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Light glints off the body of the car. Jeongguk leans against the passenger's side, dressed in a slim-fitting suit, arms crossed, stance casual. Under the classy glow of the restaurant's exterior he looks poised enough to fit in among the atmosphere's glamour. But his index finger flicks at his cufflink; it gives him away.
"Is this—" Jeongguk coughs. "It feels"—he lifts his arm and shows Taehyung his cuff—"wrong. Is this on right?"
"Yes," Taehyung says. After listening to Jeongguk's hours of fretting—his panic while digging out an old suit from the storage, his worry that it would be too wrinkled to wear, his back-and-forth on how to style his hair and whether to take out his earrings—Taehyung is getting exasperated. "You're dressed fine. Don't worry."
"I'm not worried. I'm—reasonably concerned."
"Worried." Taehyung snickers, taps Jeongguk's hip with the back of his knuckles and steps past him. "Are you coming?"
"I—" A shuffle of dress shoes over the asphalt. A nervous swallow. "Wait."
Taehyung pauses. His tie feels too tight but it might be his imagination. His hands feel clammy so he keeps them at his sides, wipes them on his slacks. His chest feels squeezed by excitement and—something else. None of it shows. He makes sure of it. Just says "Yeah?" and turns around, meets Jeongguk's eyes, then shoves his hands in his pockets. Because he feels like he needs to.
Jeongguk hesitates. "I don't know how to do this. I don't...know."
In the brief span of a second Taehyung tries to take those words apart. Don't know how to do this; don't know how to do this; don't know how to do this.
"It's just dinner."
"Not dinner. This." Jeongguk's eyes flicker toward the restaurant behind them. Taehyung looks too. The building is low and chrome, black, beige, very sleek and modern and lit up in a way that makes the speckles and beams of light look crystalline. The flashtube sign is blinding against the black sky.
"This is dinner," Taehyung teases, turning back around. His lighthearted tone feels somewhat forced but he feels—pressured, perhaps, to keep the mood that way.
Jeongguk huffs and kicks a pebble in Taehyung's direction, not caring whether it scuffs the toe of his expensive dress shoes. He seems to shrink closer to the car, looks shut down or disappointed or even a little cagey. "Don't play dumb, you fuck. You're such a—a fuck. You know what I mean."
With an affectionate sigh Taehyung steps closer to Jeongguk. He leans against the hood. Other vehicles—all lavish and large and intimidating in the way that suggests riches and importance—drive by in the parking lot.
"You've been doing this fine the whole time. Better than I have."
"But you seem so chill."
"I'm—" He's reminded of his hands hidden in his pockets. Of the way he continuously rights his posture. Of the way he's trying to keep the mood more casual than it needs to be. The habits. "I'm really not," he says, and takes Jeongguk's hand by the wrist, fingertips resting gently along the underside. His fingers are shaking. He knows Jeongguk feels it. Against the pads of Taehyung's index and middle is Jeongguk's pulse, fast and heavy enough to be felt.
