A ripple of energy pulses up under Jongin's skin, that fearful excitement prickling the hairs across his nape and coiling tight in his lower abdomen. It isn't the closeness that gets him, nor the way the man stands so tall and solid. It's the demure, delicate brush of fingers that tuck bits of Jongin's hair back into place. It's been a very, very long time since Jongin's been seen as something delicate, something to be cherished--And part of him enjoys that this man touches him like there's still some innocence left.
He stays pressed in close, remains tucked into the man's side, allows himself to be led from the safety of the dimly lit hallway to the big double doors--he goes relatively unnoticed, bless the dancer on stage, so Jongin gets to breathe a little easier. It's the sharpness of the cold outside that gets the air to rush into his lungs through a biting breath he sucks in through his teeth. The foreigner had been right, the chill in the air a force to be reckoned with. Somehow, Jongin doesn't mind the biting of wind on the bare skin of his arms, nor does he mind his suitor for the evening keeping a steady arm around his middle to make sure he doesn't get lost on the way.
The first deep breath is to get rid of all that toxic air from the club. The second gets him clean air that pulls a shiver from his body and a trickle of reality sinking in a zig-zag pattern down his spine. The third brings the scent of menthol cigarettes melded with vanilla to his attention. Every subsequent breath after that is shallow, hitched in his throat. The walk to the man's penthouse seems short, but Jongin's attention wavers from streetlights to cracks on the street to the arm around his waist and back again--The boots he's wearing make heavy sounds on the pavement, but he can barely hear them over the sound of his breathing. He isn't the anxious type, not really, but nerves still find their way into his system, energy and thoughts that tie his stomach into tight, heavy knots in his abdomen.
At least, Jongin muses to himself, we're in the right neighborhood. His first glance at the place is fleeting, attention drawn elsewhere--but he does a double take, eyes going a little wide so he looks richer in eye whites. It's so hard to keep his guard up when the places he keeps visiting on the nights he leaves the club too early are this decadent.
The walk up the stairs takes moments, marked only by the sound of Jongin's boots hitting each stair, and when the door opens to give Jongin his first glance of the man's place, he can't help but get a little curious. For a moment, he lets himself investigate, pulling himself to stand up on his toes--he can stand like this for hours, practice made perfect for it--to peek at the startling emptiness of the place. What catches his attention more than the lack of home decor is the panoramic window on the north wall. The view of the city is gorgeous from here, much better than the one from his own window. Were this man any other--had he not paid a substantial amount of money to Jongin's workplace to take him home for the night--Jongin might have gone to peer out it, to stare with wide, child-like excitement at the cityscape. But now, he's on someone else's dime, and that means he plays the perfect house guest. No investigating, no exploring. He's a china doll for the night, his choices don't much belong to him.
"Iouri..." Jongin tries the name out on his tongue, rolls the sound around in his throat--Of course he'd have a name like this, something intricate and difficult to pronounce. Luckily, Jongin says it correctly, voice quiet with his lower lip bitten between his teeth. Etiquette dictates he remove his shoes at the door--and he does, lowering himself to kneel so thin fingers can work the laces of his boots, loosening them enough to slip them off one at a time. They end up stacked next to one another by the door--if he needs a quick escape later, Jongin will need them where he can find them.
There's something about that warm honey voice and the cleanliness of the place that has Jongin feeling comfortable. He knows that he shouldn't, knows that Kai will leave when the sun comes up (but it's Jongin who has to walk back to the club in clothing that screams he's done something nefarious with someone he'll never see again), but that ease is still there, still present, still lingering in his mind. "Your place is gorgeous, Iouri.." And he whispers, voice as quiet as he can make it, a voice used for telling secrets--Je vais te dire un secret--hushed like a breath so when he presses into Iouri's side and his hands very tentatively ghost up along one of those strong arms, it's more intimate than Jongin means for it to be. Dans mon endroit secret.
