Place: The Ganymede.

The sun’s burning low on the horizon when he ventures out into the city, hands buried in his pockets and his jacket buttoned up tightly around his frame. True, he’s been working with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows today, the heat in the office threatening to leave him dripping sweat all over his books. But with the Seine cooling down the inner districts of Paris, Vincent nevertheless feels better dressed in too much – even if sparse or at least, light might have been more… suitable. For the occasion, such as it is.

As he nears their designated meeting spot, he hopes to God that Claude hasn’t taken offense to his lack of reply. Or lost courage if such a thing is possible for a man like him – beneath that confident surface of his, Vincent is at least starting to think that his core might just be softer than one might think at first glance. The thought’s calming. Comfortable, in a familiar kind of way.

All the same, one might assume… since Vincent hasn’t even agreed to meet… With a slight frown, he pushes his hands even further into his pockets, the fabric straining in response. No doubt, there’ll be a few seams loose when he gets home later tonight but so be it – his mother already knows that he’ll be out tonight, that he’ll be… socializing. She hasn’t shown any interest in neither Claude nor their designation and really, regardless of the reason he can still be grateful, can’t he? For the fact that she hasn’t changed at all, overlooking when she ought to be scrutinize.

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"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.

As per usual, Claude doesn’t miss a beat. Mechanics, huh? The implications make his spine tingle, his cheeks gaining just a tinge of colour though he doesn’t flush the way he did months back. After all, the bar’s been raised since then, hasn’t it? Very thoroughly. Looking up, it takes him a long moment to realise that Claude means for them to… go there. Inside that place. It’s all glass and mahogany and dear God, it looks so expensive. So luxurious. He’s very thankful for the way Claude runs his hand down his back, his touch adding some much needed steadiness to his composure. All carnal thoughts pushed to the side for the moment.

“Claude, I…” He pauses. Relaxes slightly, brushing an invisible wrinkle out of his clothes. Thank God he chose to dress up for this occasion – he’s never been any place this lavish before, perhaps apart from the Opera itself. “I’m not underdressed, right? I’ve no wish to embarrass you.”

Spoken in complete earnest, his gaze running up and down the elegant exterior of the building. It looks like a place for the rich, quite frankly, and the sheer idea that it’s connected with… with people like them is astounding to him. Of course, Claude’s already proven to him that the world’s not as black and white as he’d first assumed but even so…

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.

He’s decided that he loves the sensation of Claude’s lips against his ear – his voice, deep and breathy sending shivers down his spine as a thoroughly physical response. With a slight smile, he nods and proceeds down the hall. It’s certainly closed away properly, this place. There’s something very comforting about that, even as it confirms what he’s always known and despised about himself; that it’s a vice, that society would surely tear down the entire establishment if given the chance and enough of a reason. All the same, he can’t quite tear his eyes away from the blinking bronze of the door handles, the shining dark mahogany… It may be illicit, yes, but if nothing else it isn’t dirty.

Pausing by the door, what he presumes to be the final barrier between the outside world and their destination, he takes a moment to simply breathe. In and out, a longer exhalation. Relaxes his shoulders again, keeps his chin raised. Claude’s taken him to this place. Surely, if Vincent ends up disappointed, it’ll be a first between them and even then, should worse come to worst, the doors aren’t locked. He can always leave.

Except, he thinks as he swallows down his nerves and opens the door, the steps he’s already taken with the other man can’t be retraced or taken away. While there’s always the doubtful opportunity of choosing the monotony he’s been caught up in his whole life, there’s really no way back from here. No matter what this place is like… He’s already irrevocably changed. Another deep breath. Then, he steps inside.

Following Vincent, the entrance door falls shut behind Claude with a soft thud, clicking into place in the frame. A second passes in which they're engulfed in shade, darkness on all sides, the reddish brown mahogany all but absorbing what little light is available. Then, Vincent opens the second door and steps inside the main establishment, Claude following after within a heartbeat or two, not stopping until they're basically standing back to front, Vincent and he. Vincent his guarding tower, although judging by the eyes indeed having turned in their direction, he's currently under heavy siege. With a slight smile, Claude peeks past the other man's shoulder, quickly scouting the bar. Nicolas in his regular spot behind the bar counter, already pouring Claude's usual tumbler of cognac and raising a questioning eyebrow in Vincent's direction, though the unvoiced question is obviously meant for Claude. He can easily imagine the other man's hoarse mutter, your protege, Bérubé, what should we get him tonight?

Benoit and Firmin have seated themselves in the corner of the lounge, Firmin especially already busy gorging on Vincent's visuals. There are no obvious traces of Sylvain and -- Ah, next door. He can hear Prudence's baritone laughter, rolling through the doorway and drowning out most other sounds. They'll go introduce themselves in a bit. For now...

"Vincent, what would you like to drink? Everyone gets a welcome beverage." Against his front, Vincent has transformed into a very stealthy tower, indeed. Unmoving where Claude lets his chin come to an affectionate rest on his shoulder. Let them look. Let them.

He does freeze. There’s no other way to put it, no gentler or less embarrassing term. For a few long seconds, he can’t breathe, let alone move. The lounge is shrouded in a heated sort of darkness, plenty of oil lamps placed generously around the room and leaving the heavy, wooden floor lined in slaps of light. And good God, the faces… faces everywhere… Realising that he’s being more or less eaten up just standing here like a pole, he feels Claude moving up behind him, resting his chin lightly on his shoulder. Leaning back very slightly, he looks away from one pair of rather enthusiastic eyes, the man in question a good fifteen years older than him. Aging well, though. That’s… yes.

“Uh.” A welcome beverage. Right. Taking that as a cue to move (forward, why bother getting more specific), he lowers his voice a fraction, slowing down to minimize the distance between their bodies. He looks around again, noting the way people shift their ample attention from him to Claude, the atmosphere shifting in turn from curiosity to something that feels a lot more like familiarity. It wouldn’t surprise him – Claude seems like a social person in his own way and besides, a man who takes to the stage so well can’t possibly go without an audience in his private life, can he? Hah.

“A glass of whiskey would be lovely.” He surveys the room for an empty table, deciding to leave it to Claude to get them seated in case he has his own preferences. Regarding this, too.

He isn't (not as such, at least) nervous about leaving Vincent to his own devices while he goes to get their drinks, but he does cast a long look in Firmin's general direction while patting Vincent's upper arm gently. Heading for the counter where his own cognac is already waiting and Vincent's whiskey quickly picked out from the vast selection of bottles, better and worse vintages depending on Nicolas' opinion of you at any given moment. Judging by the dark amber colour of his own cognac, their proprietor is happy to see him again and Vincent's whiskey looks nicely clear and light, too. He's on the receiving end of one of the good nights, then. As he should be. As he deserves to be.

Nicolas has never been a man of many words, so their greeting doesn't extend beyond a nod as Claude takes the offered glasses and returns to Vincent's side. Firmin watches them retreat together, Claude leading them through the doorway to the living room next door, full at this time of night, at this time of the week. Over by the fireplace, by the windows, a few younger men are enjoying themselves quite thoroughly while... Indeed, by the pool table, Prudence is standing, clad in a classic-style evening gown that she could have stolen from her wife's wardrobe, hadn't Claude seen her wife and seen how petite a woman she is. Sylvain is leaning with his back against the worn frame of the pool table, watching another older gentleman make his move. The cue is leaning against his side, tip dusting his white shirt faintly blue somewhere near his midriff.

With a nod, Claude directs Vincent's attention to a free table near the pool table. Doesn't draw attention to them actively, but Sylvain is the first to notice them and the silence speaks louder than the excited squeal (though, never shrill, not with her) that Prudence utters seconds later. By then, Claude has put their glasses down and waits for Vincent to seat himself or remain standing, whatever he prefers, before turning around and smiling at them. Prudence and Sylvain, in turn.

Claude leaves for their drinks, patting his arm lightly on the way and leaving him feeling suddenly quite alone. Blinking, he resists the urge to fiddle with his hair, thinking that it might just make him seem either desperate for attention or really, just desperate in general. Instead, he drifts towards the bar slowly, watching Claude have what appears to be a completely nonverbal conversation with the bartender, the two of them obviously well-acquainted. For a moment, he can’t stop himself from wondering exactly how much – but then, he realises that the older gentlemen is still looking at him and really, isn’t this persistence just slightly rude? Gaze hardening a bit, he raises his chin and stares right back, almost recoiling at the eyebrow waggle he receives in return for his efforts. Christ. With a gulp, he returns his attention to Claude who’s returning at just the right time to lead him away. To another room, even, which doesn’t hugely improve the situation but at least it affords him some time to catch his breath along with his bearings.

He spots the gentleman in the dress first, obviously, seeing as he’s squealing like a lady and dressed like one, too. On the other hand, here’s Vincent, entering an establishment that’s sure to put a black mark on his sinner’s register for the rest of his life – he can hardly blame anyone else for following their own inclinations, odd as they may seem. Seating himself, he notes the way the shorter gentleman with the cue stares at Claude, something unreadable happening in his face that he can’t quite gauge. Managing a smile to mirror Claude’s, albeit a lot more restricted, he leans back and stretches out his legs slightly, feeling the need to… take up some space. For once.

In this place, it seems the thing to do. To claim your own territory. And isn’t that a pleasant change, one he’s never even known that he needed.

Vincent chooses to sit and not just does the man choose to sit, he stretches his legs beneath the table which is, no doubt, a gesture that extends beyond the mere physicality of it. Claude notices it out the corner of his eye, smile widening. Prudence moves over to him quickly, bending down to shower him in her usual affections, kisses to both cheeks and a large hand on his shoulder. She is wearing a sedative, flowery perfume and her wig is arranged in doll-like curls all around her head. Really, she's a picture, but when isn't she? Stepping aside slightly so that she can catch a glimpse of Vincent as Claude is certain is her actual aim, nosy wrench, he holds out one arm with quite a lot of flourish. "Prudence, this is Vincent Fortesque." A rhetorical pause. He doesn't need to specify, does he? She holds out her lace-gloved hand, back up. "Vincent, Prudence."

You learn quickly that Prudence has no surname. She only wants to associate herself with her Family name when she is not herself at all and when it is the name she shares with her wife and daughter. Claude knows it, of course - has met the gentleman in the Opera often, because he's married to a woman of wealth with parents who are paying patrons. On meeker days, he's heard her wonder out loud whether Jocelyn maybe, perhaps wouldn't be able to understand, make the distinction, but they live in treacherous times and as much as she might be able to live without her wife's money, she could never live without her wife.

They all have to decide - on what's worth sacrificing and what isn't. Claude is no stranger to the concept either and, if nothing else, everyone in Ganymède knows it. Understands. Vincent, too, he's sure. More so with time.

Prudence. Somehow, he already knows that this person – this woman, surely, so long as the doors remain safely closed and the setting true to its intentions – will become a steady connection in his mind to this place and all its curiosities. As she holds out her gloved hand, he makes a conscious decision to step right into the world Claude’s chosen to introduce him to, to eat it up for all that its worth while he’s got this marvelous freedom. Thus, he takes her hand as gently as he would any woman’s (though funnily enough, with a lot less hidden disgust) and presses his lips to its upper side, the soft satin of lacy gloves tickling his skin.

“Pleasure to meet you, Prudence.” He gives her a light smile before releasing her hand, making certain to catch her gaze and feeling decidedly better about himself than he’s done for ages. He sits back, searching out the gaze of the other man, the one who’s yet to introduce himself. The way he’s looking at Claude, however, speaks volumes by itself and Vincent’s surprised to feel a rush of something a lot less docile rising in his blood. He doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries, though, not in this strange place and… being Claude’s guest, he really oughtn’t presume. All the same, he can’t help the slight sharpening of his smile, the way his stance relaxes just a bit more.

Leave introductions to Claude, yes, though right now he’s not sure he actually needs any. A name doesn’t necessarily mean as much as the words people chose to save.

Edited 2016-01-02 15:48 (UTC)

It's difficult to describe, the emotions Vincent evokes in him by way of simple greeting, of simple acceptance - which really isn't so simple after all, if you ask the vast majority, even a fair few of the men in here. Prudence positively lights up, fans herself vigorously with the hand that Vincent was good enough to kiss and meets Claude's gaze with that distinctive approval that he wouldn't need nor want from anyone else, unless they were telling him how high to kick his working leg. She's only five years his senior, is Prudence, yet she's been a fixed part of the milieu for far longer than even some of the oldest regulars. Nicolas once told him that he's had her visiting for almost as long as he's been in business... And here is Vincent, as new as they get and he understands. Will you look at it.

Actually, Vincent is certainly looking at something and following the other man's gaze, sliding in next to him - close enough to also make room for Prudence, he finds Sylvain staring at him, Vincent, them. The combination not defined or fixed. Yet, the air thick with tension. Come now. Sylvain, honestly. Raising an eyebrow slightly, Claude all but sinks in against Vincent's side, his muscles having relaxed into something warm and welcoming at this point, all signs of nervousness gone. If it's going to be a question of possessiveness, Claude prefers to pick his owners.

"Sylvain, darling, come here and say hello to Monsieur Fortesque like a good boy," Prudence orders, all mother hen and as aware of the power games at stake as anyone. She waves one hand lazily. Sylvain moves slowly around the pool table, all feline on the prowl. His eyes are daring Claude to be equally dismissive.

"I would kiss you, if you were within reach, of course," Sylvain comments, coming to a halt in front of the table. Ignoring Vincent blatantly.

"There's a reason for everything, of course," Claude replies, taking a long drag of his cognac. He's never taken well to these sort of challenges. In turn, Sylvain's eyes narrow, turning on Vincent finally.

Vincent glances at Prudence when she invites the angry little man to approach their table, noting the nonchalant gesture, the thoroughly informal language. Though he has no experience with these types of places – or really, any bars – it’s becoming quite clear that these people are a group of some sort. Though judging by Claude’s reaction to Sylvain’s rudeness, it’s a group with very fluid boundaries. He’s once again surprised at how right it feels. At how he breathes more freely, even with the tension rising steadily from across the table. Reaching down, he curls one arm around Claude’s waist easily, meeting Sylvain’s narrowed gaze without any visible reproach.

Though he’s been an underdog in many aspects of his life, he’s not in general afraid of other men. Perhaps it’s connected to him being taller than most, perhaps it’s just another aspect of his personality that won’t be tamed. In any case…

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, monsieur. Unless you’d rather it weren’t, of course.” Spoken with a light laugh as he reaches for his glass, taking a sip and savouring the rich taste. Once again, expensive. Luxurious. Mm. Glancing at Claude, he adds, “If this keeps up, I’m going to start associating you with expensive beverages, Claude. Fair warning.” A light squeeze of his hand, not quite enough to be a pull. He's got no reason to act like a dominant bastard, does he? Whether or not Claude chooses to stick with him, whatever time they get together can definitely be spent more constructively than that. He pushes the rest of the thought aside - knowing that he hasn't been promised anything doesn't make the thought of giving the other man up willingly any less terrible.

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.

Sylvain simply drops out of focus, Vincent’s gaze landing directly on Claude’s face as he slips closer, his hand curling over the back of his neck. The smile doesn’t quite leave, not even as Claude kisses him – his expression changes only when he’s pushed into responding, Claude’s tongue hard and wet against his own. It takes him a moment, too – because here he is, in a public place and he’s being kissed and it’s so good, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever tried, not counting the night they spent together weeks back. Breathing out slowly, shakily, he buries his fingers in Claude’s hair, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss.

He’s never kissed anyone like this before, certainly not the girls his mother keeps presenting to him. And what’s more, he’s having a hard time imagining himself kissing someone else like this, too, even another man. There’s simply something so satisfying, so inherently true about Claude, something that he wouldn’t quite have believed in before meeting him. He’s always been a strictly realistic person, Vincent, perhaps bordering on cynical if one should be unkind enough to draw the necessary, hasty conclusions. But anything like… like true love, like real, honest love… Perhaps he’s always expected the world to come out a little bit less colourful than he’d imagined, a little bit less real than he’d truly hope.

Perhaps he’s always been afraid of disappointment more than anything else.

Drawing back, he leaves his lips as they are – wet and slick, ready for more. Taking another sip from his whiskey without losing too much of their physical proximity, he gives Claude a wide smile. Devoid, this time, of confrontation or arrogance. “You know,” he says, keeping his voice low enough to imitate a state of privacy, “I've missed you. Very much so.”

When Vincent draws away to make an advance at his alcohol instead, Claude mirrors him - moves little, least of all out of Vincent's reach, but wraps the fingers of his free hand around the coolness of his cognac tumbler. The contrast in comparison to the heat of Vincent's skin which he's lazily brushing with his other hand stark. He sighs in pleasure, relaxes back against Vincent's curl of a hold and rolls his shoulders slightly. They're always tense, his shoulders - it's the stress point he is bothered by the most on most days, but in these surroundings, in this company, he hardly notices. It's simply of no relevance, is it? Not when the sight that greets you, meets you upon turning your head is Vincent's honest gaze and a wide, unguarded smile that seems to have grown out of an unnatural meekness. Like that of soil exhausted for all its nutrients.

Another long drink of his cognac, draining it almost completely and he pushes the crystal out of the way. Cocks his head at Vincent's words and smiles, slightly but with all his warmth and a touch of tease, before pushing up against him again, breathing against his cheek first, then his ear. Long mouthing kisses of lips only. "I've missed you as well," he answers, most of the sentence skirting over the shell of Vincent's ear. His other hand has sought back to Vincent's stomach, but is travelling down rather than up. Down over hipbone and the joint between abdomen and thigh. Vincent has such gorgeous, long limbs. He can feel it even when he's all wrapped up in clothing - the length and terseness of his muscles. Much like he can feel himself react, grow harder in his trousers fast. Claude manages a long, hard exhalation, then he reaches up and grabs hold of Vincent's hand by the wrist, waiting for him to dispose of his glass with ungraceful impatience. Shuffles closer, inching along the leather of the seat. "I could show you just how much, Vincent."

Claude’s kisses, deceptively light, feel like divagated splotches of sunlight against his chin. Leaning into his touch, he decides to be bold – after all, Claude may be the one to fly across the stage every evening, but surely even a spectator can draw his own learning from what he sees. When Claude takes his wrist, he doesn’t wait for him to lead them onwards. Leaving his glass on the table, he reaches down between them, flattening one, hot palm over the growing bulge in Claude’s trousers. Christ. Sucking in a breath, he runs two fingers over the contours of his cock, the long lines of its hard shaft firm beneath his touch. After a second or two, he draws his fingers backwards, then forwards, a slow but insistent rubbing motion. It only occurs to him seconds later that they’re in a public place, they’re in full view of anyone who might pass by and the best thing is… the best, most outrageous thing is how he doesn’t feel the least bit worried about it. All he cares about is how long and hard the other man is, how wonderful it would feel without all those layers of clothes, separating them…

He shifts slightly, his own trousers feeling uncomfortably tight. The fabric is loose enough that it isn’t painful, exactly. Rather, it’s that tight throbbing between his legs, the one he knows so well by now though he no longer fears or detests it. Not here, not with Claude – how could he when he knows… When surely, there’s no better place for it…

Turning his head enough to catch Claude’s lips in a kiss, lips ghosting over his, breathing coming out fragmented, he pushes upwards slightly against his hand, the one currently resting beneath his stomach only inches away from his cock. True, Claude’s impressive body might easily drive him to distraction but his own is still very much in need of attention and if he has to keep it down, push it all to the background once again, he’s afraid he might very well perish from the effort. It’s been too long. All he wants is more – of Claude, of his hard cock and his hands and his mouth and his…

His kiss is hot and full of harsh breathing, the taste of whiskey and cognac in a strange blend - the sensation of their fronts pushed halfway up against each other, Vincent's fingers rubbing in distractingly long motions up the underside of his cock. On the backside of his closed eyelids, all Claude sees is stars, bright like the stage lights when you look up during a performance. He groans into Vincent's mouth and drops his own hand lower, a fast plunge, inelegant (but what have you) in its efficiency... The bulge that meets his palm is hard and palpably throbbing and Claude closes the entire expands of his palm and splayed fingers out over it, rubbing up against it with a touch from all sides. A cup and feel, yes? Just like that. Another groan, a halfway mumble against Vincent's lips. Perhaps a cuss.

Positioning himself more comfortably, Claude finds himself draped in against Vincent's side, careful not to let him carry the full force of his weight (muscles weigh a ton), but enough to completely abandon himself and just push his arse off the bench, pelvis up against Vincent's fingers, his now fully erect cock rubbing along the entire length of the other man's touch, into his palm, around... He leans his head back, breathes out hard and doesn't care that besides Vincent watching, there is probably an entire audience out there in the shadows. He's used to audiences. Usually, though, he's the pleaser. Right now --

"It's amazing, Vincent," he manages, a hoarse, deep whisper. Thrust, thrust, thrust. He only halfway manages to keep moving his own hand in time. "My God."

His breathing grows progressively more irregular as Claude thrusts upwards into his hand, his own palm busy handling Vincent’s arousal with as much grace as you’d rightfully expect. All the same, it feels as if the other man has lit a match to his entire system, his cock straining in his trousers now and his blood rushing through his veins, shrouding up any last remains of rational thought. God. God. Turning his touch into a grip, he strokes Claude through his trousers, following the movements of his hips. The stimulation of Claude’s hand isn’t enough by any means and that’s good – that’s fortunate, in fact, because all he wants to focus on right now is making him as happy as humanely possible. Happy and sated.

In the back of his mind, he keeps revisiting the same scenario – the two of them on Claude’s sheepskins, the warmth of the fire and the taste of cock on the back of his tongue. Brow furrowing, he pushes his other hand downwards, fumbling around for the buttons on the other man’s trousers. Whether or not this is the time for it (and really, his mind doesn’t truly want to deliberate propriety, not with Claude’s cock pressing into his palm), surely the only logical step is forward and he can’t think of any other way than to flick each button free, one at a time, feeling the fabric loosen in turn.

“I’m sorry – I… if you think we shouldn’t…” He’s speaking against Claude’s lips, words as ragged as his breathing. But despite his words, his hands aren’t even pausing, movements bordering on frantic. If Claude doesn’t stop him, in a short moment at best he’ll be slipping that gorgeous cock free from its confinements and it’s been so long, it’s been weeks and weeks and weeks…

If you think we shouldn't, Vincent mumbles, words sinking into each other in a perfect reflection of how Claude is well on his way to sinking far, far, far beneath the surface of his common sense. His best intentions. Vincent's fingers are nimble and work fast, work precisely and with every button flicked open, his cock gains a little more ground for itself. Freedom. Claude could stop him, he knows. Tell him that they're being improper and that Nicolas would throw them out on their arses, if he found them actually... But surely, Ganymède has seen worse than Vincent's hand granting him his rightful climax. Didn't he see Strauss run through here naked once? ... It doesn't matter. Nicolas is lenient, as a rule. Is good at overlooking what he doesn't need to see. It's fine. It's fine. It's good, so good.

"Don't stop," Claude manages to whisper, through gritted teeth as he lifts himself up enough to help the process along. No, he doesn't want Vincent to stop, but they need to be fast about it, if not necessarily, exactly discreet. The gentlemen in the corner sure have noticed already. He breathes in, breathes out. Smiles faintly, head dipped back and gaze on the ceiling, all muscles straining from the back of his neck to his inner thighs. "Can you feel how much I've missed you?"

He doesn’t. Stop. At least not for long – but just enough to shift to the floor beneath the table. It’s not a fantasy or a result of anything even remotely well-deliberated, just an impulse, plain and simple, an urge. He can certainly feel how much Claude has missed him in return and he’s growing almost desperate to feel it in his mouth, too, that sharp ache in his jaw and the sense of stretch, of Claude’s girth pressing into his throat. Like last time they slept together, all rational thoughts have been pushed aside, his vision narrowed down to the two of them. To Claude, here, next to him and the heat of arousal rushing through his body.

Leaning in, his hair brushing up against the edge of the table, he undoes the last few remaining buttons on Claude’s breeches, gaze completely focused on the task. At hand. Sure, his legs may be sticking out from underneath the table cloth but truthfully, unless someone actively pulls him away right this second, he simply can’t bring himself to care. Another hasty breath, another flick of his wrist and finally, the white fabric falls away to reveal Claude’s gorgeous cock underneath. Lines upon lines of naked hardness.

“Oh, you truly have. Missed me.” Spoken with a slight smile, voice sounding several notches lower than usual. Leaning in, ignoring the way the table edge digs into the back of his scalp, he presses a kiss to the underside of Claude’s cock, the skin warm and soft against his lips.

Whatever Vincent said after Claude's breeches finally come undone, Claude doesn't hear. It is a combination of the tablecloth slurring the words and, more prominently, the feeling of Vincent's lips brushing up the underside of his now very bare, very hard cock. He doesn't even attempt breathing normally, although Prudence has entered from the bar area and (fortunately) gotten into conversation with an elderly man who at times plays the fiddle on their music nights. It's torture, how he can feel Vincent so close to his crotch, palms flat where they are resting against his inner thighs, warm through the fabric - but not the heat of his mouth, the wet softness, the suction... Trying to bow his head a little to the side, to keep his voice low and private, he exhales the plea: "Vincent, don't --" A pause as his hips work forward in a helpless thrust against Vincent's face. Claude frowns, reaches beneath the table with one hand to bury his fingers in the hair at the back of Vincent's head, hand taking the brunt of the table's edge. Vincent better thank him, thank him now, too. "Don't dally. I really need --"

Another broken, unfinished sentence, but surely the man will understand the message. Take pity on him. Sweat is beginning to pearl down his temples, over his brow and he dries off the worst with the back of his free hand. The other already tightening something awful in Vincent's hair. Pavel and he did something like this once, didn't they? Here. Not right here, but somewhere around... And yet, it was nothing -- like this. Dear Lord, have mercy.

Thank God Claude’s telling him not to dally – rather than not to proceed. For a second (just an outdrawn blink of his eyes), he was afraid. To be discouraged now, with Claude’s cock more or less pushed against his face. Smile dissipating, he takes a moment more to simply look – at the long lines of flesh and skin, the head already glistening, Claude’s hand in his hair telling him all that he can’t possibly convey in words now. In public.

Christ.

Taking a deep breath, he finally reaches up with one hand, curling his fingers around the base of Claude’s cock. Guiding the whole length of it away from his body, he opens up wide and sucks the head into his mouth. The taste explodes on his tongue; arousal, sweat, fluids and skin. The scent of sex goes straight to his cock and he takes a moment to enjoy, to suck on the tip, saliva running down the shaft in slim, wet drops. Then, he complies – swallowing and going slow to avoid choking, he relaxes his throat and takes his cock in. Inch by inch, willfully ignoring the very instinctual urge to gag on it, his jaw straining all the way until he’s got his nose buried in Claude’s soft pubic hair. Filled up completely and utterly, his mind a haze of sensations, his free hand cradling Claude’s inner thigh hard.

A part of him imagines it must be an amusing sight indeed for the passing Prudence, how she notices Vincent beneath the table first and then Claude's heated, quickly flushing face as she looks up, just in time with Vincent taking the head of his cock into his mouth, his tongue pushing up while he sucks on the tip and Claude is fighting a lost battle not to let it show. How good it is. How he's all but exploding from the pleasure of it. Pure. It's pure. She raises an eyebrow briefly, then continues into the adjoining room - the study... Leaves them to it. And Claude loses track without a single regret, Vincent sinking down over his cock in one, long outdrawn mouthful. Until he's buried in the other man's throat to the hilt. He can feel his lips. The wetness and the softness and the heat. Whimpering, as low as he can manage and very much under his breath, he keeps still. Doesn't thrust into the sensations, feeling no need to challenge Vincent's gag reflex further, but dear Lord... Move, move, move. The fingers in his hair are gripping so tight a hold that it might just be hurting himself more than Vincent, though Vincent as well. He'll have to bear it. Claude knows he can, Claude knows -- "Move, Vincent," he whispers through lips that are hardly moving at all themselves, sweat dripping into his eyes and his back muscles hurting from his attempt not to just bury forward. "It's better than anything, but I need more, don't just, don't --" Staring unseeingly into thin air as his balls tighten up further and further, he can tell it'll be as fast an endeavour as he insisted it must. He only needs the peak now. To fall.

At the back of his mind, he remembers like an afterthought that none of his prior bed mates ever managed to take all of it. His length. When fluting him. They could suck him down their throat well enough, but this tight constriction, this... His eyes are falling closed, a slight groan escaping him despite his best efforts.

Though Claude’s voice is little but a whisper, it carries across the mostly figurative distance between their bodies quite unmistakably. Though it’s odd to think of himself as a lover – after all, he’s been cradling little beyond his own sheets for so many years – he’s nevertheless come to realise something about his own character when it comes to sex. A very general observation, even. He’s never been a cruel person by any means and in bed, this becomes all the more obvious for how teasing simply doesn’t appeal to him. He’s no wish to keep Claude hanging by the tips of his fingers (not even counting the way he’s more or less pulling out his hair at the moment), no need to drag him along, to withhold or overwhelm.

Thus, he doesn’t waste many minutes keeping the other man on the edge. God knows he wouldn’t mind just staying here with his throat blocked out, with the scent and taste of the other man melting through his system. He’s getting all that he’s been missing for the past many weeks and more, his own cock positively soaking his breeches. How selfish would it be, then, to take and take without any thought to Claude’s desperate breathing, his plea for more, constricted only by their circumstances?

Relaxing his body and muscles once more, Vincent pulls back very slightly, then dives back in. Repeat. Repeat, until there’s a semblance of rhythm to it, a sense of in and out. The table and Claude’s hands aren’t leaving him room for too much but really, it’s blatantly obvious, isn’t it? That ‘too much’ isn’t needed anyway and isn’t that just a wonderful thought?

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(5) the other side

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