He hasn’t been expecting – but of course, Claude has surprised him continuously throughout their meeting, showing first a real, deep-felt appreciation of his initiative, then inviting him home despite the lateness of the hour and his obvious, understandable fatigue. All the same, Vincent stands perfectly still when Claude takes his hand between his own and tries to keep his face under control, knowing full well that if he doesn’t, he’ll break out in a smile most unbefitting of the circumstances. Perhaps even say something they might regret, both of them.

Claude’s hands are warm, considering the coldness in the room. They’re warm and strong and gentle, his grip a perfect extension of his words. A natural politeness, something inherent and basic to him. To most others, no doubt this kind of approach to a stranger would be marred by superficial customs; by constrictions of society, the expectation of manners. Vincent knows all too well, after all – it’s perfectly possible to be polite without meaning anything by it whatsoever.

When Claude lets go of him, all he can think is that he feels deprived. In every way that matters.

“Thank you very much.” Pause. Then a smile, very understated and aimed mostly at Claude’s retreating back: “I’ll look forward to seeing you again. Claude.” With that, he heads for the hat stand and grabs his coat in a long, swishing motion, the sound of the fabric folding and unfolding oddly loud. Slinging it over his shoulders, he crosses over towards the door, looking at Claude and wondering whether this might very well be the end of everything. When he shuts that door, leaves Claude behind to settle down for the night – what will remain, aside from the grey streets below and the coldness settling on his skin like a hide? His numbers and calculations, his single room with its walls and its wooden floor…

With a sigh, he opens it. Glances at Claude one more time and steps outside in the dark.