He moves to take his seat, crossing his long legs and leaning back just a bit. It’s a comfortable chair, exceedingly so – compared to the hard furniture in his parents’ house, it’s certainly a different experience. Then again, this man - Claude - must be in need of some luxury for his tired muscles when he returns home at night, mustn’t he? Relaxation. And… well. No. Just that. Reaching for the tumbler just a bit stiffly, he mirrors Claude’s toast, turns it into a shared endavour.

“Fine. Claude.” The letters roll off his tongue easily, smoothly - much like a first taste of the cognac swirling about in the glass. “If the question’s too personal, you mustn’t trouble yourself. First name or not.” He sips his drink. It’s strong, leaving his throat burning as he swallows his mouthful. The heat’s a nice contrast to the cold seeping through his bones, though. He’s used to being cold, yes, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be bothered by it.

Usually, his preferred drink of choice is absinthe – he’s got a bottle stowed away in his room, hidden from view and from his mother’s disapproving eyes. It’s certainly cheaper than what he’s currently drinking; it doesn’t take much experience with liquor to know that this cognac is expensive. Probably worth more than Vincent earns in a year. He looks over at Claude, keeping his expression as relaxed as he can, feeling how the mood between them settles somehow. Becomes a pace – something slow, calm, undisturbed. All the things he… rarely is.

This meeting truly is setting him up for disaster.