Chapter Text
It does not take long for Suguru to find things uninteresting. If life had a cheat code he would have inputted it years ago. Up, up, down, down, suck a dick, get a degree. Ideally that would be in that order. However, the "real" world— unfortunately for Suguru— operates by effort, and effort is boring.
College, as a concept, was never part of the plan. Suguru just needed to get out of his hometown, which was less a town and more a few stubborn buildings stapled to a dirt road. He applied because it was either that or stay and slowly fossilize under the weight of rural tradition. He chose psychology because it sounded intelligent but also somewhat simplistic, and he liked how people reacted when he said it. Psychology majors are typically either future medical school applicants who are overly ambitious and/or people with untreated psychological trauma and a God complex. Suguru has no problem being both.
His GPA’s fine. His attendance isn’t. He attends class sporadically as he sees fit, however, he is charismatic and witty and knows exactly when to laugh at a professor's jokes so he appears to be paying attention. Many people do not realize how much this type of behavior contributes to one's success.
The money side of things is more complex. He is not broke by any means, however, he is certainly not not broke. His parents will help him out when they can, but no amount of guilt is going to put money on a credit card, nor is it going to make textbooks $60 cheaper than they need to be. As such, for a time, he had to get creative.
Using Grindr was an experiment for him. He was not looking for a relationship. In fact, he was not even really looking. Bored boys with pretty faces and little to no money seem to draw a lot of attention and attention tends to come with some nice benefits. He would flirt, tease and trade compliments back and forth with the boys he met on Grindr until the compliments would turn into money. Some of them were simply interested in talking to him, others wanted nudes. Suguru gave them whatever they wanted— as long as he stayed in control. For a while, it worked. Easy money, harmless flirting, some well-lit selfies.
Then one guy didn’t take it well.
He had screenshots. Messages. Threats etc. He said Suguru had "ghosted" him after one or two times of texting him "u up?" and he wasn't going to be rejected like this. Suguru remembers when he first saw his own half-naked selfie being sent back to him with a caption of: say hi to your classmates for me.
He took it to the college's IT department. He told them he thought someone had hacked into his phone. He acted clueless, acted helpless, acted like a victim. After that, he wiped all apps off his phone and tossed his SIM card in a trash can outside a Family Mart.
Suguru did not go online for a month.
And that was the last time he got scammed via the internet.
He moved to the next level— the "real world". The "analog" world. The world where people deal with each other face-to-face, and there is some measure of reasonable doubt as to who is doing what.
His greatest scam so far was masquerading as a TA (teaching assistant) for a freshman composition class. He printed out a lanyard, made an email signature of his own and spent approximately three weeks "helping" confused Biology majors who were unable to tell the difference between MLA and a headache. The notes he provided were great, in fact he really did help. He also found out something new: People are going to believe you if you sound worn down.
This is basically the whole key to pulling this type of scam off. Look overworked, act like you have no interest in being there. Have your victim feel as though they are doing you a favor. This will lead to them throwing money at you once you say, "You can Venmo me, but it's up to you."
Eventually, the rush of doing the scam wears off. It always does. Still, it passes the time.
For the most part, he drifts from place to place, attending classes he doesn't belong in, picking up new hobbies and then abandoning them after watching three YouTube tutorials. Last week it was calligraphy and this week it may be origami. He has a file on his computer called "Temporary Phases" that has subfiles (in folders) like "Russian Literature", "Bar Tending Certification", "Fencing???! Why am I into fencing??!!"
He does things to see what happens. That's all. Shoko is one person who has an opinion about that.
“You’re such a slut,” she’ll say, lighting a cigarette in the medical building stairwell, exhaling directly into his face. “God’s favorite whore.”
Suguru usually just shrugs. It’s not offensive if it’s true, and anyway, what’s so shameful about efficiency?
He’s not doing it for the orgasms. Half the time he doesn’t even come. He does it for the boredom. For the money. For the stupid look men get when they realize someone that pretty wants their dick in his mouth.
Is it really slutty if it’s strategic?
He’s got rules. Standards. A whole pricing model, actually. Blowjobs are premium. Tit jobs— which is funny, because he doesn’t have tits— are discount bin stuff. Suguru’s got nice pecs, sure. Soft when you touch them, a little bounce if you squeeze right. He’s seen men lose brain cells over less. But he still draws the line. You want his mouth? That’s twice the rate. Maybe more, depending on your attitude. Or your dick.
Because that’s another rule. No small dicks. He doesn’t mean it in a rude way. He just doesn’t want to waste his time. Experience has taught him that.
It all began as a rumor— Some moron he "mentored" in Freshman year opened up his big mouth in a gym locker room. Some nonsense about Suguru being a savior, about helping "guys out" when they were stressed. No names, no specifics, but guys are pathetic, and desperate, and usually only a half-step away from asking the nearest hole for comfort.
"Hey, uh... you still do that thing?"
"What thing?" Suguru would ask the humiliated guy with an eyebrow raised, voice completely without guile, usually while sucking on a pink straw with a hint of cherry gloss for kicks.
"You know." The guy pauses, coughs, looks at Suguru with the eyes of a deer caught in the middle of a busy intersection. "The thing."
Oh, that thing.
If he wasn't so fond of money, he'd have laughed in those poor guys' faces. Masculinity is nothing but a house of cards. One good blow job and it all falls apart.
As Suguru counted the bills with one hand, Shoko lit a cigarette with the other; they sat in front of the pharmacy, out of range of the cameras that watched over the parking lot.
She gave him one of her looks. Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Judgmental", but still half asleep. “Who’d you suck off this time?”
Suguru shrugged, peeling a sticky note off a folded ten. “Some basketball player.”
Shoko hums. She slides a cigarette between his lips.
“How much?”
Suguru, lips parting just enough for the filter, answers around the cig: “A few yen.”
Shoko snatched the cash out of his hand mid-sentence.
“Hey!” he snapped, offended, grabbing at her wrist, but she danced backward, already counting.
“You’re charging this much for a basketball player?” She licked her thumb to separate a couple of stuck notes, the absolute audacity. “God. Standards used to mean something.”
Suguru bites the filter and glares. “You want me to send out a feedback survey first? Rate your dick one to ten? I don’t have time for that.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You charge extra if they make you cum?”
“No,” he said. “But I should.”
"You know this isn't going to go well for you, right?" Shoko finally looked up from where she had been counting the bills. "You will either get recognized or some kid is going to start crying."
“They already cry,” Suguru muttered.
She didn’t laugh, but he saw her mouth twitch again.
“Seriously. You’re playing chicken with the male ego. Eventually one of them’s gonna swerve and take you out with him.”
“Then I’ll retire. Open a bakery.”
“You can’t cook.”
“I’ll scam my way into a business grant. Hire someone who can.”
She side-eyed him. “You really think you’re gonna scam your way through life?”
He looked at her, cigarette glowing between his fingers, ash curling.
“I think I’m gonna try.”
Shoko snorted, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, tapping ash onto the sole of her shoe. She opened her mouth, probably about to say something mean and true—
“Uh, excuse me?”
Suguru turned his head.
Oh fuck.
There was a total loser standing behind him. The man's mismatched socks were poking out of knock-off sneakers. His baggy cargo shorts were so big they looked like they had been in style since before the last economic downturn. There was an ugly T-shirt with a pixelated logo of some obscure stupid thing, such as Digimon Adventures, stretched over the top of his chest. Then, there were the glasses. Big. Thick. They might have even been for a different species. They made his eyes appear in anime size. Suguru could see the reflection of his own face in the lenses.
"Are you Suguru?" The loser/hottie asked in a hopeful squint. “Sorry if that’s weird. I, uh. I was told to find you.”
“Who’s asking?” Suguru said flatly.
Because what was he supposed to say? Yes, that’s me. Are you here for a blowjob or just to ruin my day?
The guy shifted on his feet. His socks really were mismatched. One had little frogs on it. The other said “E=MC^2” in Comic Sans.
The guy fumbles in his hoodie, pulls out a folded piece of paper, glances down at it. “I think I got your number from… uh, someone on the team? You said to come here? For help?”
Shoko leans in, speaking quietly. "That's your type."
"Suck it," Suguru tells her.
"That's a virgin. You love virgins.”
“Stop.”
“Don’t suck his dick.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”
She grins. “But you’re going to.”
Suguru stands up slowly, dusting ash off his pants.
“Yeah,” he says finally, eyes on the loser. “I’m Suguru.”
The guy visibly relaxes, shoulders loosening.
“Oh, cool. Uh… I’m Satoru.”
Of course his name is fucking Satoru. The most loser virgin name in Japan. He stares up at him through his eyelashes, intentionally, deliberately, softens his facial expression into a look of slow recognition, a look that usually causes men to lose their train of thought, mid-sentence. He's not even attempting to seduce him. He just wants to see how things play out.
It works.
Satoru swallows. His eyes flick to Shoko. Then back to Suguru. Then to Shoko again, like he’s checking the exits in case he’s wandered into the wrong room (i.e. parking lot). He chews on his bottom lip, nervous habit, teeth worrying at it just enough to leave it faintly pink. His glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with one finger. The guy’s practically vibrating with indecision.
“So,” she says casually, blowing smoke in a tight, lazy ring, “what kind of help are you looking for?”
Satoru twitches.
Suguru would almost feel bad for him if he wasn’t already fascinated. Watching him malfunction is better than sex. It's like watching a very cute, very sweaty robot short-circuit from sensory overload. Suguru wonders if he can even see how the heat is working its way up Satoru's neck.
“Oh— right, nothing serious,” Satoru blurts out a bit too quickly. “Just like. Academic.”
"Mm," Shoko hums. "Normally we don't take walk-ins for that."
"We?" Suguru repeats, raising an eyebrow.
Shoko provides him with a slow, mischievous grin, however doesn’t say anything.
"I mean," Satoru continues, almost stammering over himself, "I just— I was told— I was told you were good with numbers?"
Suguru shakes his head and bites back a chuckle. "I'm alright with numbers."
"Like, really good?" Satoru continues to ask, after clearing his throat.
Shoko appears elated. "What type of numbers?"
His eyes widened. "Uh, money,"
The silence that follows lasts longer than Suguru intends it to; simply to see how long Satoru will last, and at what point his fluster will consume him. Suguru can almost visualize the real-time math calculations happening behind those comical oversized glasses. His brain must be screaming. Abort, abort, this was a bad idea.
Suguru leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and conspiratorial. “You got a number?”
Satoru startles. “Uh— what?”
“A number,” Suguru repeats, slow. “For tutoring. I’ll text you.”
“Oh. Right.” Satoru fumbles with his phone, thumbs shaking slightly as he pulls up the contacts screen and hands it to Suguru.
He takes it. Types in a number. Saves it under Suguru Math just to be a dick. Hands it back without comment. And Satoru stares at the screen, thumbs hovering, brain visibly lagging behind the moment.
Suguru smiles lazily, leaning back just enough to stretch, making sure the hem of his shirt rides up a bit over his stomach then pitched his voice just right— low, smooth, dripping with insinuation— and purred, “I can’t wait to tutor you, Sa-to-ru~.”
Satoru made a noise— something between a breath and a hiccup— and looked around wildly, probably hoping Shoko hadn’t heard.
“I— um. Haha. Okay.”
Haha. Okay.
What a response. Jesus Christ. Suguru almost feels guilty.
“You okay?” Suguru asks, tilting his head just a little, eyes narrowed with faux concern. “You look like you’re overheating.”
“I’m fine!” Satoru says too fast, too loud. Then lowers his voice immediately like he just startled himself. “I’m. I’m fine.”
“Good,” Suguru said sweetly, tapping the side of his phone against his thigh.
“Right. I meant— I’ll, um— text you again. With a time. That works for you.” He stood up too fast, one of his sleeves slipping halfway off his wrist, and then tried to subtly fix it while also holding his phone and not dropping it, which just made the whole thing worse.
Suguru watches him fumble. He’s thinking about mercy. Briefly. Then decides against it. He steps forward instead, closing the distance between them in two slow strides, and rises onto the balls of his feet to lean in close, breath warm by Satoru’s ear.
“I'm looking forward to it,”
[ Solve for x: ∫(desire)/d(time) = ? ]
It was pouring rain again. It seemed like Japan had been flooded lately— week-long rainstorms drummed against his roof-tiles; completely filled all of his gutters; there was so much water that the frogs decided to put on their kaeru matsuri outside his window that was now misting over, even though he'd opened it three hours prior as part of a failed attempt to feel anything. The upper-half of his blanket had slipped down from the side of his bed and his laptop rested beside his leg and his phone on the opposite side of his face softly vibrated.
Direct Message: Gojō Satoru: hello suguru i just wanted to ask what time we can meet for tutoring
Suguru flipped the screen open and stared at it without blinking. Then he let his head flop back on the pillow with an obnoxiously dramatic sigh. Three days. Three fucking days of radio silence and the nerd finally cracked.
Suguru tapped the back of his phone against his lip, then let it drop onto his chest. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, watching the slow spin of the fan that didn’t do shit but rattle.
He’d made this mistake before.
He was hot, and Suguru liked nerds, which means Suguru is NOT allowed to text first. Those are the rules. You don't let a man know you're desperate, or horny, or impressed. You give them nothing. You make them wait. You make them pursue. Because the minute they think they've got you, they stop being interesting. And Suguru had already gotten burned once because he thought with his dick. Grindr boy had taught him that. This time, he wasn't going to bite first.
He sent a screen shot of the text to Shoko with the caption: “Nerd Points: 8/10. Desperation: 11.”
Then, finally, after another ten minutes of watching the rain and debating which lie would be funniest— “I charge extra for virgins” being the front-runner— he tapped back into the thread and typed:
Suguru: idk. when are you free? this weekend?
Typing…
Satoru: I am free right now if you are.
Oh. That fast? Suguru snorted. He loved pathetic men. But was he in the mood to blow this guy right now? If Satoru had asked directly— if he’d said, "I want to pay you to blow me"— Suguru probably would've said yes. Nerds were usually clean. Polite. Tipped well. But something about how nervous he was made Suguru pause. He could take the slow burn route, if it meant more money. Or better reactions. He could sit through the performance of innocence for a little longer. Besides, the smart ones always paid more once they were emotionally invested.
He rolled out of bed with a groan, and walked across the floor to his desk, pushing aside several empty water bottles and the remnants of some ramen from two days ago. He picked a scrunchie from the corner and pulled his hair into a high ponytail. He quickly checked the mirror. Still cute. A little tired, but that would work in his favor. He rubbed the corner of his mouth, just in case, and took a look at himself overall: tank top, loose gray sweatpants sagging too low on his hips, socks with small holes in the heel. Casual. Relaxed. Seemingly broke.
Suguru: come by my place. dorm C. 203. bring whatever cash you got we’ll start with basics you like basics right? :)
He sent it and set his phone face-down, settling back into the pillow-y mess of his bed, which had somehow morphed into more of a nest than a sleeping arrangement. Half of the pillows weren't even his. He couldn't recall taking them. Perhaps they drifted toward his body heat and chronic laziness. He had wrapped himself in three blankets and was about to slide into a state of deep relaxation or a six-hour scroll when there was a knock at the door.
Already?
He had only just started to transition into that hazy area between thought and unconsciousness and now he had to— ugh— stand? But curiosity was stronger than inertia, and the mental picture of Satoru standing in the hallway, fidgety and perhaps clutching a bundle of crumpled dollars, was enough to get him moving. He carried one of the blankets with him as he padded across the room barefoot, yawned, and didn't bother fixing his shirt or adjusting his ponytail.
When he opened the door, he had to physically stop himself from laughing.
Satoru was soaked.
His hoodie was stuck to his frame, dripping steadily onto the dorm hallway’s sad gray carpet. His pants looked heavier than they had any right to be, and his hair— oh, his hair— was hanging in sad little strands, curling at the ends and dripping onto his fogged-over glasses opaque with condensation, smeared at the corners, useless.
Suguru stared at him for a solid five seconds and thought: How the fuck did he get here without seeing.
“How do you even see through those?” he said finally, blinking at the fogged lenses. “Do you echolocate or just hope for the best?”
Satoru hesitated, eyes wide behind the condensation, uncertain if he was being mocked. He pushed his glasses up instinctively, which only fogged them further, and replied, “Uh...hi.”
Suguru suppressed a grin.
"Did you walk here?" Suguru asked, still staring at the sodden mess of a man in front of him.
"Yeah...Well, I didn't think it was raining that bad when I left. And then it kinda...Just...Started." He shuddered, chattering teeth. "Sorry if I'm, like...Dripping on your floor."
There was a long pause. Rain continued to hiss against the window behind him. A single drop slid off the end of Satoru's hair and landed on his sneaker with a little plop. And Suguru, because he was a good host and a fairly good person (and because he enjoyed watching him squirm), backed up a couple of feet.
"Mm", Suguru hummed. "You want a towel or are you going to stand there dripping on the floor?"
Satoru jolted and tripped inside, stumbling slightly over the threshold as he muttered something that sounded like "Sorry again" and "Thanks, a towel would be great". He didn't take off his shoes because he was too busy frantically wiping his glasses on the hem of his hoodie, and then apparently panicked when he realized that didn't work either.
Suguru shut the door and turned to face him slowly, still draped in the blanket. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Staring.
Satoru looked up at him— still half-blind— and offered the weakest, wettest little smile Suguru had ever seen.
"Do you have, like...a spare t-shirt or something?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at himself, at the puddle forming under his feet. "I don't want to get your carpet wet."
Suguru glanced down at the floor. At the water. At the way it had already soaked into the cheap dorm carpeting.
A bit late for that.
But out loud, he said, “Yeah. Of course.”
He turned toward his dresser, not in a rush, peeling the blanket off his shoulders and tossing it back onto the bed as he walked. He didn’t really have a “guest shirt” or anything, but most of his stuff was oversized, plain, mostly black. Enough stretch to accommodate different body types. And anyway, he wasn’t thinking that hard about it. He opened his drawer, grabbed the softest tee he owned— one with a slightly frayed collar, worn in the way people paid extra— and tossed it over his shoulder.
“You’ll probably swim in this,” he muttered, already smirking a little to himself. “It’s fine though. You’re not staying long.”
He turned around to deliver the shirt, only to catch Satoru mid-hoodie removal— already yanking it up and over his head, dragging his t-shirt with it before it slipped back down again, clinging to damp skin. He dropped the hoodie into a heavy, wet heap at his feet and shook his hair out, not realizing that with one motion he had just revealed an entire catalog’s worth of shit Suguru didn’t know he was mentally prepared for.
Broad back. Pale, smooth skin. A line of muscle that dipped beneath the hem of his jeans, faint but visible. The t-shirt he’d worn underneath the hoodie was clinging now – soaked all the way through, making every line beneath it visible.
He blinked, slow.
What the fuck.
This was supposed to be a loser. A nerd. A soggy, awkward guy with bad posture and uncoordinated limbs and a shaky voice who couldn’t ask for sex without pretending it was calculus.
Since when did he have abs?
“S‑sorry! I just— this hoodie gets really heavy when it’s wet and I didn’t want to—”
“It’s fine,” Suguru cut in, turning back to his bed under the guise of adjusting the blankets, face completely neutral. He didn’t feel caught, but he knew the risk. Letting your expression slip in front of someone like Satoru was dangerous. If the guy even sniffed out that Suguru was impressed, he might get the wrong idea. Start thinking he had leverage.
That couldn’t happen.
So he wrapped his blanket back around his shoulders, settled himself casually into his nest, and said over his shoulder, “You can change here. I’m not looking.”
He was absolutely looking. He just did it with his peripheral vision, like a dignified person.
“Uh,” Satoru said, pausing mid-motion.
Suguru dragged his eyes back up, deliberately slow, making sure to meet his gaze in the most disinterested way possible.
“Yeah?”
Satoru held the shirt and hoodie awkwardly. “Where should I… put the wet stuff?”
Suguru motioned vaguely toward the desk chair. “There. Don’t sit in it. Obviously.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks.” Satoru moved, careful not to drip too much, like he thought Suguru would charge him extra per puddle.
It was adorable. And kind of hot. Suguru wasn’t into sweet, necessarily, but there was something satisfying about coaxing a guy like this out of his little academic shell and watching what happened when he cracked. And Suguru was a cock tease by nature.
“Come sit with me, Satoru~” he said, dragging the last syllable out with a lilt, syrupy-sweet. “Did you bring the cash?”
Satoru, who was halfway through awkwardly toweling his hair, froze.
“Yeah—sorry, one sec,” he said, rummaging through his bag. “Right.”
He tugged his hoodie off the chair and pulled out his wallet with slightly trembling hands— one of those worn-out velcro ones with a faded logo on the corner. Suguru almost lost it right there. Who brings velcro to a sex-adjacent transaction. Suguru didn’t even look at the amount. He just raised an eyebrow and reached out, letting his fingers brush Satoru’s big hand a little too long as he took it.
“Here,” he said. “I didn’t— I didn’t know how much exactly, so I just…”
“You didn’t have to bring this much,” he lied, folding the bills neatly and tucking them somewhere out of sight. “But it’s appreciated. I love a generous client.”
Satoru blinked. “…Client?”
Suguru raised an eyebrow.
“We are doing a private session, aren’t we?”
Satoru nodded with enthusiasm and a flushed complexion.
“Right, so, um— where do you keep your books? I brought a few of my own.”
Suguru’s eyes widened at this response. “Your—books?”
“Books,” Satoru repeated. “Math ones, just in case.”
What.
He slowly leaned back and watched Satoru (his dripping wet, wide-eyed, adorable little enigma of a nerd) start digging through a backpack that Suguru didn't realize he'd actually brought. The thing had frayed straps and a stitched-on patch of Agumon from Digimon; it looked like it had been well-loved for years. Satoru pulled open the bag on his lap— no lie— a pile of actual, real math textbooks inside. They were glossy covered and had sticky notes sticking out of the edges. One of the textbooks looked like it had been dog-eared and had a laminated cover— a customized one.
"Oh..." Suguru finally managed to say eloquently.
Satoru took the top textbook (the one that seemed most brutal and full of horror-inducing equations and obscenely small print) and shook it gently in front of him, pure fucking sunshine in his eyes.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of curriculum you were working off,” he explained; “but I figured we might overlap a bit. I’ve got a good one for calc and a couple with practice exams.”
Suguru looked at him. Then at the book. Then back at him.
“Are you being serious right now?” he asked, eyebrows drawn together, trying to figure out what genre he was currently in.
Satoru blinked. “Yeah. Isn’t this what we’re doing?”
Suguru opened his mouth. Closed it.
Not because he didn’t understand what Satoru had said. But because he was trying to reconcile the two realities that had just popped into existence:
- Satoru had just handed him real money. Cash.
- Satoru was also…genuinely here to study?
Not for sex. Not for a blowjob. Not even, apparently, for some awkward veiled arrangement he’d been too nervous to say out loud.
But for Math.
Actual Math!
Suguru narrowed his eyes, suspicious. This had to be a bit. Some elaborate nerd long-con. No one was this naive.
Right?
“I— hold on.” He sat up straighter, staring at the pile of books now taking up half the mattress. “You… actually want help with your exam?”
Satoru looked up at him and tilted his head.
“Yeah?” he said, like why else would I be here.
Suguru stared.
Dead-eyed. Blank-faced.
He was lying on his bed with a hot, previously shirtless nerd, speaking entirely in double entendres, and being met with genuine sweetness and good intentions. It was almost offensive— that someone could be this hot and also nice. He was supposed to be a clueless virgin, sure – but a filthy one. Suguru had already built the whole dynamic in his head: nerd seeks “help,” gets nervous, blushes, gets hard. Suguru teases him, presses close, makes an offer that sounds like tutoring but very much isn’t.
Suguru shifted slightly on the bed, so his leg brushed against Satoru's. Deliberate. Casual. He rested his hand on it, fingers splayed lightly just above the knee.
Satoru twitched a little, but didn’t flinch.
So Suguru leaned in, voice sliding lower.
“Who told you I did math tutoring?”
The question came out half-murmured, deliberately slow. He tilted his head as he said it, lips brushing that sultry note that always got him what he wanted. If he’d known this was going to turn into actual tutoring, he would’ve worn his fishnets. Or the choker. At least done the eyeliner.
Satoru went pink immediately. A sheepish smile blooming.
“Oh— uh,” Satoru starts, shifting slightly under Suguru’s touch. “Haibara said you tutor for math? Like, on the side?”
Suguru raised a brow. Slowly.
“Haibara,” he repeated.
Satoru nodded. Still blushing. “Yeah, he said you were really good.”
Suguru barely managed not to laugh.
Not because it wasn’t funny— it was hilarious— but because this was the most perfectly stupid domino effect he’d ever witnessed.
Right. Haibara.
That kid had caught him once, in the stairwell behind the library, taking cash from some older guy who very much wasn’t asking for calculus advice. Suguru hadn’t even realized the kid had seen until later— until Haibara cornered him with wide eyes and that whole "Suguru-senpai, you're so smart, do you think I could pass math if I were as cool as you?" nonsense.
And Suguru, panicked and a little high, had said something like, “Uh. Yeah. I tutor. Sometimes.”
Which, in hindsight, was the equivalent of telling a puppy you’d take it home someday and expecting it to forget.
So now, apparently, Haibara had gone around bragging that the local goth femboy was secretly a math genius. That Suguru Geto— who wore chokers and fishnets and looked like he’d bite you for fun— was the go-to for help with derivatives. All because Suguru didn’t want to admit he sucked dick for spending money.
He was going to kill Haibara.
Satoru, meanwhile, was still looking at him with that face— all bashful and hopeful and, worse, a little bit hard, judging by the sudden tension in his lap and the way he kept subtly adjusting his position. Suguru caught the motion in his periphery but didn’t fully register it. He was too busy staring into the void of his own life choices.
Still, he smiled. A slow, smug curl of his lips. The hand on Satoru’s knee didn’t move.
“I see,” he said, tone amused. “So you heard from a freshman that I’m some kind of math whisperer.”
Satoru laughed awkwardly. “He made it sound like you were really… reliable. And, like, approachable. I guess.”
“Approachable,” Suguru echoed, incredulous. “Me.”
“I mean,” Satoru added quickly, “not in a bad way! You just… You seem like you know what you’re doing. People talk.”
“People talk,” Suguru repeated, full deadpan now.
“Y-yeah. Like— uh, I heard a couple of guys saying you helped them. Y’know. In exchange for— like— money? I didn’t think it was weird! Some students charge for tutoring, and you said private session, so I thought—” He trailed off, visibly wincing. “I mean, not that I expected anything weird. I just didn’t want to assume it was free. I’m sorry. If I made it weird.”
It took everything Suguru had not to fall back on the bed and laugh his entire soul out.
This poor, sweet idiot thought Suguru was the hot RA of the math department. That he just generously gave out tutoring with a wink and some eyeliner and maybe charged a little because he was “just that good.” That the hushed whispers of “Suguru helped me last week” meant he explained integrals, not sucked someone off behind the gym.
“You didn’t make it weird,” he said. “I like generous students.”
Satoru swallowed.
Visibly.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice quiet and tight, eyes flicking to where Suguru’s hand still rested, casual, on his knee. “I, uh. I’m ready. To start. Whenever.”
Suguru smiled. Wider.
“Let’s warm up, then,” he said. “Show me the problem.”