Unlike Mademoiselle Samson, Claude is careful to leave the door fully shut behind him as he begins the upwards climb right behind Vincent. The other man provides a complete wall of pitch blackness right before his eyes - by no means as broad as Claude's own frame, but twice as far-reaching on the vertical. Inconvenient; Claude would be a fool. To ever be inconvenienced by someone so Hell-bent on showing him favour. God knows, they're too few and far between in the circles he frequents and most of them aren't as blessed in regards to their looks. If anything, Claude certainly wouldn't mind being inconvenienced further. However, before Vincent even manages to finish his apology (Claude shan't call it weak, but it's undoubtedly a glass pit in which to fall), he stumbles over the next step and Claude's instinctual reaction is to reach out and stabilize him, fingers closing around his forearm. Underneath the layers of fabric, he's thin. Too thin.

"Careful," he says. Releases his hold once he has ensured that neither of them will fall and break something. Now that his career is finally lighting up once more, Claude just can't afford it. For nothing and no one. "Don't make me lose my footing now, monsieur. I'd hate having to be so cross with you."

In the darkness, the wooden boards creak beneath their feet. It's Claude's luck currently that his body is still caught in its usual post-performance self-awareness. His feet recognise each new step as if they had been part of a choreography. And with every step, they ache a bit more. He can't wait to get out of these shoes. Pity that he's simply too vain to wear clogs, they'd be kinder on his arches and not squeeze his toes as horribly as these things.