24/7 | kth

to dress

Taehyung takes you to a very special shopping outlet. It's an eight-storey building, widespread and modernised, guarded by a dozen security guards at every entrance, and the smell—you'll never get over the smell. After a one-minute argument, you cave in and ride the twenty minutes to the outlet in BigHit's chauffeured black van. You never did like these things. Don't they only make it more obvious that a celebrity is present?

As expected, when the van slows to a stop in front of the outlet—it's supposed to be the backdoor, but look here—paparazzi and flashing cameras swarm the area. Tae is wearing a simple black sweatshirt, sleeves pulled to his elbows, cream pants that are lose and shoes that you don't like. (You always think his shoes are ugly, but you've given up trying to convince him that.) His hair hangs into his eyes. A mask hides his face.

A mask hides your face too.

He steps out of the car first. In the blinding chaos around the door of the car, you zero your attention on him as he extends his hand towards you, helping you steadily off the high floor of the car. His hands stay warm against you—your lower-back, around your waist, hooked through your arm—leading you protectively towards the doors of the outlet.

The bodyguards hold out their arms like metal railings, barring and withstanding the clamouring paparazzi away from the two of you. At the same time, they hold firm a clear path for the both of you.

Once you have passed through the doors of the outlet, Taehyung relaxes. He pulls off his mask. Then, turning to you, he reaches up and gently tugs the mask off your mouth, hooking it under your chin.

"I hate that," you whine.

"I know," he whispers. "I'm sorry." And he kisses your lips.

•••

You spend the afternoon in the outlet with Taehyung, him leading you through all his signature brand shops and recommending you to each of his stylists. The whole point you're here is to buy a new outfit for the upcoming ceremony that BigHit is throwing. It's in less than a week, and Taehyung only just discovered that you don't have anything to wear. You threw away the last thing he got you—it's not your fault. He'd bought it without even asking what you wanted, and in the hurry the two of you were in for an appropriately formal outfit (a pretty similar situation to the one you're in right now, actually), you allowed that one time to wear whatever he'd gotten you. It was a cream-coloured dress embedded with stardust-sized diamonds, floor-length, that slimmed until your thighs. A slit pulled up to the side of your left thigh, exposing your naked skin.

Tae thought it looked sexy on you. But you didn't really like it.

"Whatever... it's too late now," Taehyung drawls wistfully, hands in his pockets as he gazed dramatically into the marble lobby of the outlet. "They're out of stock of that dress. It was Vera Wang you know."

"Good riddance. Now, if I have to wear something fancy this evening—I'll be wearing something comfortable." You smile, "My style."

"That's just it. You don't have style."

You hit him in the arm and head, yelling at him to "Shut up." His laughs turn into booming cackling, head flung back and arms extended in a manic pose. He is such a dork.

•••

Taehyung is the fashion freak, so you let him drag you around the outlet, offering suggestions. Recommendations. And twisted commands, which you refuse to follow. You and Tae have very different tastes in fashion. But, when it comes down to it, there are a few things you can agree on.

You finally emerge from a changing stall wearing something you had independently sought out.

You step through the door. Still pulling the dress down, as to save more of your legs, you turn and lock gazes with your reflection. Through the corner of your eye, you sense Taehyung look up at you. The dress is tight-fitting and black. It hugs your body down to your thighs, sleeves long and accentuating your slim arms; the neckline is heart-shaped and exposes your collarbones. It's simple and it's classy. You grin at yourself.

You turn to Tae, "So? Whadya think?"

He studies you. Dark hair fallen into his eyes, the shine in his irises still can't hide. He exhales dramatically, rising from his seat. Still watching you, he practises a series of small nods (head bobs), folding his arms slowly over his chest.

"What do you think?" You ask again.

"You like it, right?"

"Yeah, I do," you answer. "It's classy, no? I mean, I like the colour black. I always feel like black is so... cool. Unbothered. And just trendy, usually. And the fitting of this is so nice."

In one theatrical motion, he bows his head in a grand nod, chin touching his chest. Like he's agreeing with everything at once. He raises himself up again and meets your gaze.

"Okay!" He proclaims dramatically. His eyes are starry. "Honestly, you look beautiful no matter what you wear. So—to the register!"

He skirts his way between clothes, fist raised in a superhero pose. You laugh, following in his wake.