When Claude smiles back at him, Vincent’s heart seems to drop all the way to his knees, his mind feeling altogether too light. It’s a different smile from what he’d expect to see during applause on the stage – or perhaps he’s simply close enough to fully appreciate it, the way he can’t be when he’s standing in the back. Tickets are expensive and his salary doesn’t lend itself very well to multiple opera performances a month. He takes what he gets. Like now, as he follows Claude’s initiative through the open door, the stairs dark. Eyes adjusting quickly to the shadows, Vincent waits another beat (somewhat uselessly, there’s nothing more he can ask for) before moving up the stairs. He’s used to walking flights in the dark, what with his parents’ town house spanning two stories and his own room hidden away on the topmost floor, furthest away from everything else.

Even so, he hesitates after a couple of steps. Waiting, perhaps, to feel Claude’s presence behind him, just… to drown in it a little bit more. This lust of his, this need… it’s insatiable. He should push it out of his mind, stop deceiving this honest, hard-working man who’s simply being friendly towards a stranger; basic courtesy. What kind of a man is he, standing there in the back of the opera, watching without watching, dreaming a wholly different dream from the one portrayed to the audience? What sort of a person does something like that, something so… perverted?

Jaw setting, he shakes his head. Walks up, threading carefully to avoid a slip. “Please, monsieur,” he says, words not quite as warm as his smile had been, “if this is inconvenient for you, I trust you to be as truthful as you do me. I merely wanted to - ”

- show my appreciation, is what he’d wanted to say. Unfortunately, at this precise moment, he’s broken off by his own, stupid feet as he trips a few steps, managing to keep himself upright mostly by virtue of his length. Gods. He’s not a clumsy man by nature but apparently tonight, every muscle is too stiff to be sensible.