Vincent Fortesque. Claude repeats the name, figures that he doesn't need to introduce himself. The cast list has led the other man here, after all. Following the motion as naturally as if it were a partner's pirouette, he watches him turn away. Turn his back on him, although the refusal is obviously not intended for Claude. It looks good, however. Certainly. Will look good to the public eye and, more importantly, grants Claude a perfect view of -- Vincent's backside, the lines of his shoulders. His figure that's only halfway discernible, hidden away underneath his Inverness coat. Claude shoves the bouquet somewhat unceremoniously underneath one arm (careful not to crush the corollas) and starts off in the general direction of his flat. Passing Vincent by closely. Close enough.

"You'd be surprised," he tells him, pausing in his tracks only so long it takes to form the words. Ballet is the most perishable of art forms, he remembers Pavel saying once. It relies on people remembering and people -- People tend to forget. Much too soon. "How much such gestures mean..." Having passed almost in front of Vincent, Claude grants him a chance to turn away once more. Is patient enough to wait for their eyes to meet - tranquil, even as his body goes through the forward motions.

The shadows from the moonlit buildings fall across his face. The chill is very, very real at this hour. But sometimes life really is a lot like a dance performance; the right combination of timing, advance and precision. Just as on stage, gestures are their own language when you are in the streets, too.