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Makoto’s second year of teaching had begun quietly and without much fanfare to speak of. He was the youngest professor at the school by at least five years, though sometimes he felt as though the older teachers looked at him like he was just a child. He’d soared through his degree and found himself a job in the US a few years early, and he’d discovered quickly that some people could be bitter about his success. But he tried not to dwell on it: he was confident in his ability to teach and connect with students, and he was willing to prove himself. His first year at the school had passed with difficulty, and a few times, Makoto had almost quit, but by the end of his last term, he was more or less settled. He was ready now to take the second year in stride.
The first week passed with little of note. His students were respectful and ready to learn, and the teachers, though a few were openly disdainful of his returning, were welcoming and kind. Each evening, Makoto went home with a placid heart and a stack of papers to grade, and each morning he returned with an easy smile.
The second week, however…
Makoto had four classes in total. The first three were all different time blockings of the same Feudal Japanese History class, scattered throughout the week. His last was an elective Japanese language that he’d agreed to take on after the allotted professor had unexpectedly quit at the end of last term. Initially, he didn’t mind the extra work. It was refreshing to have a change of pace from his usual teaching.
By the end of his second week he’d quickly come to dread the class.
Most of his students, being young adults or older, were respectful and hard working, diligent in their studies and civil with their professor and their peers. Makoto enjoyed speaking to them, connecting to them, aiding them in their studies.
However, there was one particular student he found himself struggling to give the same grace.
Laurent Thierry was delayed in entering Makoto’s class, showing up on the second week. He was tall, broad, and boisterous, with a French accent and a disregard for decorum that grated on Makoto’s nerves. He was also at least a decade older than Makoto, if not closer to two-- he would have thought the man would have had time to learn manners by then, though apparently that wasn’t the case. When Makoto had tried to give him the work they’d begun in the previous week, he’d had his first dose of the man’s truly obnoxious attitude and sworn that he would find a reason to fail the man.
It’d only gotten worse from there. Aside from his general disrespect for rules and precious order, Makoto had come to know that the man was a despicable flirt. The first day they met, Makoto had been leant forward to show the man how to write a specific kanji, engrossed in explaining the strokes, when a warm palm had landed openly and indulgently on his ass., fingers squeezing.
Makoto had yelped and straightened, sidestepping away from the man so fast he nearly tripped.
“You-!”
Laurent had shrugged. “My hands like to wander. Sorry about that. They’re not house trained.”
Disbelieving, Makoto had sputtered and found a reason to walk away, shaking it off as a one-time incident.
Except one time turned into two, into three, into everyday. By the end of the first month of his unfortunate acquaintance with Laurent, Makoto was about ready to quit his job and move back to Japan. He was always finding a reason to stand too close, or to touch him, or say something suggestive in that stupid sultry French accent. It didn’t help much that he was also handsome to boot, and knew it too. The other students flocked to him and his charm, hanging off his every word. Despite himself, Makoto could see why. If not for the man’s awful personality, he might have found himself in the same boat.
It’s late one afternoon that Makoto is startled by a knock on his office door. He frowns, glancing at the clock. It is quite late, late enough that he could ignore whoever it is, even if technically his office hours don’t end for another ten minutes.
But it could be a student who needs his help. He can’t just ignore them if that were the case. Sighing, Makoto stands and opens the door.
“Oh,” He says, not bothering to hide his irritation. “It’s you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be happy to help a student, professor?” Laurent says, grinning at him.
“What do you want?”
“I need help with the material, of course.”
Makoto doubts it, but he opens the door further anyway. He can’t very well turn down a student asking for help, even if he doubts the earnesty of the man’s request.
Laurent moves past him slowly, one hand sliding along Makoto’s arm. He pauses halfway through the doorway and simpers, “Really, I have some urgent matters to discuss.”
“Are you going to behave?” Makoto grumbles, closing the door against his better judgement.
“Now why would I do that?”
Ignoring the queasy, excited feeling in his stomach, Makoto sits back at his desk, squaring his shoulders and trying to appear more calm than he feels. Even if the man is eccentric and obnoxious, he does have a certain… effect on Makoto, which is the most infuriating part of it all. The heat of the man’s hand lingers on his skin even though they’re not touching anymore. Makoto watches Laurent drop carelessly into the chair across from him, still grinning at him lazily.
It’s not worth it to go through the routine of concerned teacher, not with the salacious bastard across from him. “So?”
“I need some help with the pronunciations we learned today.”
Makoto frowns, unimpressed with the flimsy excuse. “What, it couldn’t wait until tomorrow’s class?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“That’s inappropriate. What exactly did you want help with?”
“I don’t think it’s inappropriate. What’s inappropriate is the way that sweater looks on you, professor. I wanted help with the greetings we learned today.”
“It’s just a sweater. I wear sweaters every day. Which greetings were giving you trouble?” Shifting in his seat, Makoto pulls at the neck of his sweater. He feels far warmer than he did a moment ago.
Laurent leans forward over the desk between them, propping his elbows on the tabletop. “It looks just as sinful every day. Hajimemashite.”
Stifling a snort, Makoto shakes his head. “No. Hajimemashite.”
Laurent repeats it again, rolling the sounds around in his mouth in a way that makes Makoto’s eye twitch irritably.
“No, you don’t need to do all of that. Just say it normal. Hajimemashite.”
“It sounds so sexy when you say it.”
Makoto wrinkles his nose. It’s definitely not.
“Teach me to say something else.”
Primly, Makoto looks at his hands, folded tensely on the desktop. He can feel Laurent’s eyes on his face. “The lesson plan-”
“I want private lessons, then.”
“I don’t do private lessons.” When Makoto looks up again, Laurent is leant over the desktop further now, startlingly close. Makoto nearly jumps back, but scowls instead, not willing to give the bastard the satisfaction. “That was in the syllabus. Which you would know if you actually read it instead of being lazy.”
One of Laurent’s hands lands on Makoto’s wrists. “I love when you talk dirty to me.”
Instead of pushing the hand off, Makoto flips his own hand over so he can squeeze Laurent’s wrist in turn. “You’re the most annoying student I’ve ever had.”
“That’s no way to talk to your elder.”
Makoto snorts. “Why are you even here? You’re like a hundred.”
“Ouch! I’m hardly forty, Professor Edamame. Can’t a man want to further his education?”
“I would believe that’s what you were after if you had any interest in actually doing your work.”
“There are far better things I’d rather be doing.”
Looking up from their hands, Makoto raises his eyebrows.
“Like you, Edamame.”
“That’s not my name! And you shouldn’t be so familiar with a teacher.”
“I’d like to be more familiar. You should relax more. I heard stress is bad for your health.”
“You wouldn’t know anything about stress, would you?”
Laurent gives him that lazy smile again, tinged with something warm. “I know a bit about reliving it. Let me teach you, professor.”
“You’re the student here,” Makoto grumbles. He feels flushed with embarrassment and anticipation, glancing at the door. “I think my office hours are over.”
“Good, so we won’t have any interruptions, you’re saying?”
“So get out is what I’m saying.”
Laurent’s fingers twitch on Makoto’s wrist. Instead of standing to leave, he leans forward, smile curving a mere few centimeters from Makoto’s frown. “So cold.”
“Did you need any more help with the material?”
“Say it again,” Laurent murmurs.
Makoto huffs. “Haj-”
The rest of the word is muffled into Laurent’s mouth. Sourly, Makoto moves his lips, finishing out the word before he lets Laurent kiss him for real. Predictably, Laurent’s lips are annoyingly soft and annoyingly adept.
Makoto puts his hand on Laurent’s neck, hand fisting into the collar. He hopes it wrinkles. Laurent is eager, and far more blunt about it than Makoto was expecting-- instead of the coy, teasing kiss he was expecting, it’s nearly sweet, insistent as it is. When Makoto moves to pull back, Laurent lets go of his hand and instead puts it on the back of his head, stilling him. He’s leaning forward enough that he can feel the desk digging into his stomach, but he ignores it a while longer, squeezing Laurent’s wrist and his shirt, letting the man lick at the seam of his lips without opening them.
When he does manage to pull back, he finds Laurent looking at him with half-lidded eyes. His cheeks are hardly flushed, but it’s a becoming look on him nonetheless.
Makoto leans back in his chair, putting a bit of distance between them and inhaling deeply. His pulse races, and he feels a little dizzy, but he schools his face into something stern. “I don’t know if that’s the most effective learning method,” He says weakly.
“I wanted to feel the words,” Laurent bullshits easily, grinning dopily. “To really understand them.”
“Sure. Get out.”
“I might need further lessons.”
“Tomorrow. Get out.”
“Is that a promise, Professor Edamame?”
huffs, watching the man finally get the hint and get to his feet. “Not my name. Come on, it’s not hard to pronounce.”
“I might need some lessons on that. I could teach you to say my name, too.”
Makoto frowns, looking up at the man curiously.
“Scream it, even,” Laurent says, winking at him.
“Get out!”
“Alright, alright.” The look Laurent gives him is half appraising and half desperate. Makoto likes it, but he doesn’t say anything, only glares at the man, waiting for him to go. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” Laurent finally says, “I’ll be counting down the minutes until then, professor.”
“I’ll be dreading it,” Makoto says in his best dismissive tone. He turns to his desk and pretends to be engrossed in grading papers. The words swim in his vision uselessly as he waits for the click of the door shutting.
Laurent drags his feet on the way out, and in his periphery, Makoto thinks he sees him look back over his shoulder three times, but finally he leaves, the door closing quietly behind him. As soon as it does, Makoto tosses himself back against the chair again, sighing. He wriggles out of his sweater and tosses it across the room, palms sweaty, cheeks warm. He can still hear the echoes of Laurent’s obnoxious laughter in his ears, can feel the ghost of his soft, insistent lips on his own. He frowns at the ceiling and rubs his wrist where Laurent’s fingers had lingered.
Idly, Makoto wonders if it’s too late to transfer schools.