He’s following along mindlessly, too caught up in the feel of companionship, of finally being in the other man’s close(r) vicinity to pay his own feet any serious mind. Integrity, Claude says. Truth. Two words that Vincent utterly fails to associate with himself these days but if Claude’s willing to believe it of him, let the man keep his illusions. It’s not like they’ll get a chance to prove him wrong, after all. Why is he walking him home anyway? Well… this road does lead in the direction of his own home street, at least if he turns left further down. And left again. Which basically implies that they’re... heading in the opposite direction.
This is an impossible situation.
“Oh, it was.” He glances sideways, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. What would people think, what would anyone think (most of all, this man) if he started acting like a love struck girl? A grown man of 25. Terrible. “I have seen almost every performance, too. You’ve even managed to improve with each one.” He’s not being polite, not by far. No, he’s too busy watching the way Claude moves through the darkness, the sparse lights from above leaving him illuminated only by coincidence. There’s something so elegant and controlled about his movements, something that comes out tenfold on stage and leaves him spellbound.
In his dreams (which he really shouldn’t ponder at this very moment), it’s almost the same story. Except at night, as opposed to now, Vincent wields his own kind of magic in return. Equally efficient, equally powerful. Right now, he mostly feels weaker than a mouse, fingers clenching and un-clenching by his sides, words too fast and jumbled to be even remotely graceful.
no subject
This is an impossible situation.
“Oh, it was.” He glances sideways, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. What would people think, what would anyone think (most of all, this man) if he started acting like a love struck girl? A grown man of 25. Terrible. “I have seen almost every performance, too. You’ve even managed to improve with each one.” He’s not being polite, not by far. No, he’s too busy watching the way Claude moves through the darkness, the sparse lights from above leaving him illuminated only by coincidence. There’s something so elegant and controlled about his movements, something that comes out tenfold on stage and leaves him spellbound.
In his dreams (which he really shouldn’t ponder at this very moment), it’s almost the same story. Except at night, as opposed to now, Vincent wields his own kind of magic in return. Equally efficient, equally powerful. Right now, he mostly feels weaker than a mouse, fingers clenching and un-clenching by his sides, words too fast and jumbled to be even remotely graceful.