Necessary space. Yes. He’s in the middle of coming up with a suitable response – probably a question pertaining to the daily life of a dancer, some honest and decent curiosity, something less personal - but then, Claude starts unbuttoning his shirt. Even as heat starts climbing back into his face, Vincent curses his ridiculous body along with the mind that can’t help itself; he’s been watching the man jump around on stage every night the past many weeks wearing next to nothing but even so… even so… Breath catching in his throat, he tears his gaze away quickly (too late, much too late), setting the tumbler back onto the table with a shaky clink. He’s caught a glimpse of Claude’s magnificent torso regardless, the fabric of his singlet doing very little to hide the contours of muscles lined up underneath. Imagine… just imagine how his skin must feel, how hot and tight and…
Realising that he’s forgotten to answer, Vincent swallows. Audibly, fingers knitting together harshly in his lap. This is the worst, the absolute worst. Ever since he started chasing his impossible desires, he’s come to understand that he simply doesn’t possess any real amount of restraint as proven now, as proven in excess. Strength, his mother would call it. Perhaps she would be right. “No – no, I don’t… I don’t mind.” Under normal circumstances, Vincent rarely stutters. And this isn’t a stutter, not exactly; it’s simply his voice, running out of steam midway in the sentence. Devoid of air. He looks back at Claude, going for a smile, somewhat stiff around the edges. “So long as I’m not expected to follow suit.”
For more than one reason, too. Strictly speaking, two gentlemen getting undressed for a casual evening with drinks isn’t that outrageous but in this case, right here? He’s keeping himself barricaded as much as humanely possible, mostly to spare the poor man from having to… to realise…
no subject
Realising that he’s forgotten to answer, Vincent swallows. Audibly, fingers knitting together harshly in his lap. This is the worst, the absolute worst. Ever since he started chasing his impossible desires, he’s come to understand that he simply doesn’t possess any real amount of restraint as proven now, as proven in excess. Strength, his mother would call it. Perhaps she would be right. “No – no, I don’t… I don’t mind.” Under normal circumstances, Vincent rarely stutters. And this isn’t a stutter, not exactly; it’s simply his voice, running out of steam midway in the sentence. Devoid of air. He looks back at Claude, going for a smile, somewhat stiff around the edges. “So long as I’m not expected to follow suit.”
For more than one reason, too. Strictly speaking, two gentlemen getting undressed for a casual evening with drinks isn’t that outrageous but in this case, right here? He’s keeping himself barricaded as much as humanely possible, mostly to spare the poor man from having to… to realise…