Having drowned the last of his drink, Vincent is polite enough to take his cue, rising from his chair and looking down on Claude from way up there on high. When Claude is seated, the man is impossibly tall. All elongated lines against the faint backdrop of the Paris street lights outside the windows. Claude's lips quirk every so slightly. One could wish, perhaps, that Vincent had chosen to approach him on a day when his body didn't feel so utterly beaten, but he'll make certain they meet again. On such a day exactly, nothing with which to excuse himself (or Vincent) but the important details. Like the rather beautiful curves of the man's upper lip or - his gaze doesn't actively drop, but somewhere in the shadows, he knows, waits the potential for a fascinating croquis... And gets to his feet as well, thankful for the thickness of the rug underneath his heels.
"Your attention is very appreciated," he says. Reaches out and clasps the nearest of Vincent's hands between both of his own, halfway a farewell greeting and halfway a physical emphasis of the words themselves. Claude hasn't spent his life dancing without developing a very acute sense of body language. It is his medium. Apollo had Terpsichore, Claude has this - the ability to convey everything you can't say with a single motion, a single touch. Vincent's fingers are freezing cold and perhaps for that reason alone, Claude doesn't release his hold for a good, few moments. Moments that alternately assure and reassure. "If you come by the Opera on April 8th, I'll have the receptionists save a ticket in your name."
Only then does he let go. Starts across the floor, towards the door lit dimly by the reddish lamp on the small writing desk to its right. His singlet defenseless against the chill. It'll be another of those nights, where he doesn't get the fireplace crackling before passing out, but must instead fall back on burying into a heap of duvets and blankets not to wake up stiffer than a board. Ah, well.
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"Your attention is very appreciated," he says. Reaches out and clasps the nearest of Vincent's hands between both of his own, halfway a farewell greeting and halfway a physical emphasis of the words themselves. Claude hasn't spent his life dancing without developing a very acute sense of body language. It is his medium. Apollo had Terpsichore, Claude has this - the ability to convey everything you can't say with a single motion, a single touch. Vincent's fingers are freezing cold and perhaps for that reason alone, Claude doesn't release his hold for a good, few moments. Moments that alternately assure and reassure. "If you come by the Opera on April 8th, I'll have the receptionists save a ticket in your name."
Only then does he let go. Starts across the floor, towards the door lit dimly by the reddish lamp on the small writing desk to its right. His singlet defenseless against the chill. It'll be another of those nights, where he doesn't get the fireplace crackling before passing out, but must instead fall back on burying into a heap of duvets and blankets not to wake up stiffer than a board. Ah, well.