mr. sandman || log

[At the end of the day, the day itself had been a shared treat, a combined effort. Two days late, Vincent's birthday falling on a Thursday - a workday for the both of them, they'd spent Saturday afternoon visiting Luxembourg City History Museum where neither of them had been before, not in Claude's year living here, not in Vincent's five. Besides a relatively interesting exhibit of the patchwork growth (most of the time, its exact opposite) of the nation, the museum had had an amazing view of the valley.

Now, however, it was just past midnight, Claude was still digesting the coq au vin Vincent had cooked for dinner and he couldn't sleep, Vincent's couch less an actual piece of furniture and more a piece of wooden, leather-clad shit. Grumbling under his breath, he turned onto his side, then back onto his back for the tenth time since they'd bid each other goodnight an hour ago.

It wasn't going to work. He was leading the performance tomorrow... tonight. He needed his sleep.

Swinging the fluffy duvet over one shoulder, Claude got to his feet and patted across the parquet floor towards the daunting staircase leading up to Vincent's bedroom. He frowned. Cleared his throat.]

Vincent? [A cough this time to really get the hoarseness out of his voice, then he repeated the name louder.] Vincent?