Scoping out the scene, he remembers that Jesper is supposed to belong to a gang. Extracted from the context of their homeworlds, it's easy to forget those kinds of details — whoever you were there, it doesn't matter much here. Wilhelm wonders if this club is Jesper's gang's turf. (Is turf the actual term people use?) If his mom knew that he was slinking around some club sucking face with a boy of questionable background, she'd probably have an aneurysm. Strangely, this thought only makes him more sure of what he's about to do.
Jesper's smile gets one out of him in turn, in the same way the sun spreads warmth. He does hesitate for a snap, pulled by habit toward the seat across from Jesper — but wedging a table between them wouldn't be conducive to the whole kissing thing. Correcting his course, Wilhelm slides in next to him.
"Sure," he answers, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "That would be great."
Now, to remember how to be a functioning person, which he's never really had a firm grasp of in the first place. He's not dressed as sharply as Jesper, but the sweater indicates some effort. He's also not nearly as relaxed, hands knotted in his lap, shoulders straight and stiff.
no subject
Jesper's smile gets one out of him in turn, in the same way the sun spreads warmth. He does hesitate for a snap, pulled by habit toward the seat across from Jesper — but wedging a table between them wouldn't be conducive to the whole kissing thing. Correcting his course, Wilhelm slides in next to him.
"Sure," he answers, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "That would be great."
Now, to remember how to be a functioning person, which he's never really had a firm grasp of in the first place. He's not dressed as sharply as Jesper, but the sweater indicates some effort. He's also not nearly as relaxed, hands knotted in his lap, shoulders straight and stiff.