They're looking at each other. Eye contact bordering on stiff, but with the man's offering breaking up the shadows, the edge dissolves into something less tangible. Claude frowns, first. Then, he reaches up with one hand and tugs layers of scarf well out of the way. "Oh," he says.

When you're a part of the company, you get used to watching these men - most of them rich and influential, wait for the ballerinas at the door with their gifts of pearl bracelets and diamond rings, but no care for the consequences when accidents eventually happen, leaving the poor girl incapacitated for months, if she's fortunate enough to ever return. Claude has never had those problems, of course. Other sorts, maybe... But no one has ever brought him flowers after a performance. Not even Pavel. They were otherwise preoccupied. Always in a hurry.

The smile follows easily. When he reaches out and takes the bouquet, he only briefly glances at it (white and yellow roses that look as if they've been through the mill in places), too busy looking his nameless admirer over. Tall; taller than Claude himself. About his own age. "Thank you," he continues. "Monsieur...?"

He's very attractive.