Camillo, now fully dressed, definitely wants to sneak a peek at both of those.

Ginger's are...something. Most of them have the suggestions of the pose, but they're not quite life drawings so much as they are emotional suggestions. And the crabwalk one is...just a crab. It's a very cute crab, though.

"...Ginger, any chance I can get one of these to take home?"

They're adorable.

"—oh! Yes! Which one do you want?"

...he can't possibly take the crab. Ginger clearly loves that crab.

"This one?" Camillo thinks it's the tree.

Apparently that was a good answer!

Ginger hands over the sketch and beams.

Awwwwww.

"Thanks! I'm gonna put it up on my wall."

And now there's blushing.

Oh no, he's going to die.

...let's investigate Anatole's situation. That should be a suitable antidote to this amount of cuteness.

He's gone back to his first sketch to fill in a few little details.

He's good at figure drawing. The sketches are...a little merciless – they pay careful attention to the proportions and lines of his body, as accurate where it's flattering (his shoulders, the muscle in his legs) as where it isn't (significantly below his shoulders).

Camillo is currently having two extremely intense, extremely conflicting experiences.

First: the quintessential teenage pain of having one's awkwardly growing physical form observed, in all its gangly newness, every flaw painfully visible to its owner.

Second: his dick is hard.

"Wow," he says, articulately, and adds after a moment, "you're really good at that."

(His voice cracks, just a bit. God damn puberty.)

He looks him up and down, briefly, before he responds.

"Thank you," he says. (Does he sound a little amused?) "Do you want one?"

High-volume internal screaming.

He would regret all of his choices, except that Anatole is talking to him, and looking at him, and it sends a terrified thrill down his spine. Which he will probably regret in five minutes. But that sounds like a problem for FUTURE CAMILLO.

"That's okay, I can, uh, see myself naked whenever."

That gets one 'ha' out of him, before he turns back to his sketches.

Why does he like boys like this.

Camillo flees.

Guess what?

It's time for gym class.

Report to the boy’s locker room, your very favorite place.

It does contain a lot of nudity.

Unfortunately, some of that nudity is his.

Camillo goes with his usual tactic of sticking as close to Z as possible. It's like having his own personal lightning rod.

Z deals with whatever feelings he has about being naked in public by...being Z. This is occasionally distracting.

He's pulling his shirt off over his head as Camillo walks in. (There's something that looks — a little off — about the skin of his torso, around his hips especially.)

Naked Z is constantly distracting.

"Dude. What did you do to yourself. I leave you alone for five minutes." (Gesturing.)

"—huh?"

He looks down at himself, raising his arms a little as if to get a better view.

...on further inspection, the reason the scars stand out so starkly on his skin is that there are fewer of them.

"You did ......... negative self-harm?"

"...huh. Guess the world got a little better."

That's...kind of a lot to process. Cool. No weird feelings!

He takes his pants off and opens his locker.

"...ah, fuck. Not again."

He looks helplessly at the lock sitting sadly at the back of his otherwise empty locker.

Either Z really likes nude modeling, or the school housing thing worked out well.

"You forgot your stuff, didn't you."

"Uh...either I forgot it or I just forgot to lock it. Not...totally sure which."