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Behind the club, Taehyung leans against the wall and looks upward, watching the smoke of the cigarette he's not smoking curl into the black sky. Around him a few people chat and huddle in the cold of the night, hugging their bodies.
Maybe he thinks too much; maybe he's tired; maybe he needs to go home.
He knows he should. Nothing good can come out of staying here. But there's a big, dumb part of his mind telling him to stay, to see what's in store.
Getting played, Kim.
But he likes it; that's the worst part. The way Jeongguk is dynamic and ever-changing and frankly exciting—it makes Taehyung want to know more. That's probably the point of the act, the faked persona of a hot little thing in pretty clothing. It's to keep the men coming, to keep them interested. Works like a charm, too. Jeongguk's got Taehyung pulled close and curious, and no doubt there are others as well—Taehyung needs to remind himself of this.
The prospect of paying for cheesy, second-rate intimacy isn't something that bothers him; he finds the debauchery a little fun next to the monotony of what he's used to.
But he doesn't understand Jeongguk. That's what really bothers him.
Because sometimes the mask is obvious—the batting eyelashes, the giggling, the way he almost makes himself look smaller without actually changing anything—and he is easy to deal with, easy to respond to. But a few times he's shown himself to be rougher, a spark of anger or a snide tone or an intimidating twitch of the eyebrow. And then there are the briefest bits of shyness, a soft blush or a nervous waver to his stance, the youth contrasting his blatant vulgarity, the things that make him seem so much more real.
The things that make Taehyung want to treat him with a little less teasing and a little more flirting, make him want to get to know him, and he knows that's not good. That's exactly what Jeongguk wants.
Right?
At least he thinks so.
Jeongguk wants him to want him. Down and dirty, that's what this is about. Taehyung knows that. But when looking Jeongguk in the eye and feeling the heat of his stare, when he's careful but generous with contact, giving just enough to make Taehyung wonder, it can be hard to remember.
Then the metal door next to him swings open, hinges creaking and banging when it gets pushed too far. Taehyung jumps.
Jeongguk steps out, wearing a long, oversized coat, fingers shaking as he clutches it closer to his body. The glow of the neon sign—the name of the club Peach Pit looped in xenon flashtube—casts colours over the slope of his nose. He stops when he sees Taehyung leaning against the wall.
He joins him.
"Y'know," Jeongguk says, fumbling in his coat pocket and fishing out a pack of smokes, "sometimes customers stick around after shows to get a dancer's number." He leans on the brick wall, stoops to light his cigarette, tilts his head back and puffs it a few times. Moonlight glances off his closed eyelids, the slope of his nose.
Taehyung snorts. "You implying something? I just want a fucking smoke."
With a chuckle, Jeongguk shakes his head and says nothing for a long while. Taehyung watches him smoke—a stunning sight, sharper than anything.
"It's just mileage, Taehyung. How much shit you can get away with." Jeongguk sneers at nothing in particular, smoke tumbling from his lips, eyes tracing the stars in the sky, barely visible with the light pollution from downtown. "Depends on the dancer."
Taehyung hums and takes a long drag, feeling the smoke scrape his throat. This pack is going stale. Maybe he just needs to smoke more.
"Depends on the customer too," Jeongguk mumbles as an afterthought, and gives Taehyung a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't miss it.
Taehyung turns to look at him, studying his features until he visibly blushes. "What game are you playing, Jeongguk?" Taehyung murmurs with a soft smile.
"Nothing." Jeongguk grins around his cigarette. "It's just—" He shakes his head. His soft hair falls in front of his eyes. "What are you smoking?"
"Huh?" Taehyung blinks.
Jeongguk nods at his cigarette, embers glowing in the darkness of the alley. "That. What is it?"
"Uh...Dunhill."
Jeongguk whistles low. "Jeez. You do it for the label, right? The fucking look of the thing."
"I just—like it."
"Can afford it, you mean. A couple dollars ain't much but it adds up, y'know. Not that I go too cheap." He holds his smoke out. In the moonlight Taehyung can see the scrapes on his knuckles. A thin metal chain dangles from his wrist, adorned with a couple charms. "Cowboy killers. That's what they call 'em."
"Real kick to those, I heard."
"Yeah. I like it, though." Jeongguk brings the cigarette back to his lips. "I like it a lot."
Taehyung watches him, a little enamored. It suits Jeongguk, the harshness of the smoke. For some reason he seems like the type.
"Do you wear makeup in there?" Taehyung blurts, biting his tongue only when it's too late. Jeongguk turns his head to look at him with a smirk, head tilted back, posture brash.
"No. Sometimes, but not when you've seen me." He taps his cheek, the faint acne scars barely visible in the darkness. "If you're talking about this, it's the black lights. They cover up all that shit—stretch marks and scars and track marks. You should see some of the guys there. Some of them really need it. Nasty things, them."
Taehyung expects Jeongguk to stop, but he keeps talking, keeps smoking—carelessly. And it feels very real. Taehyung listens.
"You can pick out the dirty ones by what they smoke. Like, anything with a recessed filter and you know they're a cokehead, taking bumps outta there when they're done with it. Parliaments, sometimes import brands like Africa Rulas and that. Yeah, gotta keep an eye out for those. I'm warning you, Taehyung, boys here—"
He looks at Taehyung and stops when their eyes lock.
"I mean—I'm one of 'em. But I'm...different." He laughs nervously.
"I know," Taehyung says.
Silence and noise. Cars driving by on the main street, the buzz of a lone halogen streetlamp, the soft murmur of conversation from the few people near them—and silence.
Jeongguk looks at the ground, shakes his head and laughs. "God—this isn't how it fucking goes. Like, ever. At all."
Taehyung snorts. "What's that mean?"
"You know what it means." Jeongguk gives him a look loaded with hidden words and leans off the wall. He crushes his half-smoked cigarette beneath his shoe. Hands shoved in his coat pockets, he looks Taehyung up and down.
It's back again—the mask.
Jeongguk comes and goes. Fades and reappears. Moves back and forth like a tidal wave, a quiet pendulum.
Right now he is brazen, bold with his eyes, lips pursed as he scrutinizes Taehyung wordlessly.
"I've gotta go get ready." He pulls open the heavy door. It scrapes against the concrete. Music bleeds from the club, a tangible wave of heat flowing out into the cold. "You know why I stuck around; I know you're not that dense. You just play games, don't you?"
Taehyung grins. "I don't know what you mean."
"You're just as bad as I am." Jeongguk clacks his fingernails on the metal door. "You want my fucking number or what?"
Taehyung's not sure if that's really why Jeongguk stuck around, but he isn't brave enough to believe or deny it. He just laughs, says yes, and reaches into his pocket for his phone.
