He’s always been a little bit weak for approval. It’s not something he generally thinks about nor wants to acknowledge – after all, approval requires other people and implies some kind of self-confidence deficiency. Then again, Vincent’s been going years and years with a lot of outward self-confidence and a lot of bitterness underneath it and he’s man enough to recognise what that means, even if it usually remains an implication. But Claude knows him very well and his comment makes him smile, a wide, unabashedly happy smile. In the darkness of the hallway, it doesn’t really matter anyway.

Leading them around the small corner and into their bedroom, the sparse decorations emphasised by even more candles, he glances back at the bed. He’s refrained from spreading flowers all over the covers, mostly because there’s a limit to everything and that, to him, is it. Bows on the cats, sure. Excessive flower decorations, why not. But the bed’s not a fucking flowerbed and they’d end up stinking of roses. No thank you. He pauses, looking Claude over for a moment before starting in on the buttons on his shirt. He could head straight for his trousers but tonight, they have time and he wants to take advantage of that.

“As soon as I’ve undressed you,” he says, voice low and just a bit rough from the first tints of arousal, “I’m going to blow you. Will make those thoughts go away nice and good.”