Chapter Text
Suguru can feel the exact moment the guy beneath him starts to believe it’s real.
It’s in the way his hands tighten on Suguru’s hips, fingers digging in like he’s found something precious, something worth holding onto. The way his breath stutters and his eyes go a little unfocused, pupils blown wide with want. He’s probably thinking this means something. They always do. It’s strange.
Suguru rolls his hips in a practiced motion, lets his head fall back like he’s lost in it, and bites down on his lower lip just hard enough to make it look good. The moan that escapes is breathy, perfectly pitched. He’s done this enough times to know exactly what sounds authentic, what makes them think they’re special.
The guy—Masaki? Makito? Something with an M, definitely—growns beneath him, and Suguru can tell he’s close. Thank god. His thighs are burning from exertion, and not in the good way they burn after a particularly brutal barre workout. This is just tedious. He shifts his weight, adjusts the angle, and watches dispassionately as the guy’s eyes roll back.
“Fuck, Suguru,” he gasps, and Suguru hums like the sound of his moan is doing something for him.
It isn’t.
He grinds down harder, chasing the finish line more aggressively now because he’s got ballet practice in forty minutes and he still needs to shower. His hair is going to be a nightmare to put up if it’s still damp. Maybe if he finishes this quickly enough he can grab one of those overpriced açai bowls from the campus center on his way to the studio. He’s been craving one all week, and if he’s going to make it through today's class, he at least deserves something good.
The guy’s grip becomes almost painful, nails leaving little crescents in Suguru’s skin, and then he’s coming with a strangled sound that Suguru thinks is supposed to be sexy but really just sounds like he’s choking. Suguru keeps moving through it, mechanical, until the guy goes limp beneath him.
Only then does Suguru allow himself to stop.
He climbs off carefully, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand—because of course this random hookup happened in a door room that smells like axe body spray and a dirty smell Suguru can’t place. The guy is sprawled on his back, chest heaving, looking at Suguru like he hung the moon.
Suguru knows that look. He hates that look.
“That was incredible,” the guy says, and there’s something hopeful in his voice that makes Suguru’s jaw tighten. “We should definitely do this again. Maybe I could get your number? We could grab coffee or—”
“I don’t think so,” Suguru interrupts, already pulling his jeans back on. He doesn’t bother with his shirt yet, too focused on finding where his sock ended up. It’s wedged under the bed somehow. He crouches down to retrieve it, very aware of the silence that’s fallen behind him.
When he straightens up, sock in hand, the guy is sitting up now, and the hopefulness has curled into something else.
“Seriously? You’re just gonna leave?”
Suguru pulls his shirt over his head, runs his fingers through his hair to smooth it down. “Yeah. I have class”
“It’s Saturday?”
“Ballet practice, then.” He spots his phone on the desk, grabs it, and is deeply unsurprised to see he’s got seven unread messages. He doesn’t check them yet.
The guy—and Suguru is now fairly certain his name is definitely not Masaki or Makito, maybe it was Takashi—gets out of bed, and there’s an edge to his movements now. “So that’s it? Wham, bam, thank you ma’am?”
Suguru pauses and then looks at him directly for the first time since they finished. “I thought we were on the same page here.”
“What page? The one where I’m just a warm body?”
“The one where this was just casual.” Suguru keeps his voice even, detached is the word Shoko would use. He’s had this conversation before. Many times before. “I thought that was clear.”
“You could’ve mentioned that before we fucked.”
Suguru considers this. The guy(god what is his name?) has a point, technically, but Suguru also knows he didn’t promise anything. He didn’t whisper sweet nothings or talk about feelings or make any indication this was more than exactly what it was: physical release, efficiently obtained, promptly concluded.
“You’re right,” Suguru says, because it’s easier than arguing. “My bad. But I really do have to go.”
He’s halfway to the door when the guy speaks again, and this time there’s real anger in it.
“You know what? Fuck you. You’re just gonna use people and throw them away? That’s pretty shitty Suguru.”
Suguru’s hand is on the doorknob. He should just leave. He knows this. But something about the accusation needles at him, gets under his skin like nothing else has before.
He turns back. “I didn’t use you. We both got off, right? That’s how this works.”
“Except you didn’t, did you?” The guy gestures vaguely at Suguru, and there’s something almost triumphant in his expression now, almost like he’s won something. “You didn’t even finish. You were faking it the whole time.”
Suguru’s face remains perfectly blank, but internally is a different story. Internally he’s reassessing. This one is more observant than most. That’s unfortunate.
“Does it matter?” he asks.
“Yeah, actually, it does. It’s fucking insulting.”
“Then consider us even.” Suguru pulls open the door. “Don’t contact me again.”
He’s down the hallway and out the building before the guy can formulate a response, and he doesn’t look back.
The thing is, Suguru knows he’s supposed to feel bad about this.
He’s supposed to feel something, probably. Guilt, maybe, or at least a vague sense of remorse for leading people on, for treating sex like it’s nothing more than a vigorous workout. His roommate Shoko certainly thinks so. She’s told him multiple times that his “commitment issues” are going to catch up with him eventually, that he can’t keep using hookups as a replacement for actual human connection.
But Suguru doesn’t feel bad. He just feels tired.
The walk from the dorms to the art complex takes about fifteen minutes, and Suguru uses the time to check his messages. Three are from Shoko, asking if he’s still alive and reminding him that they’re out of milk. Again. One is from his mother, which he immediately swiped away without reading because he already knows it’s going to be some passive-aggressive comment about how she saw his cousin Akira’s recent Instagram post about making the dean’s list, and wouldn’t it be nice if Suguru applied himself more to his studies instead of “prancing around in tights.” He loves his mom, and he knows she loves him, but she never was really accepting of Suguru’s decisions, and he had no time for her.
The remaining three are from last night’s (or this mornings? It’s hard to say considering that he met the man at 3am) hookup, each progressively desperate in tone. He deletes the theme without responding.
His phone buzzes with a new notification just as he’s crossing the quad, and this one makes him stop walking.
Campus portal: Grade Posted - GEN CHEM 1
Suguru stares at the notification for a long moment. Then, with the resigned air of someone about to confirm their own execution, he opens it.
Final Grade: F
“Fuck,” he says aloud.
A passing group of freshmen startles at his tone, gives him a wide berth. Suguru doesn’t notice. He’s too busy staring at the grade breakdown, at the test scores that never quite made it past sixty percent, at the lab reports marked down for “insufficient analysis” and “failure to demonstrate conceptual understanding”
This is bad. This is really, really bad.
Suguru has never failed a class before. He’s gotten Bs, sure, the occasional C when he's too focused on perfecting his fouettés to care about European history. But an F? That’s new territory. That’s academic probation territory. That’s potentially losing his scholarly territory.
His scholarship that covers sixty percent of his tuition. The scholarship that’s contingent on maintaining at least a 3.0 GPA.
He does some quick mental math that he’s fairly certain is wrong because math has never been his strong suit, and he feels his stomach drop. Even if he aces everything this semester, the F in Chemistry is going to drag him down. Way down.
“Fuck,” he says again, with a little more feeling.
His phone buzzes. Another email, this one from professor Yaga, his chemistry instructor.
Subject: Your Final Grade + Resources
Geto,
I’m sure you’ve seen your final grade by now. I want you to know that this doesn’t have to be the end of the world. You’re a bright student when you apply yourself, but I think chemistry might require a different approach than what you’ve been using.
I’d strongly encourage you to retake the course next semester. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for you to meet with one of our peer tutors who’s had great success with students struggling in general chemistry. His name is Gojo Satoru, and he’s available for sessions starting next week.
I’ve cc’d him on this email so you two can coordinate schedules. I really think this could help you, Geto. Don’t give up.
Best,
Professor Yaga.
Suguru reads the email twice, then a third time, waiting for the humiliation to hit.
It doesn’t. He feels too numb for that.
A tutor. He needs a tutor. Him, Geto Suguru, who’s been praised since childhood for his natural intelligence, his quick mind, and his ability to pick things up effortlessly. He needs someone to hold his hand through basic fucking chemistry like he’s a child who can’t grasp fundamental concepts.
His phone buzzes again. A reply-all from this Gojo Satoru person.
hey!! yeah I can def help :) I’m free most evenings except thursdays, r u available tomorrow? we could meet at the library, 6pm? lmk!!
The excessive punctuation and enthusiastic tone makes Suguru’s eye twitch. But he’s not exactly in a position to be picky, is he?
He types out a short response.
Tomorrow at 6 works. See you then.
He hits send and immediately regrets every life choice that led him to this moment.
Ballet practice is brutal.
Suguru loves it anyway.
There's a clarity in the burn in his muscles, the way his body moves through positions he’s drilled ten thousand times until they’re more instinct than thought. In the studio, everything else falls away. The failed grade, the shitty hookup, his mother’s disappointment, Shoko’s concern—none of it matters when he’s focused on the perfect execution of a grand jeté.
“Geto, you’re rushing the preparation,” Mei Mei calls from where she’s observing by the mirrors. She’s their instructor for contemporary, a former principal dancer who retired early due to an injury and now makes everyone’s life miserable with her exacting standards. Suguru respects the hell out of her. “The movement isn’t about the jump. It’s about the journey to get there.”
Suguru nods and resets his position. He’s been dancing since he was six, pushed into it initially by his mother who thought it would be good for his posture and discipline. She’d assumed he’d quit after a few months like he quit piano, violin, and tennis. But ballet stuck. It was the first thing that ever felt like his, something he chose to keep doing ever after she lost interest in forcing him.
Now, at twenty-one, it’s the only thing in his life he’s actually good at that doesn’t feel like a performance.
The irony isn’t lost on him.
“Again,” Mei Mei says and Suguru obliges.
He runs through the combination five more times until his legs are shaking and sweat is dripping down his spine. Around him, the other dancers are equally focused, equally exhausted. There’s Manami, who’s been dancing en pointe since she was twelve and makes it look effortless. Larue, who came to ballet late but has a natural grace that Suguru sometimes envies. There is also a pair of twins Suguru never caught the name of because they also joined recently, but they move in perfect synchronization like they share a brain.
This is his community. These people who understand the dedication, the sacrifice, the way ballet demands everything from you and gives back only the satisfaction of perfection occasionally achieved.
They’re taking a water break when Manami slides up to him, pink hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.
“Rough morning?” she asks, and Suguru realizes he must look as shitty as he feels.
“Something like that.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Not particularly”
She nods, accepting this easily. That’s what Suguru likes about the dancers. They understand boundaries and don’t push.
“Well, if you change your mind, we’re getting drinks at Murphy's later. You should come.
Suguru thinks about it. Murphy’s is the dive bar new campus that doesn’t check IDs too carefully and serves cheap beer to students who are definitely not all twenty. It could be a good distraction. Or it could be another opportunity to make bad decisions, find another warm body, continue the cycle.
“Maybe,” he says, which they both know means no.
Manami shrugs and heads back to her spot for the next combination.
Mei Mei claps her hands. “Alright, everyone, from the top. And Geto? Please stay focused. Just dance.”
Suguru wishes it were that easy to stay on track.
He takes his position, waits for the music to start, and tries to lose himself in the movement.
For a while, it almost works.
By the time practice ends, Suguru’s phone has accumulated several more notifications.
Two from Shoko: you’re alive right? followed by bought milk. you’re welcome
One from his academic advisor requesting a meeting to “discuss your academic standing”
And one from an unknown number that just says: this is satoru btw!! prof yaga gave me ur number hope thats ok! excited to work with u :)
Suguru stares at the last one for a long moment.
The excessive enthusiasm is already grating his nerves, and they haven’t even met. He can already picture this Satoru guy: probably some overachiever who gets off helping struggling students, who’ll talk to him like he’s an idiot and make Suguru feel even worse about himself than he already does.
He types out a response.
Noted. See you tomorrow.
Then he heads back to his apartment, ignoring the way his phone keeps buzzing with what he’s sure are more messages from Satoru.
The apartment is blessedly quiet when he arrives. Shoko must be on her shift at the campus health center. Suguru drops his dance bag by the door, considers showering, and decides he’s too tired. Instead, he collapses face first onto his bed and lets himself feel, just for a moment, the full weight of how completely his life is falling apart.
His GPA is tanking. His scholarship is in jeopardy. He’s apparently so disconnected from reality that he can’t even fake an orgasm convincingly anymore.
And now he has to spend his evenings tutored by some overeager chemistry nerd named Satoru.
Suguru closes his eyes and wonders, not for the first time, when exactly everything became so exhausting.
His phone buzzes again. He ignores it.
A day later Suguru wakes up at 5 PM to Shoko standing over him with her arms crossed.
“You look like shit,” she says conversationally.
He groans and rolls over, burying his face in his pillow. His mouth tastes like something died in it, and his hair is still damp with dried sweat from practice. Attractive. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to shower, because whatever you’ve got going on right now is a biohazard.” She prods his shoulder with one finger. “Also, you have that tutoring thing in an hour.”
Suguru had genuinely forgotten about that. Or maybe he’d been trying to forget about it. Either way, the reminder makes him want to burrow deeper into his mattress and never emerge.
“Can’t I just retake the class?” he mumbles into the pillow.
“Sure. And tank your GPA even more and lose your scholarship. Great plan.”
Shoko has this way of being brutally practical that Suguru usually appreciates, except when it’s directed at him. He sits up, running a hand through his hair and wincing at how gross it feels. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t. You love me because I’m the only person who puts up with your self-destructive bullshit without trying to fix you.” She pauses. “Well, without trying too hard to fix you.”
That is accurate, unfortunately. Shoko is his roommate, has been since first year, and she’s seen him at his worst. She’s the one who held his hair back that time he got way too drunk after bombing his first choreography presentation. She’s the one who told him, gently but firmly, that sleeping with half the campus wasn’t actually helping him deal with whatever he was dealing with. She’s also the one who still lets him do it anyway, because she respects his autonomy even when she thinks he’s being an idiot.
“Fine,” Suguru says, hauling himself out of bed. “I’m showering.”
“Good. And brush your teeth. Twice.”
He flips her off as he heads to the bathroom, but there’s no real heat in it.
The shower helps. The hot water loosens the tension in his muscles, washes away the residue of the day. He takes his time, conditions his hair properly because it’s long enough now that he needs to or it becomes a tangled nightmare. By the time he emerges, wrapped in a towel with his hair dripping down his back, he almost feels human again.
Shoko is in the kitchen when he comes out, heating up leftover convenience store onigiri in the microwave. She glances at him, then does a double take. “Are you actually putting in effort for this tutor?”
Suguru looks down at himself. He’s just in a towel. “What are you talking about?”
“It looks like you deep conditioned. You only deep condition when you’re trying to look good.”
“I deep condition because my hair is long and requires maintenance?”
“Uh huh.” She’s smirking now, and Suguru hates it. “So this has nothing to do with trying to make a good impression?”
“On my chemistry tutor? The one I’m forced to see because I failed a class?” Suguru deadpans. “Yeah, Shoko. I’m really trying to seduce him with my hair care routine.”
“Weirder things have happened.”
Suguru doesn’t dignify that with a response. He goes to his room and pulls on clothes—just baggy pants and a dark sweater, nothing special—and debates what to do with his hair. Leaving it down is asking for it to get in his way. He twists it up into a bun, then takes it down because it looks too much like he's trying. Finally, he settles on a low ponytail and calls it good enough.
When he emerges again, Shoko is eating her onigiri and scrolling through her phone. She looks up, assesses him, and nods.
“You look like a human person. Good job!”
“Your approval means everything to me.”
“Damn right it does.” She sets down her phone. “Hey, real talk for a second?”
Suguru pauses in the middle of shoving his laptop and chemistry textbook into his bag. “What?”
She looks at him with a concerned face. “Are you actually gonna try this tutoring thing? Or are you gonna self-sabotage like you do with everything else?”
The question catches him off guard. Not because it’s unfair, but because it’s extremely fair, and Suguru doesn’t really want to think about that right now.
“I’m going to try,” he says, and he almost means it.
Shoko studies him for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. Good luck. Try not to fuck the tutor.”
“Jesus, Shoko.”
“I’m just saying! You probably have a type, and nerds who are smarter than you might be it. I guess you’re open to a lot though.”
“I don’t have a type,” he groans.
“Everyone has a type. I’d say yours is ‘convenient and emotionally unavailable. Allows you to not worry about how much they’ll fall for you.”
Suguru really, truly hated how well Shoko knows him sometimes. He’s also grateful that he has her, so he won’t complain too much this time.
He leaves the apartment because she can psychoanalyze him further.
The library is packed for a Sunday evening.
Suguru has never understood the people who come to the library to socialize. The whole point is supposed to be studying, but there are clusters of students at nearly every table, chatting and laughing and very clearly not doing any actual work. It makes finding a quiet spot nearly impossible.
He’s scanning the third floor, looking for an empty table, when his phone buzzes.
Gojo: i’m at the table by the big window on the 4th floor!! the one with the good view of the courtyard. i’m wearing a blue hoodieeee
Suguru reads the message, notes the excessive punctuation again, and feels his already low expectations sink even lower.
The fourth floor is quieter, at least. Fewer people, more serious studiers. Suguru spots the table by the window easily enough—it’s got the best natural light in the building, which is probably why someone’s already claimed it.
That someone is wearing a blue hoodie, just like the message said. He’s hunched over a laptop, and all Suguru can see from behind is white hair that looks like it's never met a comb in its life.
Suguru approaches slowly, almost cautiously, the way one might approach a potentially volatile chemical reaction.
“Gojo… Satoru?” he asks
The guy spins around in his chair, and Suguru’s entire worldview shifts slightly to the left.
Because Gojo Satoru is hot.
Not just regular hot. Not even “attractive in a conventional way” hot. He’s “this should be illegal” hot. He’s got these sharp features that shouldn’t work together but somehow do, and his eyes—
His eyes are blue. Like, genuinely blue, bright and vivid in a way that Suguru didn’t think was possible for eyes to be without contacts. They’re huge behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that should make him look dorky but instead just make him look—
“Suguru!” Satoru’s entire face lights up with enthusiasm, and oh that’s worse. That’s so much worse. “Hey! You made it!”
Suguru’s brain is still catching up to the fact that his chemistry tutor looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread. His mouth, however, is on autopilot.
“Yeah,” he says, because apparently that’s all he’s capable of right now.
Satoru doesn’t seem to notice his temporary loss of higher brain function. He’s already gesturing to the chair across from him, grinning widely. “Sit, sit! I got us a good spot. I know the library gets crazy on Sundays, so I came early to stake it out.”
Suguru sits, still trying to process.
Up close, it’s even worse. Satoru’s got this energy to him, this barely contained excitement that radiates off him in waves. He’s wearing a shirt that says “DIGIMON” across the chest in faded letters, and there’s a collection of pins on his backpack that Suguru can’t make out from this angle.
“So,” Satoru says, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward. “Professor Yaga told me you’re struggling with chem. That’s totally normal, by the way. A lot of people find it counterintuitive at first.
His voice is bright, and he talks fast, words tumbling over each other in eagerness to get them out. The glasses slip down his nose slightly, and he pushes them back up with one finger in a gesture that Suguru finds strangely endearing.
He needs to get a grip.
“Right,” Suguru manages. “Yeah. I’m… not great at it.”
“That’s okay! That’s what I’m here for.” Satoru pulls out a notebook that’s absolutely covered in stickers—anime characters Suguru vaguely realizes, some memes, a few that just say things like “SCIENCE IS COOL” in bold letters. “So, first question. What specifically are you having trouble with? Like, is it math? The concepts? The lab work?”
Suguru ponders it. “All of it?”
Satoru blinks. Then he grins, wider than before, and it’s almost blinding. “Okay! That’s actually great.”
“How is that great?”
“Because it means we get to start from scratch! Build a foundation! I love building foundations.” He’s already flipping through the notebook, pulling out what looks like a carefully organized set of notes. “Most people come to me with specific gaps in their knowledge, which is fine, but starting from the beginning means we can make sure you really understand everything.”
There’s an intensity to his enthusiasm, and Suguru can’t tell if it’s genuine or performative. Either way, it’s a lot to take in.
“You really like chemistry,” Suguru observes.
“I really like understanding how things work,” Satoru corrects. “Chemistry just happens to be one way to do that. But honestly? I like most scenes. Physics, biology, even some math.” He wrinkles his nose. “Okay, not math. Math is boring. But chemistry? Chemistry is like… it’s like the universe's recipe book. Everything is just atoms combining in different ways to make different stuff. That’s so cool.”
Suguru stares at him.
Satoru stares back, still grinning.
“You think I’m weird,” Satoru says, and he doesn't sound offended, just matter-of-fact.
“A little,” Suguru admits
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Satoru pushes his glasses up again. “But weird works for tutoring! It means I can explain things in ways that textbooks don’t. Textbooks are boring. I’m not boring, Suguru.”
That is true. Satoru seems like many things, and boring is definitely not one of them.
“Okay,” Suguru says slowly. “So where do we start?”
Satoru’s grin somehow gets even wider, and he pulls the chemistry textbook toward them. “We start with atomic structure. And I’m going to blow your mind.”
—
Two hours later, Suguru’s mind has not been blown, but he had learned more about electron configurations than he thought possible.
Surprisingly, Satoru is actually a good tutor.
Suguru had expected someone condescending, someone who would make him feel stupid for not understanding. But Satoru doesn’t do that. When Suguru gets confused, Satoru just finds a different way to explain it. When Suguru makes a mistake, Satoru gets excited about it, because “mistakes mean you’re engaging with the material.”
It’s annoying how not annoying it is.
“Okay, so,” Satoru says, scribbling something on his notebook and turning it to show Suguru. “If we’re looking at the electron configuration for iron, we need to think about the Aufbau principle, right? Electrons fill the lowest energy orbitals first. So we go 1s, 2s, 2p, 3s, 3p, 4s, 3d. Does it make sense?”
Suguru stares at the diagram. “Why does 4s come before 3d?”
“Great question!” Satoru lights up like Suguru just said the most brilliant thing in the world. “So it’s about levels. The 4s orbital is actually lower in energy than the 3d, even though the number is higher. It’s counterintuitive, I know, but if you think about the shaper of the orbitals—"
He launches into an explanation that involves a lot of hand gestures and at one point pulls up a 3D model on his laptop to demonstrate orbital shapes. Suguru finds himself actually following along and understanding.
It’s bizarre.
“Does that make sense?” Satoru asks, looking at him with those stupid blue eyes, and Suguru realizes that he’s been staring for too long.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, it does.”
“Awesome!” Satoru does this little first pump that should be dorky, but it is somehow kind of cute. “You’re actually picking this up really fast. Professor Yaga made it sound like you were hopeless. I was worried I’d have to deal with a massive idiot.”
Suguru grimaces. “I’m not great at studying on my own. I get… distracted.”
“What’s your major?” Satoru asks suddenly.
“Dance. Ballet, specifically.”
Satoru’s eyes go wide. “Seriously? That's so cool! I’ve never met a ballet dancer before.”
“It’s not that interesting.”
“Are you kidding? It’s super interesting! You must have insane discipline. Like, I’ve seen videos of ballet training and it looks brutal."
There’s genuine admiration in Satoru’s voice, and Suguru doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
“It’s just what I do,” he says with a shrug.”
“Well, I think it's cool.” Satoru grins at him. “Way cooler than chemistry, probably.”
“You literally just spent two hours telling me how cool chemistry is.”
“Okay, fair. They’re both cool. Different kinds of cool.” Satoru glances at his phone and winces. “Oh shit, it’s already eight. We should probably wrap up. Unless you want to keep going?”
Suguru is surprised to find that he kind of does want to keep going. The material is actually starting to make sense, and Satoru’s enthusiasm is… not terrible to be around.
But his legs are stiff from sitting for so long, and he can feel the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes.
“We can stop,” he says.
“Cool.” Satoru starts packing up his materials with the same chaotic energy he does with everything else. “So, same time next week? Or do you want to meet more often? I’m free most days except Thursdays. Oh, and Tuesday afternoons. I have a thing.
“Oh? What’s the thing?”
Satoru looks up, glasses sliding down his nose again. “Hm?”
“On Tuesdays. You said you have a thing.”
“Oh!” Satoru’s ears go slightly pink. “It’s uh. Digimon club.”
Suguru blinks. “Digimon club.”
“Yeah. We watch the old series and talk about the lore and sometimes we play the card game. It’s fun!” He says this defensively, like he expects Suguru to make fun of him.
Suguru doesn’t. Mostly because he’s too busy trying to reconcile this gorgeous, enthusiastic nerd who unironically attends Digimon club with the mental image he’d built up of what his tutor would be like.
“That’s… nice,” he says finally.
Satoru visibly relaxes. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s kind of childish or whatever, but I don’t really care. I like what I like.”
There’s a hint of defiance in the way he says it, and Suguru finds himself respecting that.
“Twice a week should be fine," Suguru says, “For tutoring, I mean.”
“Awesome! How about Sundays and Wednesdays? Same time?”
“Sure.”
They exchange LINE info—Satoru’s profile picture is a Digimon character Suguru doesn’t recognize—and then they’re packing up and heading toward the stairs
“Hey, Suguru?” Satoru says as they’re walking.
“Yes?” Suguru raises an eyebrow.
“Thanks for giving this a shot. I know getting tutored can feel kinda shitty, like admitting you’re not good at something. But you’re actually doing great.”
Suguru looks at him. Satoru is looking straight ahead, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, and there’s no trace of manic enthusiasm from earlier. He just sounds sincere. “Thanks,” Suguru says, and he means it.
They part ways at the library entrance. Satoru heads toward the north dorms, Suguru toward the off-campus apartments, and Suguru finds himself watching Satoru’s retreating figure for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Shoko is going to have a field day with this.
—
Shoko is predictably waiting for him when he gets home.
She’s sprawled on the couch with a medical textbook open in her lap and a can of beer balanced on the armrest, looking like the picture of a casual domesticity except for the fact she’s clearly been lying in wait for him like some kind of predator.
“So,” she says the moment he walks through the door. “How was it?”
Suguru kicks off his shoes and heads to the kitchen pointedly ignoring her. “Fine.”
“Just fine? That’s all I get? Seriously?”
“What do you want me to say?” He pulls open the fridge, looking for something to eat. They have leftover takeout from three days ago that’s probably still good, some vegetables that definitely aren’t, and a questionable container that might have been soup at some point. He grabs the takeout.
“I want details. Was he cute? Was he boring? Did you learn anything or did you spend two hours planning your escape?”
Suguru spoons cold fried rice directly into his mouth, chewing slowly while Shoko waits with exaggerated patience.
“He was fine,” he says finally. “Good at explaining things. He made chemistry make sense for once.”
“Uh huh. And?”
“And what?”
“And what did he look like? Come on, Suguru, give me something to work with here.”
Suguru considers lying, but Shoko has this uncanny ability to detect his bullshit from a mile away. “He has white hair, blue eyes, wears glasses, and is kind of tall.”
“And is he hot?”
“I didn't really—"
“Hot or not, Suguru. It’s a simple question.”
Suguru sighs. “Yes. Fine. He’s hot. Happy?”
Shoko’s grin is absolutely feral. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”
“Just because you know he’s attractive doesn't mean anything. He’s my tutor. That’s all.”
“Mhm… for now.”
“Forever, Shoko. Forever. I’m not going to fuck my chemistry tutor.”
“We’ll see.” She takes a sip of her beer, looking far too pleased with herself. “What’s his deal? Personality wise.”
This is harder to answer. Suguru leans against the counter, still holding the takeout counter, and tries to find the words. “Enthusiastic,” he says finally. “Like, really enthusiastic. About everything. He’s into Digimon.”
“The kids’ show?” She tilts her head.
“Yeah. Apparently there’s a club he’s in for it.”
Shoko snorts. “Okay, so he’s a nerd. A hot nerd. Who’s good at chemistry and likes little kid’s shows. This is actually perfect for you.”
“How is that perfect for me?” Suguru glares at her.
“Because he’s the opposite of your usual type. The guys you hook up with are all the same, right? Just some guys who are on the same level as you and are just boring with no personality. This guy sounds like he actually has a brain and interests.”
Suguru really wishes she’d just stop bringing up this type thing, but he decides to not say anything about it. “My hookups have brains.”
“Do they though?” Shoko raises an eyebrow. “Name one thing you know about the guys you’ve been with, besides what their dick looks like.”
Suguru opens his mouth, then closes it. She had a point, unfortunately.
“That’s different,” he argued. “Those are just hookups. This is… this is academic.”
“Sure. Academic. That’s why you spent so much time in the shower this morning.”
“I’m not having this conversation.” Suguru abandons the takeout on the counter and heads toward his room.
“You’re going to catch feelings!” Shoko calls after him. “I give it three weeks!”
“Not gonna happen!” he shouts back, and shuts his door firmly behind him.
He absolutely cannot catch feelings for his tutor. That would just be ridiculous and a terrible idea on every possible level.
Suguru flops onto his bed and pulls out his phone, intending to check his schedule for tomorrow. Instead, he finds himself opening LINE and scrolling to Satoru’s contact.
The profile picture really is a Digimon. Some yellow creature with big ears. Suguru stares at it for a second, then scrolls up to read through their brief exchange of contact information.
His thumb hovers over the message box.
He’s not going to text him. There’s no reason to text him. They have their next session scheduled for Wednesday, and there’s nothing urgent to discuss before then. He closes the app and tosses his phone aside. Then he picks it up and opens it again.
Thanks for today. Same time Wednesday?
He hits send before he can overthink it, then immediately regrets it because it’s such a boring, unnecessary message. Satoru probably thinks he’s—
His phone buzzes.
Gojo: yes!! same time same place! i’ll bring snacks next time, studying is better with snacks :)
Then another message right after.
Gojo: do you like sweet stuff or savory stuff? i need to know for snack planning purposes
Suguru stares at his phone, and he seriously feels like he's about to faint.
Sweet is fine
Gojo: perfect!! i also love sweets. i know this great place that does these mochi things that are amazing. you’re gonna live them
Then, because apparently Satoru can’t send just one message at a time:
also i’ve been thinking about how to explain chemical bonding in a way that makes sense and i think i’ve got it. you’re gonna get it this time i promise
okay thats all! see you wednesday! good luck with ballet
Suguru reads through the messages three times. Satoru’s enthusiasm is almost overwhelming. It’s the way he uses so many exclamation points, the way he’s already planning snacks and thinking about how to teach better.
It’s a lot.
But it’s also kind of nice?
He sets his phone down and stares at the ceiling.
He is not going to catch feelings for his tutor.
He’s absolutely not.
Monday morning practice is rough
Suguru woke up with his legs still sore from Sunday’s practice, and now Mei Mei is running through a particularly contemporary piece that requires a level of flexibility Suguru isn’t sure he currently possesses.
“Geto, you’re favoring your left side,” Mei Mei observes from her position by the mirrors. “Compensating for something?”
“Just tight,” Suguru grunts, trying to sink deeper into the stretch.
“Then stretch more. Your body is your instrument. You can’t play it properly if it's out of tune.”
This is Mei Mei’s favorite metaphor. She uses it at least once per practice. Suguru has heard it so many times he could recite it in his sleep.
He pushes through the stretch, ignoring the burn, and focuses on his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The studio smells like sweat and rosin and a floral scent of whatever cleaning product they use on the floor. It’s familiar and grounding.
“Better,” Mei Mei smiles. “Now hold it for thirty more seconds.”
Suguru holds it and tries to not think about how his entire body feels like it’s being pulled apart.
When they finally break for water, he collapses against the barre next to Manami, who looks far less wrecked than he feels.
“You okay?” she asks, offering him her water bottle because his is somehow across the room.
“Living the dream,” he mutters, taking a grateful sip.
Manami studies him with an assessing look that she gets sometimes. She’s been dancing longer than anyone else in their cohort, starting when she was four, and she has this way of reading people that’s both helpful and unnerving. “You seem distracted,” she observes.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s what you always say.” She takes her water bottle back. “But you’ve been off your game all morning. Your pirouettes are under-rotated, your extensions are lazy, and you nearly ate shit on that last combination.”
This is all true, sadly.
“Just tired,” Suguru says.
“Tired from what? Another conquest?”
Suguru cuts his eyes at her. “Can we not?”
“I’m just saying, maybe if you spent less time sleeping around and more time sleeping, period, you’d have better control over your body.”
“My body is fine.”
“Your body is a temple that you’re treating like a 7-eleven.” Manami pulls her hair tighter into its bun. “I’m not judging, Suguru. I’m just worried. I know the showcase is in a few months, but you’ve been pushing yourself really hard lately, and not in a productive way.”
Suguru doesn’t want to have this conversation. He gets enough of this from Shoko. He doesn’t need it from Manami too.
“I appreciate the concern," he says in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t. “But I’m handling it.”
Manami gives him a long look, then shrugs. “Okay. Just be careful, yeah? You’re a good dancer. Don’t let other stuff mess that up for you.”
Before Suguru can respond, Mei Mei is clapping her hands, calling them back.
“Alright, everyone. From the top. And this time, Geto, I want to see commitment. If you’re going to be here, be here. Otherwise, you’re wasting everyone’s time.”
Suguru takes his position and tries to prove her wrong.
He has two classes after practice—Modern Japanese Literature and some general education requirements about sociology that he’s only taking because he needs the credits.
Both are mind-numbingly boring.
In Literature, they’re discussing Misha, and the professor keeps trying to draw parallels between the author’s life and his work in a way that feels reductive. Suguru stopped paying attention after the first fifteen minutes and instead spent the time sketching combinations in the margins of his notebook.
Sociology is worse. The professor is one of those people who thinks learning should be “fun” and “engaging,” which apparently means breaking into small groups every ten minutes to discuss vague concepts that nobody actually understands. Suguru ends up in a group with two girls who clearly did the reading and one guy who’s been on his phone the entire time.
“So,” one of the girls says, looking at her notes, “who wants to start? We’re supposed to discuss the role of social institutions in shaping individual identity.”
The guy doesn’t look up from his phone and Suguru stares at her blankly, and just as he's about to speak the other girl jumps in. “I think what’s interesting is how we don’t even realize we’re being shaped, you know? Like, we think we’re making our own choices, but really we’re just responding to these uh… institutional pressures that—“
Suguru zones out again.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out under the desk
Gojo: hey i just realized i don’t know what level of chem you’re supposed to be at. like are we working on general chem 1 stuff or gen chem 2?
It’s from Satoru, obviously. Who else texts like that?
Gen chem 1. I failed the whole thing.
The response is almost immediate.
Gojo: oh perfect!! that’s actually easier to work with. we can really build that foundation.
also i found an amazing video series that explains bonding with animations and i think you’ll love it.
it’s like chemistry but make it pretty
anyway i’ll show you wednesday!
Suguru finds himself smiling at his phone before he can stop himself.
“Geto?” one of the girls is saying. “Did you want to add anything?”
He looks up. They’re all staring at him expectantly.
“Uh. No, I think you guys covered it.”
The guy who’s been on his phone snorts.
They make it through the rest of class somehow, and then Suguru is free. No more obligations until ballet again tomorrow morning.
He thinks about going home and eating something that isn’t convenience food. He should maybe look over his chemistry notes from yesterday trying to understand what Satoru taught him.
Instead, he finds himself walking toward the campus gym.
He’s not sure what possesses him to do it. He hates the gym normally. There’s always too many people, too much equipment he doesn’t know how to use, and too many bros doing bicep curls and grunting like they’re giving birth. He cringes at the thought. But something about today makes him want to move, to burn off this restless energy that’s been building under his skin.
The gym is predictably crowded. It’s Monday afternoon, prime workout time for people who don’t have late classes. Suguru spots a few familiar faces from around campus, including a couple of guys from the swim team who are doing a complicated thing with resistance bands.
He heads to the cardio section, claims a treadmill, and starts running.
He’s not a runner, generally. Dancers don't need to be. But there’s something meditative about it sometimes, the way the rhythm of his feet hitting the belt and the sound of his breathing can drown out everything else.
He runs for thirty minutes, then forty, then fifty. His legs are screaming at him and sweat is dripping down his spine, but he keeps going.
He’s thinking about chemistry, weirdly. About electron configurations and orbital shapes and the way Satoru’s face lit up when Suguru finally understood why noble gases are stable.
Then he thinks about his GPA, his scholarship, the very real possibility that he might not be able to afford school if he doesn’t fix this.
He’s thinking about a lot of things, and none of them are good, so he runs faster.
He doesn’t notice someone has taken the treadmill next to him until he hears a familiar voice.
“Suguru?”
He nearly trips.
Satoru is standing on the treadmill beside him, not running yet, just staring at him with those wide blue eyes. He’s wearing athletic gear. A compression shirt, shorts that are showing far too much, and his hair is held back with a headband.
“What are you doing here?” Suguru asks, slowing his pace to something more reasonable.
“Um. Working out?” Satoru gestures at the gym around them. “This is where people do that.”
“I know that. I just—“ Suguru doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Same.” Satoru steps into his treadmill and starts it up at a light jog. “I usually come around this time. After classes but before dinner. It helps me think.”
“Think about what?”
“Everything. Chemistry problems, mostly. I do my best problem-solving while running.” Satoru grins at him. “What about you? What are you doing here? Don’t dancers have their own conditioning stuff?”
“We do. I just felt like running.”
“Cool, cool.” Satoru’s pace is easy, relaxed. He’s not even breathing hard. “You have practice today? How was it? Assuming you had practice this morning. Do you have practice every morning?”
Suguru feels overwhelmed by all the questions at once. “Yes, most mornings. And it was fine.”
“Just fine?”
Suguru looks at him. Satoru is looking straight ahead at the wall-mounted TV, but his posture seems attentive, like he’s genuinely interested in the answer.
“I was off today at practice,” Suguru admits. “Couldn’t focus.”
“Oh? Distracted by chemistry?” Satoru asks, and there’s a teasing note in his voice.
“Something like that,” Suguru shrugs.
They run in silence for a few minutes. Well, Satoru runs. Suguru is more like jogging at this point, his earlier sprint having taken most of his energy.
“Hey,” Satoru says suddenly. “Do you want to grab dinner after this?”
Suguru nearly trips again. “What?”
“Dinner. Food. The thing people eat.” Satoru pushes his glasses up—how do they stay on while he’s running?—and looks at Suguru properly. “Unless you have plans. I just figured, since we’re both her, and I’m gonna eat anyway…”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Suguru says slowly.
“Why not? It’s just food,” Satoru frowns.
“You’re my tutor.”
“So? Tutors and students eat. Sometimes they eat together. It’s very normal. Plus what’s bad about getting to know you?.”
There’s logic in that, and Suguru is hungry. And the alternative is going home to Shoko’s knowing looks and eating more questionable leftovers.
“Okay,” he hears himself say. “Sure.”
Satoru’s face breaks into that wide, genuine smile, and Suguru feels something in his chest do a weird flip.
The noodle place Satoru picks is a tiny hole in the wall about ten minutes from campus, the kind of place that looks like it might give you food poisoning but somehow never does.
It’s called “Ichiban Ramen” which is possibly the least creative name Suguru has ever heard, but when they walk in, the smell of pork broth and garlic hits him so hard he almost moans out loud.
“Best ramen near campus!” Satoru says confidently, leading them to a small table by the window. “Trust me, I’ve tried everywhere.”
The interior is cramped, with barely enough room between tables for people to walk, and the walls are covered in faded posters of various ramen bowls. There’s an old woman behind the counter who greets Satoru by name, which tells Suguru everything he needs to know about how often Satoru comes here.”
“Gojo-kun! Your usual?” she calls out.
“Yes please, Oba-chan! And—“ Satoru looks at Suguru expectantly.
Suguru scans the menu quickly “Tonkotsu. Extra chashu.”
“Ooh, good choice,” Satoru says, sounding genuinely approving and Suguru can’t help but smile.
They settle into their seats, and there’s a moment of awkward silence where neither of them seems to know what to say. At the library, they had chemistry to talk about. At the gym, they had the built in topic of working out. But now, sitting across from each other in a tiny ramen shop, Suguru realizes he has no idea how to have a normal conversation with Satoru.
Fortunately, Satoru doesn’t seem to have the same problem.
“So,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Tell me about ballet. Like, really tell me. What’s it like?”
Suguru shifts in his seat. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. How long have you been dancing? What made you stick with it? Is it as intense as it looks?"
“That’s a lot of questions,” Suguru chuckles.
“I’m a curious person.” Satoru grins. “Hazard of being a science major. I like understanding how things work. And you’re… interesting”
The way he says that makes Suguru’s stomach flutter, which is annoying. He ignores it.
“I’ve been dancing since I was six,” he says finally. “My mom put me in classes because she thought it would be good for my posture. I was supposed to quit after a few months, but I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Suguru considers this. It’s not a question he’s been asked often, and when he is, he usually gives a vague answer about loving the art form. But the way Satoru is looking at him is making him want to be honest.
“It was the first thing that felt like mine,” he says. “Everything else in my life, my mom had an opinion about. What I should study, who I should be friends with, what activities were ‘worthwhile.’ But ballet was different. She stopped caring about it once she realized I was actually good at it, and by then it was too late. I was already hooked.”
Satoru nods slowly as he processes this. “So it’s about control. Having something that's yours.”
“I guess, yeah.”
“That makes sense.” Satoru adjusts his glasses. “I get that. With science, I mean. My family’s all business people. They wanted me to major in economics or something practical. But I liked chemistry, so I just… did it anyway.
There’s a defiance in his voice that Suguru recognizes, the same defiance he hears in his own voice when he talks about dancing. “Do they give you shit for it?” Suguru asks.
“Sometimes. But they got over it when I kept getting good grades.” Satoru shrugs. “Now they just think I’m going to become a pharmacist or something. Make good money. They don’t really get that I want to do research.”
“Research?”
“Yeah. Like, actual scientific research. New discoveries, pushing boundaries, all that stuff.” Satoru’s eyes light up the way they do when he talks about chemistry. “I want to understand things that nobody understands yet. Figure out how to make new compounds, or solve problems that seem impossible. That cool stuff.”
The old woman brings their ramen then, two massive bowls that steam so aggressively Suguru can barely see Satoru through the vapor. The tonkotsu broth is creamy and rich, the chashu melts on his tongue, and the noodles have a perfect texture that only comes from places that make them fresh daily.
“Oh my god,” Suguru says after the first bite.
“Right?” Satoru is already halfway through his bowl, eating with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t seen food in days. “I told you it was good.”
They eat in silence for a few minutes. A comfortable silence that only happens when food is really, truly excellent.
“So what about now?” Satoru asks eventually, pausing to drink water. “What are you working on now? Like dance-wise?”
“There is a showcase in a few months,” Suguru says. “A spring performance. It's kind of a big deal. Scouts come sometimes, and companies look for new dancers. I’m performing a contemporary piece and a classical variation.”
“That sounds intense.”
“It is. We’ve been rehearsing for weeks already, and we’ll keep rehearsing basically until the show.” Suguru twirls noodles around his chopsticks. “It’s why I’ve been so stressed. Between that and classes, and now having to retake chemistry—”
“Hey, you’re not retaking it yet,” Satoru interrupts. “You’re gonna pass next time. I promise.”
There’s such confidence in his voice that Suguru almost believes him. “You seem sure about that.”
“That’s because I am sure. You’re smart, Suguru. You just need someone to explain things in a way that makes sense to you. And that’s what I’m here for," Satoru slurps up more noodles. “Plus, you’ve got motivation. This showcase thing is clearly important to you. You’re not gonna let chemistry get in the way of that.”
Suguru stares at him. “How do you know that?”
“Because of the way you talk about ballet. Your whole face changed. You get this…” Satoru gestures with his chopsticks. “This intensity. Like nothing else matters except the dancing. That’s not the face of someone who gives up easily.”
Suguru doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s too perceptive, too accurate, and it makes him feel weirdly exposed.
He changes the subject. “What about you? What do you do besides chemistry and the Digimon club?”
“Bold of you to assume I do anything besides chemistry and Digimon club,” Satoru says, but he’s grinning. “Um, I run obviously. I play video games sometimes. I read a lot of manga. Very boring, normal stuff.”
“That doesn’t sound boring,” Suguru smiles.
“It’s not exciting like ballet.”
“Ballet isn’t exciting. It’s painful and exhausting and half the time I want to quit.”
“That’s a lie, because you don’t actually want to quit.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I don't," Suguru agrees.
They’re almost done with their ramen when Suguru realizes something that’s been bothering him.
“Hey.” he says, setting down his chopsticks. “Is it weird that we’re using first names?”
Satoru looks up, surprised. “Hm?”
“I’ve been calling you Satoru, you’ve been calling me Suguru. We barely know each other. Isn’t that… I don’t know, too familiar?”
“Oh.” Satoru blinks. “I guess I didn’t really think about it. Does it bother you?”
“No, I just—I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.” Satoru pushes his glasses up. “I actually prefer it, to be honest. ‘Gojo’ always makes me feel like I’m in trouble or something. Like a teacher or my mom is about to yell at me.”
“Same with ‘Geto.’ It’s too formal.”
“Then we’re good.” Satoru grins. “Suguru it is. I like it anyway. It suits you.”
Suguru feels his face heat slightly and hopes it’s not visible. “How does a name suit someone?”
“I don’t know, it just does. Suguru sounds…” Satoru tilts his head, considering. “Elegant. Refined. Very ballet-dancer-ish.”
“That’s not a word."
“It is now. I just made it up.”
They’re both laughing when Satoru’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, and his expression shifts slightly.
“Sorry I should—“ He picks up the phone and reads the message, then starts typing a response.
Suguru tries not to look, but he catches a glimpse at the top of the screen. Sana ♡
The heart emoji feels significant somehow.
Satoru finishes typing and sets the phone back down, looking slightly apologetic. “Sorry about that. My girlfriend wanted to know when I’d be home.”
Oh.
Oh.
“You have a girlfriend,” Suguru says, and it comes out flatter than he intended.
“Yeah. Sana. We’ve been together for like eight months now.” Satoru’s expression is fond in a way that makes Suguru’s stomach twist. “She’s great. Studies graphic design and she’s really talented. You’d like her.”
Suguru highly doubts that, but he nods anyway. “That’s nice.”
“She’s actually been helping me figure out how to explain chemistry concepts better. Like, she thinks about things visually, so she’ll suggest ways to draw diagrams or use color coding, and it’s been really helpful for tutoring.”
“Sounds useful," Suguru manages.
“She is very useful and patient. She listens to me ramble about chemistry for hours and somehow doesn’t get bored.” Satoru laughs. “I’m lucky, honestly. She’s way too good for me.”
He sounds genuinely affectionate in the way he talks about her, and Suguru feels something ugly curl in his chest. It’s not jealousy, because that would be insane. He barely knows Satoru. They’ve had one tutoring session and are now sharing one meal. There’s no reason for him to feel anything about the fact that Satoru has a girlfriend.
Except he does feel something, and it’s not pleasant.
“That’s great,” Suguru says, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. “It’s good that you have someone supportive.”
“Yeah.” Satoru is still smiling, oblivious to Suguru’s internal crisis. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
The question catches Suguru off guard. “Not really.”
“Not really? What does that mean?”
“It means,” Suguru searches for words. “I hook up with people sometimes, but nothing serious.”
“By choice?”
“Yea. I’m too busy for a relationship. Between ballet and classes, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date someone.”
That is partially true. The other part—the part about how he doesn’t want the vulnerability that comes with actually caring about someone, the part about how sex is easier when it doesn’t mean anything—he keeps to himself.
“That makes sense,” Satoru says, nodding. “You’ve gotta prioritize. Though doesn’t it get lonely?”
The question is so casual, so innocently asked, that it takes Suguru a moment to process how deeply it cuts.
“Sometimes,” he admits before he can stop himself. “But that’s just how it is.”
Satoru looks at him for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then his phone buzzes again, and the moment breaks.
“Shit, I should probably head out,” Satoru says, looking at the message. “Sana wants to video call soon. But this is fun! We should do it again sometime.”
“Sure,” Suguru says automatically.
They end up splitting the bill. Satoru insists on paying for his own despite Suguru’s half hearted protest, and then they’re outside, the evening air cool against Suguru’s still-warm face
“See you Wednesday?” Satoru asks, already pulling out his phone, probably to text his girlfriend back.
“Wednesday,” Suguru confirms.
Satoru waves and heads off in the direction of the dorms, and Suguru stands there for a second, watching him go.
A girlfriend.
Of course Satoru has a girlfriend. Someone like him, smart, enthusiastic, genuinely kind, would obviously be taken. It makes perfect sense. There’s no reason for Suguru to feel weird about it.
He does feel weird about it though, and as he starts walking back to his own apartment, he can’t quite shake the uncomfortable realization that Shoko might have been right.
He might actually like Satoru.
Which is a problem for seventeen different reasons, not least of which is the fact that Satoru is his tutor, and apparently very happily in a relationship, and Suguru has absolutely no business developing feelings for someone who is both of those things.
When he gets home, Shoko takes one look at his face and smirks.
“Something happen while you were out?”
“No.”
“So I can’t ask questions anymore without you lying?”
Suguru just shakes his head and goes directly to his room and shuts the door.
He lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling and tries very hard not to think about blue eyes and enthusiastic rambling about chemistry and the way Satoru’s face lights up when he talks about his girlfriend.
He fails.
His phone buzzes.
Gojo: thanks for dinner!! that was really fun. see you wednesday! and don’t forget to review everything we’ve went over.
Suguru reads the message three times, then sets his phone face down on his nightstand.
He is so, so fucked.