cicer: (O hai)
[personal profile] cicer
Ugh. I cannot believe it took me ten-effing-months to finish this [community profile] help_japan fic. [profile] mainekosama, thank you so much for your enduring patience as I thrashed through real-life drama and major writer’s block. And thank you very, very much for your generous donation!

In recompense, here is a little tale, wherein Gojyo is hot for teacher, and gets felt up on a subway car.

Warnings: Student/teacher shenanigans. Mild underage. Dub-con, depending on your interpretation. Um. I think that’s it.

Gojyo leaned against the subway pole and stared out the window. Why they bothered to put windows in subway cars, he didn’t know. It wasn’t like there was anything to see out there. Just an endless blur of concrete walls.

But staring at that was better than staring at Mr. Cho. Gojyo kept his eyes firmly on the posters covering the walls of the car and tried to pretend he was really interested in looking at the scattered bits of graffiti and the numbers for crisis pregnancy centers.

They never made conversation on the subway ride, and that was all right with Gojyo. It was hard enough to talk to Mr. Cho at school without sounding like a total idiot. Gojyo was pretty sure that if he tried to make small talk, he’d end up sounding brain-damaged.

Still, Mr. Cho seemed to actually like him for some reason. It was a nice change for Gojyo, who was used to having his teachers look at him like he was something unpleasant they’d found on the bottom of their shoe. Most of them took one look at his lousy school record, at his worn jeans and tattered sneakers and dyed hair, and figured that if he hadn’t decided to shape up by now, there was no point in wasting their breath on another speech about “living up to your potential’’. College was, obviously, out of the question. Most of his teachers had expressed amazement that he hadn’t already flunked out of high school, coupled with the sincere belief that he’d never make it to graduation. Gojyo wasn’t entirely convinced they were wrong. Graduation was still four months off and some days that seemed like four months too many.

But Mr. Cho had been different, right from the beginning. He’d called Gojyo into his classroom on his very first day, before the period had even started. Gojyo had expected him to ask for directions to the office or some other stupid, mundane thing.

He slouched in the doorway and watched Mr. Cho grade papers for a few minutes before he finally looked up.

“Ah. Gojyo, is it?” Mr. Cho looked at him intently, expectantly. Gojyo sort of felt like a bug under a microscope.

“Yeah.” He readjusted his hold on his backpack and shifted his weight.

“Please sit.” Mr. Cho waved him to one of the cheap plastic desks. “The guidance counselor brought your file to my attention,” he added, once Gojyo had plopped himself down.

He eyeballed Gojyo like he expected him to know what was coming next, but Gojyo didn’t have a clue. He didn’t think he’d ever been to the guidance counselor. He wasn’t even sure he knew who it was.

Mr. Cho picked up a sheaf of papers, which Gojyo guess was his ‘file’ and leafed through them. Gojyo curled his toes inside his shoes and picked at a hangnail.

“These grades...I think you can do much better than this, Gojyo.” He tilted his head, inspected Gojyo over the rim of his glasses. Gojyo stared back. “You tested very highly, and your other teachers reported that they felt you have the ability to do well when you apply yourself. Clearly, you’re not stupid.”

Gojyo blinked. It was more or less the first time anyone had expressed any kind of confidence in his intellectual ability.

Mr. Cho studied him again and tapped a finger on his file. “Don’t you think you can do better, Gojyo?”

Gojyo chewed his lower lip.


He hadn’t known what to make of Mr. Cho then, and Gojyo wasn’t sure what to make of him now. He was galaxies away from any other teacher Gojyo had ever had. And it wasn’t just his attitude. It was how he looked, the way he carried himself.

Most of Gojyo’s other teachers looked like they were stuck in some awkward phase between age forty and sixty. Nearly all of them had bad hair and wore clothes that seemed to be made exclusively of polyester. A good number of them gave the impression they had fallen asleep in their clothes and just rolled out of bed and come into class. Some ran their classes like they were still half-asleep. Maybe they’d given a shit at some point, but that was before a couple decades in an overcrowded inner-city high school had knocked all the can-do spirit right out of them.

As it was, Gojyo got the feeling that most of his teachers were just counting down the days until they could cash in their pension, and he couldn’t really blame them.

Mr. Cho was different. The first time Gojyo saw him, he thought Mr. Cho looked more like a businessman than a teacher. He was young, a good twenty years younger than any of Gojyo’s other teachers, and about ten times more attractive. He always wore starched white shirts and crisply pressed slacks. His shoes were shined, and his thin silver-rimmed glasses were polished. Even his socks matched. He definitely didn’t look like the sort of person who spent their days trying to get a room full of bored seventeen year olds to try and care about classical literature.

But he actually seemed to enjoy his job and, weirder still, he actually seemed to want to make other people enjoy it too.

Gojyo had left his classroom after their first talk confused, but not entirely impressed. He’d promised to work harder, mostly because that was obviously what Mr. Cho had been expecting. But when he thought about it afterward, Gojyo had decided that Mr. Cho was probably just a first-year teacher on a crusade that would end soon enough. Once he figured out that nagging his students to do better didn’t work, he’d give up and be just like all the rest.

But he hadn’t. A week and a half later, after Gojyo had turned in his first paper, Mr. Cho had told him to stay behind after the dismissal bell. He made Gojyo sit in the same chair, and sat behind his desk and looked at Gojyo gravely over a stack of term papers.

“I’m very disappointed, Gojyo. I expected better from you.” He passed Gojyo’s paper back, covered in red marks.

Gojyo took it and avoided Mr. Cho’s eyes. He got a certain look on his face sometimes that made even the most delinquent students slink down in their seats. Gojyo suspected he was getting that look now.

“I thought we discussed this. You promised you were going to work harder.”

He risked a glance upwards. Mr. Cho was staring at him hard, and Gojyo squirmed uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He didn’t know what else to say. He waited for Mr. Cho to sigh and wave him away, like all his other teachers had when he’d turned in a lousy piece of work.

Mr. Cho tapped his desk lightly until Gojyo looked up again.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry.” Gojyo flinched. “I don’t want you to apologize. I want you to do better. You’re capable of doing much better, Gojyo, and I don’t want to you to settle for substandard work from yourself.”

Gojyo nodded fervently. He didn’t know what else to do.

Mr. Cho adjusted his glasses and studied Gojyo critically. His eyes were very green.

“If you need help, my door is always open. You know that, don’t you?”

He hadn’t, but Gojyo nodded anyway. Mr. Cho finally turned back to his papers, and Gojyo escaped.

Outside the classroom, he inspected the notes Mr. Cho had left on his paper. That night, he stayed up until almost dawn rewriting it. When he turned in the revision the next day, Mr. Cho’s smile was more than worth the lost sleep.


Gojyo shifted a hand up to brace against the side of the subway car and dug his other hand into his pocket until he found a packet of gum. He popped two pieces out of their plastic-and-foil bubbles and chewed them hard. The searing bite of mint helped him focus, and he stared at a spot on the wall where somebody had carved their initials. He occupied himself for a while with trying to come up with names that might fit the initials, but the game got old quickly.

He was intensely aware of Mr. Cho’s presence a few feet away from him. Gojyo thought that he would know if Mr. Cho was nearby even if he had his eyes closed. He radiated some weird kind of energy, and whenever he was around it was hard for Gojyo not to turn and look at him.

Gojyo popped his gum, and kept his eyes on the greasy window.


He remembered everything about the first time he’d run into Mr. Cho on the subway.

It was a month after Mr. Cho took over his Lit class, and Gojyo had been leaning against the side of the subway car, one hand clutching a leather strap that hung from the ceiling, the fingers of the other twisting in the straps of his backpack.

He had been thinking about something stupid and meaningless, like the frogs they’d had to dissect in Biology or what he wanted to watch on television that night, just drifting in his own thoughts. And then, suddenly, he felt like he’d been struck by lightening.

He jerked upright and glanced around, inexplicably rattled. When he’d found Mr. Cho standing across from him, he almost did a double-take.

Mr. Cho leaned forward, seemingly unsurprised. “Hello, Gojyo,” he said.

Gojyo stared.

“Hi,” he said reflexively, then closed his mouth. Then he opened it again. “I didn’t know you rode the subway,” he blurted.

Inwardly, he cringed. It was an incredibly stupid thing to say and he felt himself flush in mortification. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, furious with himself for sounding like such an idiot in front of the only teacher he’d ever wanted to impress.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Cho said mildly. “Gas prices being what they are, it’s far too expensive to drive. Public transportation is better for the environment, anyway.”

Gojyo nodded, because he had no idea how else to respond.

It was surreal to see Mr. Cho standing there in the subway car, talking about gas prices like a normal person. It was like seeing his kindergarten teacher in the grocery store, or his gym teacher in the post office.

Obviously, Gojyo knew that teaching was just a job like any other. He knew that when the day was over, his teachers went home, ate dinner, watched stupid television, and maybe fucked their husband or wife, just like anyone else. Still, he had never really been able to let go of his childhood belief that his teachers were part of the school furniture, tucked in the closet at the end of the day, and brought out again when school began.

He actually preferred to think about it that way, and he kind of wished it were true. Seeing his teachers outside the classroom made them real, and he wasn’t sure he wanted them to be real. Not Mr. Cho.

“I was very pleased with your last essay, Gojyo,” Mr. Cho continued, as though he didn’t notice Gojyo gaping at him. Maybe he didn’t. Gojyo hoped he didn’t. “Your arguments were very good. Very persuasive.”

He paused, and Gojyo realized belatedly that he was expected to respond. “Oh,” he said stupidly. “Um. Thanks.” He hesitated, and then said, “I worked really hard on it.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cringed. He sounded like such a suck-up. But he had worked hard on the essay. He’d worked hard on every assignment Mr. Cho had given for the past two weeks and it was somehow important to him that Mr. Cho knew that.

Mr. Cho smiled gently. “Yes, I can tell. I’m glad you’ve been working so hard.”

Gojyo felt a childish thrill of pleasure and had to fight down a smile. It was weird. He’d thought he was far past the age when a pat on the head from an adult could make him happy. He stared at his scuffed sneakers and adjusted his sweaty grip on the strap. He glanced at his watch surreptitiously. It was ten past three.

“I didn’t know the teachers got out this early,” he muttered. He’d always imagined that teachers stayed long after the students were dismissed. He didn’t know why he thought that. Maybe he’d seen it in a movie once.

“I only stay late on the days the Foreign Language club meets.” Mr. Cho tilted his head and spoke almost confidentially. “Otherwise, I take the 2:45 subway just like you.”

“Oh.” Gojyo stared at his shoes again and mentally replayed every trip home in recent memory. He didn’t think he remembered seeing Mr. Cho before. He was sure he would have remembered.

“Yes,” Mr. Cho nodded like Gojyo had said something clever. “You live near Lincoln Street, don’t you? You always get out at that stop. Mine is two stops further.”

It was just an offhand remark. It should have meant nothing. It definitely shouldn’t have sent a little electric bolt of heat down Gojyo’s spine. You always get out at that stop. The words reverberated in his head. Mr. Cho had seen him on the subway before. He’d been watching him.

Gojyo wiped a suddenly damp palm on his jeans and nodded mutely.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, and when he got out at his stop, Gojyo somehow managed not to turn around to see if Mr. Cho was watching him go.


It was getting harder and harder to pretend not to notice Mr. Cho standing there next to him every day on the ride home. Gojyo couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he should at least try and say something. It seemed awkward and kind of rude to spend a full fifteen or twenty minutes standing next to someone he knew and not talk to them. But he didn’t know what to say anyway and his mouth had an unfortunate tendency to go dry when he tried to talk with Mr. Cho.

In lieu of conversation, he’d taken to staring at Mr. Cho when he wasn’t looking. He watched him during class, when he was writing on the blackboard or pointing to maps, and especially when he leaned over another student’s shoulder to point to something in their books.

He never did that to Gojyo.

When Mr. Cho examined the same posters on the walls of the subway cars or leafed through one of the books he kept in his briefcase, Gojyo watched him, studying the way his hands turned the pages or the way his neatly combed hair fell over his eyes, slightly mussed by the end of the day.

It made him feel pretty stupid, especially when he found himself thinking about Mr. Cho during his other classes or when he was at home alone. He tried to shake it off. It was a dumb crush, he knew, but it wasn’t hurting anybody and no one ever had to know about it. Mr. Cho didn’t seem to have picked up on anything, so Gojyo figured he could wait it out. Eventually, it had to pass. In time, he’d stop staring at the way Mr. Cho’s mouth moved when he lectured the class, stop waiting eagerly for Mr. Cho to call him up to his desk to discuss his latest assignment. There were only a handful of months till graduation anyway, so it had to end by then.

Gojyo tipped his head back against the subway wall and closed his eyes. His gum had lost all its flavor. He scrounged around in his pocket until he found a scrap of tissue and spat it out. He jammed the crumpled-up tissue into his pocket. It was kind of gross, but he was conscious of Mr. Cho watching him and he didn’t want to litter.

His thoughts turned back toward graduation. It should’ve been the light at the end of the tunnel and it sort of was, but it was also really depressing. He wasn’t sure what he’d do after he finished school. Probably scrape around till he found some minimum-wage job or something. If worse came to worst, he could always flip burgers or work as a cashier or something. It would be enough to make ends meet, if he could still live at home. But Gojyo wasn’t sure how much longer that arrangement would last.

His step-mom had already made it clear she wanted him out of the house as soon as possible, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she showed up at his graduation with a box of his stuff and told him never to come back. He’d already started looking at apartments, just in case, but even the cheap ones were too expensive.

Gojyo shook his head, tried to knock back the constant, low-grade worry that cropped up whenever he thought about that. He still had a couple months left. He’d figure something out.

The subway jolted suddenly, and Gojyo slid sideways, knocking into somebody’s shoulder. Someone stepped on his foot. He heard somebody across from him curse. The subway shuddered and jerked again.

Clutching the leather strap, Gojyo tried to haul himself upright. A hand unexpectedly touched his arm, gently propping him up. He glanced to the side and saw Mr. Cho standing next to him. His hand was still on Gojyo’s shoulder.

Gojyo ducked his head and used his foot to nudge his back against the wall, trying to compose himself. He was mortified to find his face growing hot. He could smell Mr. Cho’s cologne and his fingers, curled around Gojyo’s bicep, were warm and strong.

“Thanks,” he muttered, ducking his head. The words seem to hang awkwardly in the air. Gojyo felt a pulse of anxiety, as if he’d broken some kind of unspoken rule between them. They’d never said anything on the subway since the first time Gojyo had noticed him there.

Maybe Mr. Cho didn’t really want to talk to him outside of school. He’d never given off that vibe, but Gojyo didn’t think that meant much. Mr. Cho may’ve worked hard to be supportive of his students at school, but that was his job. It was what he got paid for. Maybe once he left the school grounds what he really wanted was to be left alone.

Gojyo tilted his head down, letting his hair fall in front of his face. It was getting long again, and he knew he could expect one of his teachers to start nagging him soon for not keeping it short and neat like the school code said. For now, though, it provided a convenient shield to hide behind.

Mr. Cho was still touching him. Gojyo didn’t know whether he was trying to keep him upright in case the subway took another jolt or what, but his hand still rested on Gojyo’s arm. Gojyo could feel the press of each finger through his shirt. He stared at his shoes.

The subway slowed to a stop and the doors slid open. People poured on, forcing Gojyo back against the walls of the subway car. Mr. Cho moved with him as the crowd surged around them. After a moment, the doors slid shut again and the car moved forward jerkily.

It was so crowded that Gojyo could barely turn his head, and the rush of people had forced Mr. Cho right up against him. His hip was digging into Gojyo’s backside and his hand was still gently grasping Gojyo’s arm.

Gojyo let go of the strap and grabbed hold of the pole instead, leaning against it heavily. His heart rate seemed to have doubled and his pulse was throbbing in his ears. He checked his watch. Ten minutes until his stop. If he could just go ten more minutes without embarrassing himself, he’d be home free.

The subway jerked again and the lights flickered. Gojyo felt Mr. Cho bump up against his back and steady himself by putting his other hand on Gojyo’s hip. Gojyo forgot to breathe.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Cho murmured, right next to his ear. He sounded the same as he always did, just as calm as if he were explaining something in the classroom or reading aloud from the textbook. Gojyo felt his heart jump again and lodge itself somewhere north of his throat. He found himself praying for the ride to smooth out so Mr. Cho could step away. At the same time, he wished he could stay exactly where he was for the rest of the afternoon.

The subway rocked. Gojyo heard somebody a few feet away drop what sounded like a stack of books, but he didn’t have time to think much about that, since the movement had brought Mr. Cho’s hips flush with his, trapping him against the pole. Mr. Cho’s hand slid from his hip to brush against his ass. Gojyo froze.

He dug his fingers into the metal pole and he tried to clear the haze from his mind so he could think clearly. It was an accident, of course. It had to be. Except Mr. Cho’s hand was slowly coming to rest against his back pocket, gently cupping his ass. Gojyo didn’t know how that could possibly be an accident. Mr. Cho had to know what he was grabbing onto.

The subway car lurched its way down the track and Mr. Cho's hand grazed over Gojyo's hip. Gojyo felt fingertips trace the waistband of his jeans. He shuddered. He was being groped by his teacher. On the subway. Gojyo bit his lip hard and tried not to make any embarrassing noises.

He remembered all the public safety films he'd been shown back in elementary school. One of them was about what to do if people on the subway tried to touch you. Gojyo distinctly remembered that one. The film, inexplicably narrated by a talking bear, told them that if anybody tried to touch them, they were supposed to yell loudly and run to the conductor for help. Ironically, Gojyo found that now that the opportunity to put that film to use had finally presented itself, calling for help was the last thing he wanted to do.

Mr. Cho pushed his shirt up, just a little, just enough for a hand to slide inside and gently trace his bare stomach.

Gojyo swallowed hard. His throat felt like it was covered with sandpaper. The flickering lights cast an eerie glow on the metal walls and Gojyo wondered if he was hallucinating. He had to be, he decided. Maybe he'd passed out at some point during the ride and this was all some sort of dream. It wasn't possible that he was standing there, crushed in a crowd of people, with Mr. Cho's hand up his shirt. It just wasn't possible. Gojyo was sure it wasn’t.

The subway car surged, shuddered, and then stopped abruptly, with such force that only Mr. Cho's hand around his waist kept Gojyo from pitching to the floor. Mr. Cho's fingers were just tugging the zipper of his pants down, and Gojyo could feel himself getting hard despite his best efforts not to. He felt dizzy and hot, and he didn't feel any better when the lights flickered before plunging the car into absolute darkness.

Gojyo held very still and focused on Mr. Cho's cool fingers tracing patterns on his stomach. He listened to the alarmed cries of the passengers around him, but couldn't quite manage to feel the panic he knew was appropriate for the situation. Behind him, a speaker crackled to life. Gojyo jumped at the sound of the conductor's voice, murky and indistinct as if it were coming from underwater. Vaguely, he heard something about mechanical difficulties and the instruction to remain calm before the speaker fell silent.

Someone nearby swore and there was a quiet murmur of voices asking questions and muttering complaints. A dozen small glowing lights lit up the subway car as people began to pull out their cell phones. A disembodied voice said something about poor reception.

Gojyo remembered the cell phone in his bag. He should pull it out and try to call someone, he thought, but as soon as the idea occurred to him, he realized how pointless it was. There was no one he could call who would do anything for him. What could they do, anyway? The subway wasn't moving.

Mr. Cho pressed against his back, pushing an unmistakable hardness into Gojyo's spine, and all thoughts about being trapped in the subway evaporated from Gojyo's mind. Mr. Cho's hand was still running over his waist and hips, and his other hand soon joined it. Gojyo loosened his grip on the pole and tried to think.

But his attempt at coherent thought immediately collapsed when Mr. Cho pushed his zipper all the way down, slipped a hand under his boxers and passed his palm over Gojyo’s stiffening cock. Gojyo jerked forward instinctively, gasping, and then slumped back against Mr. Cho's front.

This wasn't right, he thought dimly This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd never taken Mr. Cho as the kind of guy who'd try to feel up his students. There were a couple teachers at school that Gojyo might have expected it from, but not Mr. Cho. He was too proper, too much on the straight-and-narrow.

It wasn't right, Gojyo reminded himself. It wasn’t. It was wrong, and small, distant part of his brain reminded him that he should scream, should yell that some pervert was touching him, or should at least push Mr. Cho away. There were a lot of things he knew he should do. But what he ended up doing was reaching down to shove his pants past his hips and grabbing Mr. Cho's wrist, guiding it to wrap around his cock.

Mr. Cho exhaled heavily in a way that was almost a groan. If his mouth hadn't been right against Gojyo's ear, he wouldn't have heard it. As it was, the sound was immediately swallowed up by the mumblings of other passengers. Gojyo felt Mr. Cho's mouth press against the area just beneath his ear. He clutched harder at Mr. Cho's wrist.

His thumb pressed against the head of Gojyo cock, and Gojyo had the presence of mind to hope desperately that the lights wouldn't come back on while he had his pants down and Mr. Cho's hand on him. Then Mr. Cho gripped him tightly and everything went beautifully hazy.

Mr. Cho's fingers wrapped around his cock firmly, jerking him off with agonizing slowness. Gojyo bit his lip and stared into the darkness.

The few times he'd imagined doing this with another guy, he'd always imagined it would be like touching himself. But it wasn't, not at all. Mr. Cho's teeth grazed his neck, and he felt Mr. Cho's erection pressing into his back, rocking against him slowly and rhythmically. It wasn't anything like he'd thought it would be. It wasn't like he thought it would be with another guy, and it definitely wasn't like he'd thought it would be with Mr. Cho, mostly because Gojyo had never quite mustered up the courage to fantasize about him. It has always seemed too impossible, too forbidden.

Mr. Cho tugged his cock, and Gojyo heard himself whimper very quietly. Mr. Cho pressed a kiss to his neck and made a soft shushing sound. Gojyo pushed his hand against his mouth and tried without success to keep himself from thrusting into Mr. Cho's hand.

He'd never dared to imagine Mr. Cho touching him like this, but now that it was happening, a thousand different fantasies exploded in Gojyo's mind. He thought about Mr. Cho jerking him off behind the gym, thought about sucking Mr. Cho off while he was sitting at his desk, about Mr. Cho bending him over the filing cabinets in his office. He thought about Mr. Cho doing this to him somewhere else, anywhere but in the dark, so he could see Mr. Cho's face, see Mr. Cho looking at him when he came.

Mr. Cho's hand tightened around his cock. Gojyo’s breath stuttered, and he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He was so, so close, and he didn’t know if he was supposed to warn Mr. Cho or what. But then Mr. Cho shifted and Gojyo felt something press against his cock, some kind of cloth. Mr. Cho’s handkerchief, probably. Mr. Cho was the only guy Gojyo knew who carried one of those. It was always white and starched when he pulled it out, and Gojyo wondered if it smelled like him, like his cologne.

Then, all at once, he was coming, right into Mr. Cho’s hand. He jerked forward and his knees locked for a minute. Then he slumped back against Mr. Cho’s front. His head fell back against Mr. Cho's shoulder and he felt Mr. Cho kiss his neck again, gently, before he wiped Gojyo clean and tucked his softening cock back into his pants.

Gojyo struggled to breathe and fumbled with the zipper on his pants. He could still feel Mr. Cho's erection pressing into his back and he couldn't decide whether he should do anything about it. Everything was spinning and it was too hard to think clearly.

Suddenly, the lights flickered, bathing the inside of the subway car in a flash of pale light. They flickered out again before coming back on fully.

Gojyo jerked away from Mr. Cho reflexively, nearly stumbling over his own feet in an instinctive attempt to put some distance between them. The subway car made a grinding sound and began to move sluggishly, before gaining speed. There was an echo of murmurs and sighs of relief from the other passengers. He grabbed onto a nearby pole to hold himself up.

Clutching it weakly, he stared at the grimy windows. He wanted desperately to turn around and look at Mr. Cho, but kept himself still.

Mr. Cho's presence lingered at his back, and Gojyo could feel the warm weight of his body only a few inches behind him. He still felt hot and wobbly and he hoped desperately that he didn't look suspiciously flushed. Probably none of the other people on the train would even notice. Still, Gojyo felt sure that what he had just done must be obvious to everyone who saw him.

The full weight of what had just happened settled on him slowly and knotted itself in his stomach. Oh God, Gojyo thought. He buried his face in the collar of his jacket, hoping that somehow it would make him disappear.

He had just gotten a handjob from his teacher. In the subway And he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do next.

Deep down, he knew that he was probably supposed to tell someone about this. That was probably the “right” thing to do. But he definitely, definitely didn't want to do that. Because if he did, then whoever he told would think that something weird and creepy had gone on, and while it had definitely been weird, Gojyo was sure it wasn't creepy.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Teachers were not supposed to grope their students, he knew that. But he was also pretty sure that students weren't supposed to enjoy it, either, and they definitely weren't supposed to hope that it might happen again. So obviously they had both done something they weren't supposed to do.

The subway rattled along the tracks before slowing to a stop. The doors slid open and a rush of people swept by, pouring off the car or climbing on. Mr. Cho was still close enough that Gojyo could smell his aftershave, and he felt Mr. Cho's hand just barely graze his thigh. He swallowed hard and stared at the doors as they slid shut.

It was pretty easy for Gojyo to make up his mind about whether or not he was going to tell anyone, but it was a lot harder to decide what the whole thing was supposed to mean. Gojyo chewed his lower lip. Mr. Cho was hot and smart and interested in things that involved helping people and teaching teenagers. He could probably have anyone he wanted. He definitely didn't need to go around groping people on subways in order to get off. Unless that turned him on or something.

Maybe that was it, Gojyo thought. Maybe he was some kind of exhibitionist who liked doing stuff in public. Or maybe he had a thing for doing stuff to students. Maybe that was his kink. Maybe he'd done this before. Maybe he’d done it a dozen times, with a dozen different student.

The thought was intensely disappointing. If Mr. Cho did this with lots of his students, then maybe it didn't really mean anything to him.

Gojyo ducked his head and shook out his hair. Stupid, he thought to himself. He sounded like a girl he'd messed around with once, almost a year ago. She'd been all worried that maybe it hadn't “meant” anything to him and had eventually dumped him when she'd realized it hadn’t. He hadn't known at the time what it was supposed to mean or why she'd been so upset about it, but he thought that maybe now he finally got it.

The subway stumbled to a halt again and LINCOLN STREET flashed on the display above the door before they slid open. Gojyo gripped at the pole again. He felt rooted to the ground. If he wanted, he thought, he could get out at his stop now and never look Mr. Cho in the eye again. He could do it. Graduation wasn't too far off. There were only a couple months of classes left, and all he had to do was keep his mouth shut and forget about the whole thing. He could do it. Maybe.

People got out and people got on, and Gojyo didn't move. Slowly, slowly, the doors slid closed again and the subway moved on. Gojyo watched as his stop was gradually left behind. Now it seemed that there was no avoiding Mr. Cho, and Gojyo tried to brace himself for some kind of embarrassment or disappointment.

He froze when he felt Mr. Cho's hands settle on his hips. They somehow seemed warmer and heavier than before.

"Oh. You've missed your stop," he murmured quietly, inches away from Gojyo's ear.

Gojyo struggled to take a breath.

"Yeah.” He fixed his gaze on the floor. Mr. Cho's thumb moved in circles on his hip.

"How are you going to get home now?" he asked. Gojyo shrugged, feeling stupid. He hadn't quite thought that far ahead when he'd decided to let his stop pass him by.

"Well," Mr. Cho said, after several seconds of silence. "You can't just go wandering around in the streets." His hands stilled on Gojyo's hips and Gojyo stared at his feet, waiting. "Perhaps you'd better come home with me for the time being," he said, after a long moment.

Gojyo heart jumped, almost painfully. Mr. Cho actually sounded kind of nervous and Gojyo thought he must have misheard because Mr. Cho never sounded unsure of himself. Ever.

It was ten different kinds of inappropriate. Gojyo knew that. He knew that he should just get off and the next stop and walk back home, lock himself in his room, and pretend that none of this had happened. But Gojyo found himself nodding anyway. He reached down and let his hand settle very carefully over Mr. Cho’s.

"Okay," he said.
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February 2012

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