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The alcohol hits harder than the black lights and Taehyung feels the overworked pain in the air. It smells like sex and revival here, toxic purple smoke and many bodies. Sweat and cigarettes.
This stranger doesn't fit in.
One look at him and Taehyung can see that. A harsh blot of contrast against the backdrop—in the dim haze, the very rich or the very dirty. This boy is neither, clothed in a simple T-shirt and ripped jeans, thin index finger tracing his bottom lip as he sits at the opposite end of the counter, poised and plain.
Taehyung wonders about him: his money and status and purpose, what he's doing here in the hellish filth and soft sexual undertones. Too casual to be looking for a fuck—but there's something about his eyes that suggests otherwise.
"How do you find it?" Namjoon balances the stem of a glass between his fingers.
Taehyung looks away from the man across the bar to look at Namjoon, the way he works the soft cloth along the rim of the glass, the precise handling. "Not the worst joint I've seen."
Namjoon laughs. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
"I've seen my fair share." Taehyung shrugs and takes a sip of his drink—Sazerac, he thinks it was. Cruel on the throat. He handles it fine. "How about you? How do you find it?"
"Good place. Better than the last one I worked at. I told you about that, right?" Namjoon lifts the glass to the light and checks it for flecks. A gleam of light catches on the curve, clear and bright in the warmer tones of the bar. "It was a strip club too—just low-brow. Nothing like this Peach Pit place"—he uses the glass to point around the club, the deep reds, magentas, the purposeful sexuality—"all swanky and such. I could do without the rich folks who come in here, but overall it's better. Filth like that isn't for me."
"You don't call this filth?" Taehyung crosses his legs beneath the counter and rotates on his stool. A prickle on his skin reminds him of the guy across the bar. In his periphery Taehyung can see him glancing his way. Occasionally. But enough to mean something.
He clinks his fingernails against his glass.
"I call this clean filth," Namjoon says. "You'll see it when the night really begins. When people start coming in. A lot of the dancers aren't even dressed up yet."
You'll see.
Taehyung rolls his eyes. "I'm sure."
"But I'd be careful if I were you." Namjoon leans on the counter with a furtive look. A sharp flick of the eyes through the bodies in the club, a careful smile. "Cool, tall glass of water with a fat wallet—yeah, the boys around here like your type."
Taehyung laughs loud like a whip. "Sounds like flattery, Joonie."
"Gets me nowhere." Namjoon snorts. "It's just a thought. Money's always the hottest topic on these minds." He puts the glass down and adjusts his bartender's outfit, black and white and classy, and gets back to preparing for the night.
In his life now, Taehyung would say he is drifting, less body-mind-soul-wise and more self-wise. He would like to think that he hasn't turned out to be the type of man to frequent strip clubs, but today is a Thursday night and if he were to turn around in his swivel stool he would see a firm body, nude save only for the red sheer, youthful and bright with a sweaty, desperate grip on the gold pole.
To be frank, the man on stage is not one who leaves an impression.
But Taehyung can still feel the gaze of the man across the bar.
