He’s unprepared for Claude coming up behind him, his movements easy and fluid, thoroughly elegant even now when his muscles and feet must be tired almost beyond endurance. For a long moment, Vincent simply keeps his gaze fixed on the road ahead, on the busy streets of Paris curving and un-curving all around them. The city breathing on its own. Time goes by, yes, but all the same, it feels like he won’t be leaving or arriving at any destination once this moment fades. It’s status quo, a forward-motion seemingly without end. Brow furrowing, a surge of something hotter rushing through his system, he looks at Claude, managing to catch his glance. It makes him feel almost a little vindicated. Almost.

“I – yes, I’d be very surprised.” Without thinking, he falls into step next to the other man, nervous energy making his words just a bit faster, his movements slightly too sharp. “You emit such a lovely spirit of self-confidence on stage, monsieur, I couldn’t imagine you’d truly require any senseless acclaim.”

He realises too late (again) that he’s used the word ‘lovely’ about another man, about something as intimate as his spirit itself. Well. If it leaves him too offended to continue the conversation, perhaps Vincent will be spared having to face him when he shuts his eyes tonight. Perhaps if he scares him away, his body will no longer try to fool him with false promises and hopes. Yes, and perhaps he’ll start hating absinthe next, grow a spine and move out of his parents’ home. This truly is a night for wild dreams, isn’t it?