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(( LOG : it's getting better ))

[Characters:] Vincent & Claude
[Date:] 13.02.2014
[Summary:] Happy birthday, birthday boy.
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It's been a long week. God, it's been long... Too long. He's been to New York on behalf of Le Monde, to cover the opening of a new wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a wing dedicated to traditional and contemporary African art. He has talked to everyone and their mother, if they were of even the slightest relevance to the collection. University professors, artists, museum directors, sponsors, you name it. Yes, he's been around. And all the while, Didier has been with him, knowing quite a few of the contributors and having sponsored the transfer of several native pieces from Senegal. Heaven knows, he loves Didier, but the man can make for very taxing company when you catch him in a sour mood and he's been in a sour mood from the first Senegalese piece was revealed to they went their separate ways at the airport earlier today. It has been very obvious that he'd been much less impressed with the Americans efforts than Claude who has given the exhibition good reviews overall.

Finding his keys blindly, he unlocks the front door, stepping inside mostly without paying attention to anything around him except for the handle of his suitcase and his coat, hanging over his other arm. It's an act of supreme balance, preventing either Socrates or Plato from escaping out the door before he can close it behind him, while at the same time stopping his coat from sliding down or his suitcase from slipping through his fingers. Which is probably the reason why he doesn't notice either the little bows around their necks or the bells attached at first. Because really... under any other circumstances... He puts the suitcase down, hangs his coat away and finally straightens up fully, looking down at the cats. Unable to notice anything but the light red (almost pink) bows. Poor cats. Next thing he notices is the amount of candles lit all around the hallway - and the kitchen and beyond the kitchen, the living room. Candles everywhere, but no husband in sight.

"Vincent?"

There's the lovely smell of food cooking, so his man has got to be around here somewhere. Doing God only knows what.

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It’s been a quiet week without Claude – too quiet, really, though Vincent’s never been opposed to his own company. Knowing quite well that his husband’s been hanging out with his ex-boyfriend in the States, Vincent’s been looking forward to having him home in any case – just in time for a nice, thorough celebration.

He’s in the kitchen when he hears the front door unlocking and opening, Claude calling out his name moments after. Casting a quick glance around, he checks off his mental list of to-dos; the bread for canapés all stuck out in small circular pieces and ready to fry. The filling and garnish ready in small bowls on the kitchen counter. The beef wellington prepared and ready for cooking. Sorbets in the fridge. Wine on the counter as well, ready to be opened… oh Christ. Thank God he’s all about multitasking, right? It’s taken him the better part of the week to prepare and he’s not about to fuck anything up now when he’s so close to victory.

Taking a deep breath (not that he’s nervous or anything), he checks his reflection quickly on his Iphone before walking out to greet Claude in the hallway. The cats are jingling about out there, the soft sound of bells an almost familiar addition to the atmosphere at this point. He’s been conditioning them the whole week to tolerate his little… dress-up. They’ve been nice about it, though. Considering the indignity.

“Hello.” He leans back against the doorway, looking at Claude, looking him up and down good. Even whilst coming home from a long, probably exhausting trip, the man looks positively delicious. “Happy birthday.”

“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.

He sees that. Sure he does. Smiling very slightly, wordlessly, he reaches out, sliding his hands up Claude’s sides. He’s a hungry man, obviously – means he’s been a good boy, too, staying away from all the multiple chances of culinary indulgence in the airport. Crappy food, sure, but when you’re hungry enough…

Also, is he making his mouth kissable on purpose? Yeah, probably. Vincent doesn’t waste any time finding out, hands slipping down to his waist and pulling him up close. Chest to chest like this, Claude’s about three inches shorter than him and it makes for an altogether lovely angle as Vincent leans down, catching his lips in a very unhurried type of kiss. Fuck, it’s good. He’s missed him a lot, accustomed as he might be to loneliness. It never used to be a bad concept, being alone. Years of excellent company has eroded his perseverance somewhat, however. Made his prior existence seem a lot poorer in hindsight.

Pressing his tongue against Claude’s lips, he waits for him to respond in kind. Hands sneaking downwards, fingertips brushing over his firm, denim-clad buttocks. Mmm. Yes please – he’s made all the food ready for a reason, after all, and it’s completely connected to the fact that he’s gone without getting laid for a full seven days. It takes him at least a few seconds to remember that Claude's actually said something to him - and by then, he doesn't really give a shit.

Vincent pulls him closer, just as Claude had expected him to do – so that they’re chest to chest, face to face, though he isn’t given much time to look at him before the other man has bent his head and leaned down to kiss him. Their difference in height has never been an issue, has never been something that Claude’s really thought about beyond the practicality of it when Vincent is fucking him up the wall. At certain angles their bodies fit remarkably well together. Like a surface observation that might very well reflect something more fundamental about them as people. Together.

Parting his lips, he meets Vincent’s tongue with his own, the heated feeling of breath and saliva along with the taste of Vincent taking over all other sensations. Vincent has cooked dinner and probably bought a present and has even tied bows around the necks of their cats, but none of it beats this. This. The overwhelming pressure of lips and the hint of teeth and the luxurious overabundance of tongue, sliding along his own. Kissing possesses its very own sort of appeal and kissing Vincent in particular is a pleasure, each and every time. They’ve been together for four years now, but it doesn’t get old. Unlike Claude who’s slowly getting there. Old queer.

When he reaches up both hands and runs them through Vincent’s hair, the strands are soft and silky between his fingers, completely unlike his own that’s been damaged by a decade plus under the African sun. Humming against Vincent’s mouth comes as a natural consequence. It isn’t a purr, but the meaning isn’t much different. The cats do the same thing when they’re getting scratched in an especially satisfactory way, after all.

He’s always loved the feel of fingers, running through his hair. Especially Claude’s, probably because the good stuff comes in a whole package of quality; the sound he makes when they kiss, that slight hum of enjoyment – and the way his body feels, from the flatness of his upper body to his crotch, pressed up good against Vincent’s thigh. It’s true, he’s got plans for them tonight, even if Claude’s ‘only’ turning 49. Maybe that’s a thing to celebrate by itself. That a number, at their age, doesn’t mean any-fucking-thing.

Moving his hands further down, he gives Claude’s arse a nice, unapologetic squeeze. Pulls him in further, making sure to push his thigh very firmly up between his legs. He doesn’t want him to misunderstand, after all. To think that maybe it’s just a bit of kissing before dinner is served. Dinner will be whenever Vincent feels like putting the meat in the oven. Whenever he feels like his appetite’s been sated.

In that, he’s always been a selfish bastard. But Claude’s coming home anyway, has done so for the past 3 years, even with all the options he might have pulled instead if he’d felt a bit more picky. It’s got to be a sign that he’s doing something right, whatever it might be.

Oh. That’s… nice. Definitely nice, definitely a move he approves of, even if it’s obviously an attempt to get his mind off whatever’s cooking in the kitchen. Vincent’s thigh rubs up against his crotch, over his cock which is slowly – Claude is 49, after all – beginning to take an unmistakable interest in all the various stimuli thrown his way, hardening gradually as a consequence. His breath hitches in his throat and he draws back from the kiss in order to catch his breath. To tug at Vincent’s hair with a playful sort of impatience, whether it be for food or sex… Right now, at this very moment, he can’t be made to choose.

Their sex life has been great from the beginning. No complaints there. It just so happens that a man can’t live his life in accordance with the needs of his cock alone, not all the time at least and this is one of those times when someone is going to have to persuade him and persuade him good – that a full arse is preferable to a full stomach. Then again, one must never (never) underestimate Vincent’s persuasive skills. Claude already knows they’ll end up somewhere appropriate for fucking and he doesn’t mind. Not really. Not at all.

“You’re behaving like I’m not too starved to fuck right now,” he says anyway. Jokingly. Out of breath and in every way betraying that his body agrees fucking is first priority, always. Around Vincent.

The tug alone would have been enough, really, to communicate that particular message. He pauses, looking at Claude sort of blankly before reaching down between his legs with one hand, cupping his palm over the bulge in his trousers. Noticeable, though not overly prominent. Yet. But touch is touch and right now, he makes it a good one.

“Because I know you.” Palm closing over his cock, he turns his touch into a grip. Pulls upwards just a bit, enough to partially mirror Claude’s hand in his hair seconds earlier, before letting his hand slide up to his hip. “And I agree. With you and your cock.” Because clearly, the man has already consented to sex before dinner, whether his mind actively knows it or not.

Stepping backwards, he pulls Claude towards the bedroom (PAST the kitchen doorway – damn right!), movements almost lazily casual and easy. They’re too old to dance a tango in the hallway in his opinion, but this is just right and very much doable. He’s been lighting candles all afternoon – stupid fucking things nearly burned his fingers off on multiple occasions – and the result is pretty nice-looking. With tiny lights on every applicable surface and fresh flowers in every vase. All details that would make him girlish to some, stylish to others and at this very moment, with Claude, he knows which option he prefers.

The hallway has been positively decked. There are lit candles everywhere and freshly cut flowers in the vases that are otherwise usually left empty, as decorative pieces on their own. Vincent has really gone to some trouble here, making everything look like a girl’s wettest dream. Well, and a secret dream of Claude’s, though he’d rather not have to admit to it. He’s a romantic at heart, yes – that part of it he isn’t ashamed to acknowledge, but what exactly that implies… Vincent knows him better than that, of course and perhaps it’s the way his hand has just been grabbing Claude’s cock, but somehow it’s turned out very non-demasculinizing. Against all odds. Flowers and candles and bows on the cats. Who would have thought?

Speaking of cock-grabbing. His cock is feeling awfully abandoned all of a sudden, as it has all week. Being away is always somewhat of a strain, sexually. Wanking simply doesn’t beat Vincent’s blowjobs and has nothing on anal, but he’s had to settle in lack of better, hasn't he? Following Vincent’s lead now, they make their way towards the bedroom slowly, Vincent walking backwards with his hands on Claude’s hips. His body is definitely responding to the promises lingering in the air between them and raising one eyebrow, Claude lets his hands settle on Vincent’s shoulders.

“Getting me hard is probably the only way you could make me forget about my growling stomach, Vincent.” A pause. His hands folding behind the other man’s neck, turning the touch into more of an embrace. “Well done.”

A general sentiment. Including everything. The food, the candles, the flowers, even the stupid cats.

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.”

Those words (not to mention, the voice they’re uttered in) go straight to his cock, the process of hardening speeding up considerably and Claude inhales deeply, eyes narrowing as he observes Vincent slowly unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers long and slender as they work every button with quick precision. Vincent isn’t usually a romantic by any definition of the word and would probably rather have headed straight for his trousers than play some Casanova, complete with everything but pink rose petals on the bed covers. Unlike Vincent, Claude does kind of like it this way, though. A little bit slower, a little bit softer, unless they’ve just had one of their fights – in which case a rough quickie over the kitchen table is the only way to go, really… Too much tension in his body and too little time to unleash it to start lighting candles or undoing shirt buttons.

“If this is supposed to be my birthday present, love,” he says slowly, voice that much more raw while he remains otherwise passive, allowing Vincent to undress him, “you’re not getting off that easily.” It’s sexual innuendo, the way they’re used to doing it and Claude knows Vincent will catch onto the ambiguity of the sentence. Between the two of them, he’s the one with a degree in spin, after all. For what it’s worth, Claude couldn’t care less about what else Vincent might have gotten him on the occasion. He just promised him a blowjob and Vincent’s blowjobs are either a testimony to the existence of God or to the fact that what the other man does best is using his mouth. In all manners of speaking.

He doesn’t answer, favouring Claude with a thoroughly lewd smile instead. What’s there to say, really? He’s all about making it as hard as fucking possible. Especially with Claude being all passive and receptive like this; it’s funny, really, how personality’s so multi-layered and, at times, self-contradictory. Like Claude, now, with his raw and rather undiluted masculinity, loving roses and a touch of softness just as much, if not more than harsh and unapologetic sex in the heat of a moment. Vincent knows him too, of course. Knows him well.

Pushing the shirt down Claude’s shoulders, he slides his palms down his overarms very slowly. Deliberately so. Enjoys the broadness of his built, the slight contour of muscle beneath his skin. Vincent's got no preference for highly-muscular studs (ew, actually); he just really enjoys the feel of man, so fucking sue him. Emphasis on "likes". Leaving the shirt swaying lightly by his elbows – the man can stretch out his arms himself, presumably – he looks him up and down slowly. Again, because why the fuck not. His flat chest, covered lightly in coarse curls; his stomach and the trail of darker hair, leading downwards. To the best stuff. Shit, he’s got an attractive husband. Actually, just right now… just this second… he kind of wants… yeah.

Reaching out, he places his palm flatly over Claude’s chest, rubbing against one nipple slowly, his touch going from light to assertive within seconds. With his other, he unbuttons his trousers and slips his hand down, cupping his hardening cock through his briefs. Quickly, effortlessly, keeping them still for the time being – and in movement, simultaneously, the way sex is always just a matter of pace.

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