Speaking of which… Claude finds the bottle of milk in the fridge, pouring himself a glass while listening to the water running in the bathroom where Vincent is finishing his shower. All sounds seem muted this early in the morning. As if the world is still happily asleep, with no intentions of waking up anytime soon. It’s one of the reasons why Claude doesn’t sleep in, even if he could – now that he’s gone freelance. First off, it makes for a better routine, getting up when Vincent does and starting his day from there. Secondly, there’s something special about the morning hours that resonates with him. Maybe it’s a poetic thing, the combination of the pale light (bordering on darkness, depending on the time of the year) and the almost instinctual living. Ingrown habits, bordering on innate. Getting clean, getting dressed, getting fed. While Claude’s not a morning person by any means and can actually be pretty grumpy until the first cup of coffee has settled in his stomach, he enjoys the euphony of it.
He pauses. From the bathroom, the sound of Vincent’s voice rises – indicating that the man’s probably begun washing his hair. Vincent doesn’t like to show off his otherwise very appealing singing voice. Despite his affection for inane pop music, he doesn’t do karaoke and although he can be coaxed into singing, it requires a certain mood of him. Well, or a shower. He has a habit of singing while showering. Like now when his deep voice is echoing down the hallway, halfway died out by the time it reaches Claude in the kitchen. He recognises the melody as one of the big radio hits of the moment, undoubtedly faded and forgotten by this time next month, unlike the music of masters such as Edith Piaf and Leonard Cohen that lives forever. Nevertheless, sung in Vincent’s voice, it really isn’t too bad of a song and Claude smiles, suppressing a yawn while cracking two eggs for Vincent’s breakfast. Eggs, baguette and fruit of his own preference. No one can say that he doesn’t keep his man well fed. Sated.
In spite of the high note that Vincent attempts to hit and misses by millimetres, Claude hears the water being turned off finally. There’s no limit to the time Vincent could spend in the shower and sometimes does spend showering (and whatever else he might be doing out there), but in the mornings on ordinary weekdays, he’s usually quicker about it. Finishing his glass of milk, Claude waits for the pan to heat up, giving the eggs an absentminded stir with a fork. For all the ways in which they’re untraditional, Vincent and he, they’re definitely not reluctant to deal with tradition where it might apply. Right here, right now – Claude the happy housewife and Vincent the hardworking husband. That’s really the beauty of tradition. How it can be rearranged and made into something else entirely. Something unique. Something special.
Something he couldn’t share with anyone else. Heaven knows he’s had enough well-intended relationships throughout his life to recognise this for a fact.