(1) it takes courage

[thecountofthree]

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.

Comments

[waywardious]

The brief insight into the very ordinary life of the other man makes Claude laugh, a slight rumble with no sharpness to detect anywhere. Thankfully, his own mother resides in Marseille and sees him only once a year, at Christmas. Both his sisters are married by now. Seemingly, she has long since given up on him to follow their example. Not everyone can be as fortunate. He could ask Vincent whether he wants him to get an additional ticket - if there is any girl he wants to bring who might be impressed by the grand show, but Claude isn't selfless enough to aid in that kind of conventional matchmaking. If he's going to be dancing for Vincent on front row, the man should better be alone. At least for the night.

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.

[thecountofthree]

Vincent mirrors Claude’s laugh, an odd sense of relief running through his body, dispelling some of the tension in his muscles. It’s difficult to explain – just, somehow, there seems to be an understanding between them that lingers even beneath the harsher subject matters. As if Claude’s carrying the Palais Garnier with him somehow, in spirit, as if he’s brought a tiny fragment of it with him into this room, to dance between them in the darkness. That impressive spirit of his.

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.

[waywardious]

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.

[thecountofthree]

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.

[waywardious]

I'll look forward to seeing you again. Claude.

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.