Eli vaguely notices a very frantic Jocelyn Hall in the week after their dodgeball conversation. He tries to not care, not look, but he ends up too curious to not find out anything. Apparently, the panic is academic. Joss Hall, having academic troubles? The idea’s novel, and exciting. Joss had accidentally taught Eli some studying skills over the course of their project, so Eli is now averaging Bs. The only class he always has an A in is math. He loves algebra, loves how he just has to plug in the numbers and the answer will always be there, ready for him. The class has suddenly gotten harder, and Eliseo is thriving, the numbers flowing out of his fingertips like music; he knows he’s gotten the answer even before he checks it, every time. He loves that feeling of power. Math is art, to Eliseo.

He’s jolted out of his train of thought by a hand on his shoulder, steering him into the space before the elevator; a semblance of privacy.

“Pretty boy. I need your help.”

Eli is unable to compute. Joss, standing in front of him. Joss, hand on his shoulder. Joss, asking for help.

“What for?” Shit. Didn’t mean for that to be so… aggressive.

“Math.”

Eli blinks stupidly. “Math?”

“Yes, math. My grades are slipping because of this shitty new unit, and I had to stoop so low as to ask the teacher for a fucking tutor, and he said that you’re the only one with a fucking A. I need this A, pretty boy. I need a 4.0.”

“So you thought that I could help you?”

“Yeah,” Joss swallows, and bows his head. “Please.”

Joss… asking… him? For help?

Eli makes his choice.

“Fine. I’ll help you. But you’re paying me.”

Joss shrugs, visibly relieved. “I can do that.”

And he’s gone, leaving Eli with the sense that he just agreed to something he is going to regret.

Joss pulls him aside in the halls the next day and hands him an envelope. Inside is a single piece of paper, with Joss’s phone number and three words written on it.

‘Don’t tell anyone.’