When Camillo makes it to class, the room is full of easels arranged around a central platform.

And the contents of the sketchbook in his backpack are...not arrangements of vases and tchotchkes anymore.

Camillo flips through the pages, admiring his own loving depictions of ... dicks ... abs ... dicks ... butts ... dicks ... oh, there's a vase ... calves ... wow, there are a lot of dicks in here.

They're pretty good, too. Definitely better than he could draw. He's going to have to learn all of this all over again, isn't he.

By the time he looks up again, one of his classmates is sitting up on the podium, talking with the teacher.

He's stripped to the waist already, fine blonde hair just brushing his bare shoulders.

(The rest of the class filters in, one by one.)

Um.

Okay.

Camillo has only had a crush on this boy for like three years. And now he has long hair, and he's shirtless, and Camillo is officially supposed to stare at him for an entire class period.

This is either the best new rule yet, or the worst one. Judgement pending.

Just before the bell rings, he disappears behind a curtain at the back of the classroom.

When he comes back out, he's wearing a piece of cloth draped loosely around his waist — and nothing else.

He climbs up onto the platform, and takes a seat on the block at the center, leaning back on one hand.

Hey, how is he supposed to regain his dick-drawing skills from the alternate timeline like this?

Also: wow. Hot damn. There are hips. And the little dips next to the hips, and the little fuzz just below the navel ... damn.

Apparently, they're starting with charcoal sketches today. Sheets of newsprint go around the classroom, and every five minutes, the teacher calls for a change of position.

He stands and gazes up at the ceiling, stretches out over the block, puts his forehead on his knees as he draws them to his chest. He retwists and drapes the cloth every time, but it always ends up over his lap.

The lines of tension in his neck and shoulders remain even when he's leaned back and apparently relaxed.

Oh! He hates this medium! It's messy and goes in places he didn't want it to go and he can't erase anything and he doesn't have time to do anything right!

... he could try this again later. At home. With more time. If he just takes his phone out for a second -- which he's allowed to do, now, right -- and -- flash off -- there.

Halfway through class, he dismounts the platform and disappears back behind the curtain.

There's a minute or two of silence before the teacher calls Camillo's name.

"--aww, c'mon. He was doing a great job."

The teacher doesn't seem to expect this to be a real objection.

(His classmate comes out from behind the curtain, dressed in record time.)

"...I need more practice with the charcoal. Look, this is terrible."

He displays his sheet.

"Ginger's doing great."

One time Ginger went into the boys' locker room before gym and got completely undressed before noticing. Modeling should be a walk in the park.

"I can go again!"

The teacher is...unimpressed.

"Did you get that note signed by your parents?"

"...may...be....?"

His backpack is an absolute mess of extremely important papers which have become crumpled up at the bottom. It might be anywhere in here. If he pulls them all out and sorts through them maybe the teacher will move on to someone else.

Unfortunately, it looks like his teacher will wait.

And look at him.

Along with the rest of the class.

Great. Now he looks scared.

Unacceptable.

You know what doesn't look scared? Stripping on the spot. Take that.

This is, apparently, acceptable. If unexpected.

The day's previous model is watching him undress while he sets up.

Camillo is totally okay with this.

...for about two seconds, before he really has to stop thinking about Anatole and Anatole's hips and Anatole watching him undress. Given that he's taking his pants off.

Ginger starts drawing before he even gets up on the platform.

"In a hurry, Ginger?"

And ... underwear.

(Sooner or later he is going to figure out how to use his magic handbook to make his dick bigger. The Cavelier High School For Students With Twelve-Inch Dicks? ...wait, no, then he might still have a small dick compared to his classmates...)

The teacher reminds Ginger that the assignment is figure drawing, not...whatever Ginger is doing.

Anatole raises an eyebrow and waits for a pose.