vellichor • lookism

2. library (ii)

You've been tutoring Gun for a few weeks now, and you've learned a few things during this time.

Such as, you might have a bit of a knack for teaching. Such as, Gun is apparently damn rich and it's actually a little mind-boggling how expensive everything he owns is. Such as, Gun isn't very good at this whole studying business.

You've also learned that teaching something the way it was taught to you in school doesn't work for Gun. You sometimes have to explain a concept five different ways until you hit something that makes sense to him. (For some reason, examples using money and/or violence seem to be the most intuitive.)

It's certainly not that he's dumb; he's actually very clever, with a mind as swift and wickedly sharp as a switchblade. He's hardworking too, far more so than you ever were. There's no particular barrier stopping him from being able to understand the material quickly-and yet, when he's left to his own devices, he never seems to be able to do it.

He's lacking book-smarts, that's true, but you suppose it's more like no one has ever taught him how to study. But there's a method to the madness, and you're confident that if you just manage to get him to get that, he'll be able to ace the GED in no time.

Or something. Actually you don't know what you're doing, because you've never done this sort of thing before. In other words, you're being vastly overpaid to do a job you have no experience in, but goddamn it, you're gonna do it, and you're gonna do it well.

Red pen in hand, you earnestly continue to mark his latest practice test, your face crinkling a little for every wrong answer and brightening again with every correct one. You worriedly nibble on the back of your pen when you realize that the current page is just a sea of bold red strikes.

When you glance up, Gun is watching you, rather than his test. There's a slight curve tucked into the corner of his mouth. His hand is idly spinning a pen.

"What is it?" you ask, blinking back at him.

"Nothing much," Gun says, expression as unreadable as always. He seems completely unbothered at having been caught staring. "You're pretty invested in this."

"Of course! You're my student now, so I naturally want you to do well."

"Naturally," he hums, the curve of his mouth deepening for a moment before it falls to a line. He looks at you as though he's considering something, his pen spinning around and around his thumb.

Suddenly, the pen stops in place. Gun tilts his head towards you and says, "Doing practice questions all day long is starting to get dull. How about we make things interesting?"

You put your own pen down and eye him warily. "What do you mean by interesting?"

Gun sends you an arch look. "Why so distrustful, teacher?"

Your breath hitches a little. The way he says teacher never fails to send a tiny thrill through you: he seems to weigh every syllable on his tongue like he's testing the way it tastes, and there's always a faint undertone of amusement, as if he's telling a private joke every time he calls you.

Still, you catch yourself before you can react any more than that. It's not like this is the first time you've heard it. Besides, you're here to do a job.

"I'm not distrustful, you're just suspicious," you tell him primly.

Gun smiles at that. "Is that so? But I've been on my best behaviour."

You can't exactly refute this; he has, in fact, been a perfect gentleman. Only, you find that you still can't quite let your guard down with him. Once in a while, a glint in his eyes, or the drag of his voice over certain words, or even the momentary press of his leg against yours, will send gooseflesh prickling up your arm like a phantom touch. He's done nothing at all to you, but it's as if the suggestion of something is more evocative than anything he could tangibly do.