He insists that it's no problem, but the colour rising in his cheeks betray him. Claude doesn't linger at the observation, but instead reclaims his tumbler and steers his attention towards the kitchen table where the cognac bottle is bathed in a greenish light from the lamp on the windowsill. Dimming the contours as well as the shades of the bouquet he was given and left on the counter to survive on their own, because he was (honestly, very honestly) much more interested in Vincent's person than in his roses. "You're perfectly fine as you are, of course," he says. Still looking into the shadows of his sleeping and cooking arrangements, though he sleeps more than he ever cooks.
Claude has met men before, naturally, that weren't comfortable with the urges, who didn't wish to embrace the life they entailed. Most of them live in hiding to some degree and it is as it must be. When you're buggering, you're rarely thinking too long or too hard about your partner's circumstances. They'll present themselves soon enough and meanwhile, you can be long and hard in other regards. It's a balance. It's a matter of acceptance, always. When he turns his head to look at Vincent once more, he can tell with absolute certainty that this man is still at the very outset of the journey. And Claude hopes to God that he won't meet the same obstacles that he himself has, but naïvety aids no one.
Thus, he doesn't pursue it. Doesn't apply any pressure. As pleasing as Vincent is to his aesthetics, he'll be much less appealing when beaten or dead. Out of his mind, in either case.
"How did you end up attending the ballet?" The least of the arts, if you ask the Parisians at large. They may come in floods, but they prefer their operas and their plays any day.
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Claude has met men before, naturally, that weren't comfortable with the urges, who didn't wish to embrace the life they entailed. Most of them live in hiding to some degree and it is as it must be. When you're buggering, you're rarely thinking too long or too hard about your partner's circumstances. They'll present themselves soon enough and meanwhile, you can be long and hard in other regards. It's a balance. It's a matter of acceptance, always. When he turns his head to look at Vincent once more, he can tell with absolute certainty that this man is still at the very outset of the journey. And Claude hopes to God that he won't meet the same obstacles that he himself has, but naïvety aids no one.
Thus, he doesn't pursue it. Doesn't apply any pressure. As pleasing as Vincent is to his aesthetics, he'll be much less appealing when beaten or dead. Out of his mind, in either case.
"How did you end up attending the ballet?" The least of the arts, if you ask the Parisians at large. They may come in floods, but they prefer their operas and their plays any day.