“Don’t tell me that’s what this is all about.” It’s said with a slight laugh as Claude gestures around him, to indicate the many candles, the cats (still very much poor creatures, however much they’re rubbing up against him and purring in greeting), not to mention the delicious smell of food permeating the entire house. When the two of them had talked earlier, Vincent and him, after his plane had landed, he’d been strictly forbidden to eat on his way home and while he isn’t stupid, having figured they’d probably enjoy a nice dinner together on the occasion of his birthday, this is going over the top. Even for Vincent. Bows on the cats. Cute, sure, but seriously. Seriously. “I’m only turning 49, Vincent. It isn’t even the big 5-0.”

Nevertheless, since he’s gone to the trouble of making a spectacle of it, Claude supposes he ought to thank the man in a fittingly spectacular fashion. Besides, he’d really like a better look at what’s going on in the kitchen, so crossing the distance between them slowly, he glances through the open doorway – at the turned-on oven that reveals nothing of substance. Neither does the fridge with its door shut. Pursing his lips, he comes to a halt in front of Vincent, raising his chin slightly to meet his gaze. Yes, it’s been a long week, mostly because Vincent hasn’t been around to provide that particular sense of companionship. It’s undoubtedly a sign of something.

That he misses him. This much.