[The apartment comes close to what he'd expect from a ballet dancer, living in a European metropolis. It's small, old-looking and, to some extent, reminiscent of his old apartment by the Alzette. Somewhere to eat and sleep, basically, though Claude's done his best to make it homely. There's something about his style - all those old-fashioned designs scattered across the apartment, how they go with the rooms themselves - that's nice. Somehow, it's easy to breathe here.

At Claude's comment he shrugs slightly. Looks at the porcelain cup, the coffee smelling delicious. He rarely brews his own anymore, his coffee machine's too fancy not to use, after all.]

My grandmother wasn't a socialist, as far as I know. [He doesn't quite know why this memory has surfaced in the first place, but he goes with it, deciding that he's been careful enough all night. If he never gives anything back, the other man might just decide that he's being greedy and that, obviously, would never do.] But her best china looked a lot like this. She kept it locked away in her vitré armoire - I suppose she thought it was something quite expensive.

[The last words spoken with something approaching warmth. He doesn't remember her well but certain impressions stay with you, don't they? Good, bad, memory rarely discriminates. It does occur to him that comparing the man's porcelain of choice with his grandmother's could be taken as a bit of an insult, but based on what he's seen this evening, he's counting on Claude to go with a less disingenuous interpretation.]