Vincent Fortesque (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thecountofthree) wrote2015-11-21 07:46 pm
thecountofthree) wrote2015-11-21 07:46 pm
Entry tags:
(1) it takes courage
Characters: Claude, Vincent.
Date: March, 1893.
Place: Outside the Palais Garnier.
The flowers – roses in white and yellow - haven’t wilted, at least, during the past hours in the cramped standing room spacing in the back. It’s a bit of a pain, standing up in the crowd for such a long stretch of time but honestly, the greater concern… is the viewing distance. Especially tonight. Vincent pauses some feet away from the back entrance, stepping to the side for a group of tiny ballerinas, leaving the premises with a brightness on their faces that you can’t help but admire. Such an exhausting work on the muscles, on every inch of your body – and yet, afterwards, they are prepared to continue onwards into the night. He doesn’t turn to watch them leave, eyes fixed on the door.
Gods, what if… is it really very proper, this? Bringing flowers for the star of the show would, naturally, be almost common place but he didn’t dance the main role, did he? Not officially, anyway. Vincent doesn’t remember anything else, really, apart from his… his visual. Despite standing further away from the stage than he'd like, there’s a bronze shine burned into his eyes, surely, and perhaps that explains the tremble of his hand, his restless shifting from foot to foot. Perhaps the mind simply cannot tolerate such an… an onslaught. As it were, as it always is. For him.
A couple of female dancers pass him by, this time taller than the others, their clothes more expensive. Higher ranked, it seems. One of them looks at him curiously, perhaps making the wrong connections at the sight of the bouquet. He doesn’t mirror her look, choosing instead to look away quickly, making certain to show her his turned back before she can ask any questions. Like this, he’s facing the door. And that’s as it should be, naturally. Get it over with, just do it.
Just… do it.
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Once they reach the end of the staircase, the door to Claude's attic studio small and old-fashioned, Claude moves up next to Vincent. Fishes his key out of his pocket and blindly, but efficiently goes through the mechanisms. The double yank, the lifting of the handle, the shove of the shoulder and voilà, the door opens to a large room, scantily decorated and with plenty of space for the shadows cast by the greyish moonlight. He steps inside. Grabs the nearest parlour lamp and lights the wig, the oil sputtering for a few seconds before catching on. Turning around, he finds himself at the centre of a orange-reddish circle, the colour creeping into Vincent's face as well. Even at a distance.
"Please make yourself at home."
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The room’s big. Surprisingly so. Perhaps the illusion of size is emphasized considerably by the way most things seem to have been placed in clusters near the walls – here, a table, there a large rug, the shapes of two chairs visible in the light coming in through one of the multiple windows. And over there – yes, the… the bed. Blinking, he shrugs out of his coat and slings it over the hat stand to his left. Folds his arms around himself and rubs his upper arms mostly subconsciously, the chill from outside lingering quite profusely in the shadows of the room. Unlike Claude (soft landing or not), Vincent doesn’t have much of anything to keep his body warm aside from his clothes; and whilst they’re decent clothes to suit the formal mood of the Palais Garnier, they’re still quite thin and worn.
“Thank you.” It comes a little bit too late, perhaps. Even so, Vincent has always known his manners – the one thing they can’t fault him for, despite his mother’s best intentions. Crossing over towards the fireplace, passing Claude on the way and trying not to get himself lost in this overall feel of proximity, he pauses by one of the windows, Paris stretching out below with a sharp cut of darkness leading upwards into the sky. “Is that the Seine in the distance?” He gestures with one hand, wrist limp enough to seem boneless. A difficult thing to help, though, isn’t it? What’s been given to you from birth and never hardened into compliance.
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"It is," he replies, shrugging out of his own coat and throwing it somewhat haphazardly onto the bed. Outside of rehearsals, he's never been an orderly person. Away from his mother for most of his life and a bachelor for the rest of it? Who should have taught him. Pointing towards the west-facing window, he adds - only slightly proudly, because on his rare Sunday off, he loves watching the masses assemble: "I have a perfect view of the Champs-Élysées as well."
Pavel and he used to go for strolls there. Over summer that year. Like lovers do, they had simply been less obvious in their courtship. Or so they had thought. Smile stiffening a little, Claude walks over to his wobbly kitchen table and picks out two crystal tumblers. Then, the cognac from the shadows underneath the counter. A fine 1865 Burguet that Marise had stolen from her father's cellar and given him for his birthday last year. It's still unopened. Carelessly he toes out of his shoes and pushes them aside with one foot while popping the cork.
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Isn’t it.
Tearing his gaze away, Vincent clears his throat and shifts, leaning back against the wall. It’s a slouch, almost. Surely, this is still a casual meeting, even if everything inside of him keeps insisting that he ought to either push it into the zone of intimate (God forbid!) or hide behind formality more thoroughly. “You, uh, live here by yourself, monsieur? It seems a grand apartment for just one man.”
It’s not his intention to pry, of course, and too late he realises exactly how much information he might be asking for with this question - without truly wanting or needing it. He’s just an admirer. He’s just bought him flowers. He’s just… Shivering, he looks away again, gaze searching the dark rooftops outside and finding no relief at all.
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He proposes it with a cock of his head and a single-man toast in Vincent's general direction. With a serious face, because relations are rarely laughing matters, although they hold the potential. Beneath it all, however - beneath the earnestness and the forward attitude, he is (quite honestly) flattered. Claude isn't one who lives in the expectation of sincere admiration. The Palais Garnier certainly isn't the place for it... Neither would you ever hear him deny its existence. He's an artist, too much of a romantic at heart, perhaps. Besides, he's looking at it right now. At this very moment. Who is he to blind himself.
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“Fine. Claude.” The letters roll off his tongue easily, smoothly - much like a first taste of the cognac swirling about in the glass. “If the question’s too personal, you mustn’t trouble yourself. First name or not.” He sips his drink. It’s strong, leaving his throat burning as he swallows his mouthful. The heat’s a nice contrast to the cold seeping through his bones, though. He’s used to being cold, yes, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be bothered by it.
Usually, his preferred drink of choice is absinthe – he’s got a bottle stowed away in his room, hidden from view and from his mother’s disapproving eyes. It’s certainly cheaper than what he’s currently drinking; it doesn’t take much experience with liquor to know that this cognac is expensive. Probably worth more than Vincent earns in a year. He looks over at Claude, keeping his expression as relaxed as he can, feeling how the mood between them settles somehow. Becomes a pace – something slow, calm, undisturbed. All the things he… rarely is.
This meeting truly is setting him up for disaster.
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The way Vincent pronouns his name, as Parisian as you'd imagine, lulls the air between them into a semblance of rest. Claude lets himself be led and puts his tumbler down, starting to unbutton his shirt one-handedly. He hadn't exactly expected company, so he's stripped of vest and bow tie. But the shirt feels restrictive nevertheless and if the man with the flowers can call him by his given name, he doesn't expect him to insist on propriety at its worst. They're men; they're free. And after all, he's wearing a singlet underneath.
"It's just me," he replies. Fingers nimbly reaching the end of the row of mother-of-pearl buttons, his shirt coming undone and revealing another yellowish-white layer underneath. Hugging his torso tighter. "But the space is necessary. My training requires quite a percentage of the floorage."
They complain every so often, downstairs. If he has to stay up late and go through his exercises, finishing off with a series of jumps. Normally, however, he takes care only to train during daytime, when they are out. Shrugging off his shirt a bit awkwardly, he glances over at the other man: "Vincent, you don't mind, hopefully?"
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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…
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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.
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“Uh.” He reaches for the tumbler again, takes another, larger sip. The burn is slightly more subdued this time around as it goes down, the taste lingering on his tongue. “Well, it’s a pitiful story, really. My mother – she likes to pair me up with girls, waiting to see me make a match.” This time, the words are slower, less hurried. There’s a sharp edge to them, more than a hint of temper. “So far, she has yet to succeed. But the ballet was just another venue, another… place to go.”
Last time, with Colette, his mother had been quite furious at his failure. She’s from a rich family, a woman with all the right attributes both physically and practically – for someone else, that is. Anyone else. Vincent… Apparently, some people are simply born without certain abilities and in terms of making connections with women, he’s been blessed with nothing at all. Expression brightening a fraction to counteract the drop in his stomach at the mere thought, he adds: “It’s more than that to me now, however. Much more.”
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Instead, he grasps onto Vincent's final claim. Drowns the last of his cognac and feels the heated tiredness rapidly spreading through his system via his blood stream. Soon, he'll have to excuse himself and go to bed, he has early morning practice at half past six. For now, however... Not so soon. "It's a labyrinth. I practically grew up among those walls. Dark nooks and corners everywhere. It was full of ghosts, even when it was still being built."
A smile. Then, a yawn that he only belatedly manages to halfway cover with one hand. The tumbler emits a dull thud against the wooden surface of the coffee table where he places it. Beneath his sock-clad feet, the rug is raw and soft simultaneously.
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He’s about to answer when Claude yawns, as blatantly as you possibly can without actively being rude about it. Then again, Vincent’s the one who’s rude, isn’t he? Sitting here, drinking the man’s expensive cognac, leaving only a shoddy little bouquet of half-dead roses in his wake. Claude, on the other hand, has made him dream. Will make him dream even tonight when he shuts his eyes. Whilst the dreams themselves are a torment, surely no one can fault someone so inspirational for feeding the fires. Vincent definitely can’t.
“You’re tired.” He empties his tumbler, the last drops filling his mouth, burning without cleansing. He’s never going to become clean. Maybe tonight is just another sign that he needs to accept it and move on – let himself be trapped, since the cage seems so terribly indestructible. Perhaps if he can follow this man from afar, watch the stage light up to leave the rest of the world in utter darkness – perhaps that’ll even be good enough. One day. “I shouldn’t keep you up, mo…” Pause. He swallows, then corrects himself. “Claude. It’s late and you’ve been very kind – but…”
Quite uncharacteristically, he trails off. Rises from the oh-so-comfortable chair, his face drawn and his body seemingly exhausted. The walk home will be a long one – already, there’s almost an hour’s walk from his parents’ home to the Palais Garnier. He meets Claude’s eyes, looking down at the other man and finding him absolutely flawless, even tired and dressed down to only the basics. No, tomorrow will be just another day but at least, he’ll have this to remember.
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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.
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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.
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Claude doesn't answer, not in words anyway. When he closes the door behind Vincent, it's with a final view of his (once more) Inverness-clad backside and a slight smile clinging to just the very corner of his own mouth. A warm curve around his lips. No doubt, it would taste sweet, were he to lick it. He won't, though. Midnight has come and gone, in theory the day is over and he's balancing on the edge of tomorrow already, not quite ready to let go of either the past or the present. 1891 isn't further away than an uninvited reminder. Sometimes, all he truly needs is to shut his eyes...
The years since have been barren in certain areas. His career, certainly, has been an uphill struggle, treading quicksand and getting nowhere fast. Most notably, this endless row of men he's slept with, though few of them made it all the way to his bed and those who did left in the morning, soundlessly and without a trace. All of it physical. All of it mostly meaningless, beyond the need for relief. Desires of the flesh that don't necessarily satisfy the desires of the soul. Souls he does believe in.
Sighing, he turns off the lamp on the writing desk. The one in the sill of the west-facing window. The bluish-tinted one on the kitchen counter, next to his abandoned roses. If he hangs them to dry, they'll fill the entire room with their smell for a good while to come. While he prepares for closing night.
So Claude strings the bouquet together and hangs it on one of the dozen nails sticking out of the walls here and there in an unregulated pattern. Incidentally, it happens to be right above his bed. In the soft light of the remaining lamp on the floor, he sheds his trousers and crawls for cover. Certain things you are allowed to hide from. Such as the cold. And unneeded attraction, if it proves equally insistent.