He swallows, eyes following Claude’s gaze. Down and up. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s got in mind, really. Vincent isn’t used to giving da capo, so to speak, at least not within 24 hours. Under normal circumstances, though, he also leaves before breakfast. He takes another bite, feeling suddenly a lot less interested in the food; instead, he watches as Claude puts away his cup, the strong scent of black coffee beans clear in the air.

“It’s how I usually go,” he says, always preferring blunt honesty to faulty, romantic notions. Especially in these situations when things can get mixed up so easily; the line between physical and emotional affection too easily blurred and the mind helplessly caught up. With sex. “Then again, I don’t usually get breakfast.” He throws out his hand, the other still holding the remains of his baguette. “Guess you’ve thrown me for a loop here.”

With that, he smiles. Eats the last bit of baguette, barely tasting the eggs this time, thoughts already headed in an altogether different direction.