COMFORT OF STRANGERS|| VKOOK ✓

1. Passion

It's a Thursday night when he meets him. The warm summer air still tastes like the day's rain, and Jeongguk finds himself being herded down the damp sidewalks by Jimin, who is chattering on and on about the girl he's been talking to.

"...got the printer to work, and I swear, I wanted to kiss the hell out of her because hand-writing all that shit was painful. My hand still cramps at the thought of it, honestly." Jimin flexes his hand as if to prove it's cramped-ness. "But I'm a gentleman, so 'course imma wait. Sexual assault ain't cool, Jeonggukie—"

Jeongguk isn't paying attention. His thoughts had wandered a long time ago, his limbs getting heavy and shirt dampening uncomfortably with humidity. There's a club Jimin's been trying to coerce him into going to, but he's been tied up for a week finishing his last piece. It's inspired by the man in the long black skirt he saw on the bus, hair slicked back and deadpool shirt half tucked under a leather belt, yammering on to the teenager in the seat in front of Jeongguk about passion.

"Worst thing in life is when an artist's passion is dampened. Cause you get all tied up in monotonous work, and all of a sudden there's no more creativity and you're just another corporate robot dragged along in the swells of normality. You gotta keep that passion, kid. Artists die when they don't have any more of it."

Jeongguk thought there was some truth to those words, so when he got home he painted it, all the while wondering what would happen to him if he ran out of inspiration. He assumes he would die, like the skirt-wearing-man had suggested. And maybe that's why he doesn't keep many people in his life. They all get too boring after a while, and Jeongguk can't learn anything new. Can't feel anything new with them, and he feels aimless and confused because he's too comfortable.

Good art isn't made from comfort.

Jeongguk swipes his sweaty hands over his shirt, silently thanking himself for wearing a black one when one of the street lamps illuminates a leftover streak of dark paint hidden in the creases between his thumb and index finger. He always tries to clean all the paint off when he goes out, but by now, it's as much a part of him as his own skin.

"You look blazed already, Guk. You're zoning out and we haven't even started the night. You good?"

Jeongguk nods. "Yeah. Just a little hot out here." He tugs on the chest of his shirt as if to prove his point.

"Well it's not gonna get any better in there, let me tell you." Jimin pulls him into the line outside the club and Jeongguk scans the crowd lazily. No one looks particularly fun out here, so he hopes it's better inside.

It's not. Jeongguk doesn't think he'll be able to find much tonight.

The lights flash and pulse around him, the beat of the music reverberating through the floor as he weaves through the sea of sweaty, wasted bodies, headed for the bar. He opens his tab, places his order, and leans back, Jimin beside him.

"How's it looking?"

Jeongguk shrugs. "Sparse."

"Hmm. Disappointing." Jeongguk takes his drink as it's passed, sipping it lightly. He knows how he looks. Rich. Cold. Hot in an effortless sort of way, his dark clothes keeping him lost in the background, out of the flashing lights and the grinding, wobbling hordes. His eyes, rimmed with dark eyeshadow and his easy posture do the talking here. He's practiced it what must be hundreds of times by now, knows how to look, move and act in these places. Arm back, each movement slow. Precise. He looks like he knows what he's doing, and that's because he does.

He looks like a good fuck and an expensive dick. An unforgettable night in a penthouse apartment filled with expensive brands and silk sheets. People flock to him, and he can take his pick.