Claude ups the pace behind him, forcing him to keep up lest he wishes to bump against his front. His strong, muscular front. He winces, making his way up the last flight of stairs and waiting for Claude to let them inside. Surely, the other man couldn’t possibly know what sort of effect his innocent words would have – such as the very, very subtle hint of red, seeping into his cheeks and forehead. First and foremost, it must be the heat of exertion. Must be. Blinking against the light from the lamp, Vincent shuts the door behind himself and steps… back. Looks around, back against the door frame, taking in the other man’s living quarters and trying not to panic. Gods, when he bought those flowers… he never even dreamt…
The room’s big. Surprisingly so. Perhaps the illusion of size is emphasized considerably by the way most things seem to have been placed in clusters near the walls – here, a table, there a large rug, the shapes of two chairs visible in the light coming in through one of the multiple windows. And over there – yes, the… the bed. Blinking, he shrugs out of his coat and slings it over the hat stand to his left. Folds his arms around himself and rubs his upper arms mostly subconsciously, the chill from outside lingering quite profusely in the shadows of the room. Unlike Claude (soft landing or not), Vincent doesn’t have much of anything to keep his body warm aside from his clothes; and whilst they’re decent clothes to suit the formal mood of the Palais Garnier, they’re still quite thin and worn.
“Thank you.” It comes a little bit too late, perhaps. Even so, Vincent has always known his manners – the one thing they can’t fault him for, despite his mother’s best intentions. Crossing over towards the fireplace, passing Claude on the way and trying not to get himself lost in this overall feel of proximity, he pauses by one of the windows, Paris stretching out below with a sharp cut of darkness leading upwards into the sky. “Is that the Seine in the distance?” He gestures with one hand, wrist limp enough to seem boneless. A difficult thing to help, though, isn’t it? What’s been given to you from birth and never hardened into compliance.
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The room’s big. Surprisingly so. Perhaps the illusion of size is emphasized considerably by the way most things seem to have been placed in clusters near the walls – here, a table, there a large rug, the shapes of two chairs visible in the light coming in through one of the multiple windows. And over there – yes, the… the bed. Blinking, he shrugs out of his coat and slings it over the hat stand to his left. Folds his arms around himself and rubs his upper arms mostly subconsciously, the chill from outside lingering quite profusely in the shadows of the room. Unlike Claude (soft landing or not), Vincent doesn’t have much of anything to keep his body warm aside from his clothes; and whilst they’re decent clothes to suit the formal mood of the Palais Garnier, they’re still quite thin and worn.
“Thank you.” It comes a little bit too late, perhaps. Even so, Vincent has always known his manners – the one thing they can’t fault him for, despite his mother’s best intentions. Crossing over towards the fireplace, passing Claude on the way and trying not to get himself lost in this overall feel of proximity, he pauses by one of the windows, Paris stretching out below with a sharp cut of darkness leading upwards into the sky. “Is that the Seine in the distance?” He gestures with one hand, wrist limp enough to seem boneless. A difficult thing to help, though, isn’t it? What’s been given to you from birth and never hardened into compliance.