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Kei isn't ashamed of a certain preference of his when it comes to summery recreation. After all, it's quite literally the most natural thing in the world, and he'll have no one tell him otherwise. But maybe, just maybe, he'd have to be more selective about whom he shares that part of himself with because college had gotten a lot more annoying since two particular senpais had developed a penchant for bullying him about it.
"It's not a nudie colony. Those don't exist." Kei sighs, chin resting on the back of his hands, elbows propped up on his desk. "Why do you insist on calling it that?"
"Oh, excuse our ignorance." Kuroo, hovering on his right side with Bokuto on the other, pats his shoulder in a faux-apology, smirking his most obnoxious smirk. "Why don't you take your time to enlighten us about the proper vocabulary?"
"Yes, enlighten us! We'd love to learn more about that lifestyle of yours!" Bokuto chimes in, too loud for a Monday morning, but then he's too loud for any morning.
"Now you're making it sound like a cult."
"It's not?" Bokuto gasps like he's shocked by that revelation; maybe he is, maybe he's not- Kei hasn't figured out his puzzling personality yet. "Don't ya have a naked guru or sumthin'?"
"What?" A guru? Where did he get that from? He's used to having people think that nudists have wild orgies all the time, which couldn't be further from the truth- and even if he was into that, he's by far the youngest at the beach resort he frequents, not counting the occasional kid or grandkid who shouldn't have to see that anyway. The guru one is new to him, though. "I mean, I suppose, there are nude yoga courses but-"
"Oho?"
"Not at my resort. I've just heard of it." He sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing up his glasses. He doesn't want to be rude, wants to give good publicity to the hobby, even if it's not much of one; it's any hobby one can do sans clothing, his being swimming and sunbathing, beginner stuff- and he does want to dispel rumors about it, but on those two, his efforts seem wasted as all they ever do is tease him.
"Hey, I still think you're hella brave for doing something so unconventional." Kuroo must have noticed his regular frown turn into an actual scowl because now he's using his sweet voice. Besides, what the hell is so brave about taking one's clothes off? Would that make toddlers who haven't yet bought into society's obsession with modesty the bravest people on the planet? "And I'll admit, I'm jealous of your even tan. But that's not all we came here to ask for. There's, um, this one little thing-"
"Spit it out." If this is some corny joke about sand in his buttcrack again, he swears he'll forget his good upbringing and throw one of his ballpoint pens at him.
"Kuroo wanted to ask if you were interested in undressing for Akaashi for money!", Bokuto blurts out, yelping when Kuroo jabs him in the ribs with the side of his hand. "Heey! Are ya mad 'cause I stole your question? Mean, Kuroo, that really hurt!"
"So what I meant to say was- Akaashi just got enrolled in an art course, and they're learning about human anatomy, so they need models to practice drawing from life, nude ones so you can see the muscles and such, but it's nearly impossible to find people willing to do this, even with good payment, so Bokuto and I thought-."
"-that since I'm already frolicking in the nude at my silly nudie camp all the time, it should be a breeze for me to do it at college too?" He rolls his eyes. As if it were that easy.
"No chance."
It's one thing to undress to go for a swim or lounge around on a towel, in a place where everyone minds their own business, and another to put oneself into the spotlight to be ogled from all sides in a brightly lit room. It's not just that, but with the main visitors of his favorite resort being older people, stripping in front of a hall full of immature postpubertal college students doesn't sound like the most stress-free or relaxing experience- and isn't this his main reasoning for going to the resort?
"Aww, I knew you'd say that." Kuroo's smirk is unwavering. He'll probably work in marketing after he graduates the upcoming year, selling insurance and expensive mobile contracts to poor, unsuspecting seniors. "But I repeat, the pay is good. Very good. And you'd totally get in Akaashi's favor as well as mine and Bokuto's."
"I don't need to get in anyone's favor." Well, Akaashi is a nice guy, and he would absolutely be professional about this, at least a lot more professional than most people their age, or those two, but what favor would he even want to ask him for?
"No, but think about it." Kuroo pats his shoulder again, then ruffles his hair for extra measure, earning him a grumble for making it look like a bird's nest again. "It could be a side hustle, really easy money, just sitting there doing nothing but looking pretty. You already have the pretty part down so I wouldn't worry about the rest."
"Like I said, I'm not interested. And thanks, I guess."
"Only the bare truth from me. Take care."
Despite his insistence not to budge to Kuroo's slimy offers, Kei mulls over his words as soon as the two are gone and he has a few minutes of peace and quiet.
He did quit his last minijob for a fast food place where he had to deliver food to people on his bicycle. It was exhausting; he got lost all the time, almost had a really bad thing happen to him on his way to a customer, and the smell of the food made him nauseous, not to speak of that one time he got caught in thrashing rain. Quitting that one had been a great relief, a decision that he doesn't regret one bit, but as the lack of income started showing on his bank account, finding a job had become a necessity rather than an option. He did help out in the library now and then, and it was fine; he loved that place, but he still didn't make enough money to get by comfortably.
Not that things were dire, but, well, sitting still for an hour or less in the nude and getting paid for it didn't sound like the worst deal, much better than that dreaded pizza delivery job. Maybe he should listen to Kuroo and Bokuto for once and give it a go.
What did he have to lose?
-
"Oh, Tsukishima. What brings you here?"
They're in front of the room where most of Akaashi's drawing classes are held, the halls bustling with students of all courses standing or walking around, talking, eating snacks, or drinking coffee. It's a miracle Kei managed to spot him in the crowd.
"I-" Kei swallows a lump in his throat, resisting the reflex to wring his hands in front of his groin, a nervous tick that he'd tried to wean himself off shortly after Yamaguchi had told him it looks like he "super needs to pee". He acts embarrassingly enough when he does need to do that, thank you very much. "I'm here for that modeling gig."
"Modeling gig?" Akaashi blinks, brows furrowed in obvious confusion, and for a brief moment, Kei fears that Bokuto and Kuroo had pulled a prank on him. He wants to apologize for the bother and get the hell out of there when Akaashi's face, splattered with paint from what must've been a lively art project, lightens up, eyes sparkling.
"Oh, you mean the nude live drawing class?"
A few students turn their heads, staring, a preview of what Kei himself will have to deal with should Akaashi give him the green light, but he successfully tunes them out.
"Precisely."
"Did, um...did, did Kuroo and Bokuto send you?" Now Akaashi is the one looking nervous, sheepish even. "I guess, I complained a bit too hard to them about our last model cancelling short-term. It's not hard to find models in general, but once it goes past the underwear stage, a lot of them bail out, sadly, especially the younger guys."
"Yes, but I'm here of my own volition. I have no hang-ups about nudity, and-" He considers mentioning the nudist resort but thinks better of it. "-I could use the money."
Akaashi lets out a deep breath, then looks up at him with a rare, soft smile that Kei feels flustered being the reason for. He seems to be passionate about art. "So, we started doing those classes on Friday at half past three. Are you free tomorrow?"
Tomorrow. That's a bit soon. Too soon. But-
"I have nothing else to do, so I suppose I am." Kei shrugs, ignoring the feeling in the pit of his stomach that suggests what a bad, awful, no-good idea that is.
"Good. If you don't mind being there twenty minutes early, we can work out all the pesky paperwork. I'll text my professor so he'll know you'll be there."
Kei nods, humming. He does have classes in the morning and was meaning to do errands after lunch, but there's no reason he won't be able to make it to the college building after. If he literally just needs to "sit pretty" for a bit, he won't have to be particularly focused or prepared. He'll get it over with, collect his pay, and go home. It sounds too perfect to be true, but maybe this time, it is. "See you tomorrow then."
"Yes, see you. And thank you for stepping in last minute. It matters a lot."
"No need for thank yous. It's a job after all." Kei continues with his nonchalant but hopefully polite facade, the one he puts on during oral exams, lectures, or when talking to superiors of any kind. It's a job. There's no need to be nervous. He wasn't nervous when applying for his library job, and he stopped being nervous at the resort after less than an hour of being there. He can do this. It's easy money. Nothing more.
-
Friday afternoon comes earlier than expected, and Kei, after getting held up in a line of the local Kombini that he'd been hurrying to after his last lecture of the day had ended, is running late. That fact alone is worrying regarding his karma, because Kei is never late. He never forgets appointments, never oversleeps- but sometimes, dates overlap, and the result is a mad rush to somehow still make all of it work. It shouldn't be surprising to see some things fall behind, especially those not part of his usual schedule, but unfortunately, a date is a date, and a promise is a promise.
After heaving his aching body up the last flight of stairs because of course his "modeling gig" has to be held on the fourth floor on a week where all the elevators are under repair, Kei takes a moment to catch his breath, then downs the rest of the sports drink, a surprisingly sweet peach-flavored electrolyth bomb that he bought on a whim because it looked alluring on the shelf while he was bored and antsy waiting in line.
There's a reason they put sugary stuff like this near the checkout, he thinks with looming regret and a pinch of shame because he's fallen for such an easy trick just because he was impatient as well as...nervous? He stops to reflect as he detaches the now empty plastic bottle from his lips, staring at it before he shakes off the uneasy feeling and switches the bottle in his hands out for a can of anti-transpirant deodorant.
He hasn't been sweating too much; he's made sure to apply some of that spray after showering in the morning, but the last thing he wants before shedding his clothes in front of a bunch of quirky artists in their early to mid-twenties is to feel gross.
With his hand on the doorknob to the big hall, he takes a deep breath to ground himself. It's just a job. It's sitting pretty, doing nothing, and getting paid for it. The only reason no one but him wanted to do this is because they're all juvenile prudes about nudity. This is a professional setting. No one is going to treat him any differently for doing this, and Kuroo and Bokuto will forever be in his favor.
He literally has nothing to lose, nothing at all.
"Sorry, I'm late," he announces in his usual calm voice as he steps through the massive wooden door, ignoring the soft but energetic whispering among the students, a lot of them young women. As expected, the professor, a fairly short, skinny, older-looking gentleman with huge round glasses, his greying hair in a ponytail and, what Kei tries really hard not to fixate on, gigantic bushy eyebrows, is all over him in an instant.
There's some paperwork to do and information as well as common niceties to exchange until, after all of that has gone by in a blur, Kei finds himself on a stage behind a thick black curtain with the instruction to take off his clothes and place them on a chair standing in a lone corner. Once he's all undressed and ready to go, he is to step out from behind the curtain and sit in a "comfortable" position on the stool in the center of the platform, legs slightly apart and hands resting on top of his thighs.
So this is happening for real, Kei thinks with a thumping heart, shivering a little as he pulls his hoodie over his head, followed by his shirt, an old favorite with a cutesy dino print that he's too embarrassed to wear as a stand-alone top. It's autumn, and the room temperature was very much chosen with clothed attendees in mind. Now shirtless, he doesn't hesitate to yank down his pants, the erratic motion making something in his middle stir, filling him first with annoyance, then shame, and finally, dread.
In all his hurry and overthinking, the fact that he hadn't been to the bathroom since lunch after drinking a cup of tea, some water, and now this stupid sports drink had completely slipped his mind, only to now come back to him at full force, like a bloody injury that only starts hurting once it's visible, but then it hurts like crap.
He exhales sharply, bobbing on the spot while just in socks and boxer briefs, his jeans pooled on the floor around his ankles, arms crossed. This is bad. If he hadn't been so damn late, if he hadn't been rushed to sign papers and undress before he could get much of a word in, he could've said that he needed to pay visit to the men's room at the other end of the hallway to "freshen up", which could very well mean putting on some more deodorant, or dabbing himself with soap and water, or combing his hair that has the tendency to get messy since he let it grow out again after high school.
He wouldn't have to mention that he needed to relieve his bladder that has started to ache and throb now that he's aware of its existence as the one organ that never fails to make his life harder wherever he goes, whatever he does, and whoever is there to see.
Before he can lose himself in his unproductive ruminations that boil down to a mantra of how much it sucks to have to go (ugh, cringe) in a situation that has already started to grow way over his head, the curtain shifts, and the bushy eyebrow guy peeks his head in to ask if he's ready, everyone's waiting to start drawing, oh, but is everything okay?
Kei hates himself for nodding, but there's no way he would have admitted that yes, he forgot to pee first and that's why he needs to put all his clothes on again to not disturb unsuspecting students walking down the hallway, just to get to the bathroom, further delaying the class that he's already late for. If he got himself to say the magic words and then left, who says he wouldn't have lost his mind after and skipped the whole thing entirely because he couldn't handle embarrassing himself twice in a row?
No. He shakes his head as he takes off his last remaining sock, undies already off and neatly folded on top of the clothing pile sitting on the chair. If it's not for the money or humoring his annoying senpais, he can't imagine doing this to Akaashi, saying yes, all cool and smooth (that didn't have anything to do with him liking Akaashi, shut up, Yamaguchi, ugh!) and then bailing out at the last second like a pathetic coward.
Before he throws himself into the lion's den, Kei hesitates, swaying back and forth with his hands clenched at the side of his hips. When they did their briefing just now, the bushy-eyebrow teacher hadn't mentioned whether he ought to leave his glasses on. He considers taking them off and leaving them with the rest of his clothes, hoping that seeing the crowd of students as a blurry mess would ease some of the awkwardness of them all observing him, but he decides against it. If there's anything that makes him more nervous than people staring at him while he's aching to go to the bathroom, it's not having his glasses in reach, which may be life-saving after all of this is over.
Alright. Ready, set, go! He moves the curtain aside, squinting against the now blinding lights of the overhead lamps, and makes his way, like a farm animal being led to a slaughterhouse, to the stool while every step vibrates in his core. Oh, please, don't let him regret this, his mind echoes. Please, please, just let this be over soon!
After briefly introducing him, the professor gives some instructions to his students that Kei can't pay enough of a mind to listen to, his heart thundering wildly again, like it's waiting to leap out of his chest and bounce through the room and out the door. It's not the curious faces of the students, nor the bright lights, or even the fact that it's too chilly for his bare-assed comfort that sets his nerves ablaze, one synapse after the other. No. It's the harsh truth, the bitter realisation of how much of a pickle he's in.
He has, of course, needed to go a lot worse than he does now many times in the past. It's kind of a recurring issue that comes with being somehow too proud, too shy, and too emotionally constipated to admit that he needs to go since he's been able to think, whenever he's in a situation where he can't just walk out unnoticed. But even though he was and still is terrible at coping with a full bladder, there are ways to cope.
On road trips, he has his headphones, blasting his eardrums with emo rock that makes him feel less alone in his suffering, even if his toilet issues aren't accurately expressed in songs about chronic lovesickness and the doom and gloom of being alive. He can look out of the window to find things to distract himself with, try and guess the color of the next car passing by, or study interesting road signs and license plates. He can also, most importantly, squirm, cross his legs, squeeze or rub his thighs together, and if that all fails, and he truly can't take it anymore, press his hands into his crotch, maybe under the cover of his backpack, a jacket, or his desk during an exam.
All those things that he'd taken for granted, he cannot do now because the whole point of modeling for a life drawing class, nude or not, is to sit perfectly still for fifty dreadful long minutes, broken up only by instructed changes in pose, with his legs apart for most of them, so they can learn to draw that area of him as well.
Fury pools in his stomach, anger following denial as the second of the five stages of grief. It's irrational, and he knows it, which only makes him angrier. Kuroo may have been sort of pushy to convince him to take the gig, but neither he nor Bokuto nor Akaashi had pressed a gun to his temple yelling that he'd better do this or else.
No, he had decided that he wanted the money, and maybe the ego boost. And even so, forgetting to take care of a very human need was the result of his own poor planning, because he'd wanted to do everything at 100 %, like the overachiever that he is, and then being too chicken to ask for a break like a little boy on his first day of school.
Calm down, he chides himself internally. He can't need to go that badly, or he would've been in trouble prior to setting foot into the room. It only feels like it because he's nervous. It's psychosomatic, nothing more and nothing less.
Oh fuck, fuck, but it feels way too real.
His fingers curl, blunt nails digging into the taut flesh of his thighs, then his palms, possibly leaving red marks. It's the only thing left for him to do to channel his anxiety so it won't materialize on his face, won't force him to jerk his hips, or fan his legs, or do anything suspicious with his hands. Fuck, it would help so much to get a tiny pinch in, rock back and forth on the stool that clearly wasn't made for people of his height, and allow his body to twist, and shake, and contort in all the ways it wants to, but neither of those are options. He doesn't have a choice but to, quite literally, sit this one out.
For the first however many minutes, ten, he learns as he spots an old-fashioned analogue clock hanging on the wall; he succeeds at keeping his outward calm despite the storm raging within him, even as he gets used to the awkwardness of being observed instead of mostly ignored as he's used to being at the resorts that he's been to.
It's not that nudists can't be friendly and disgustingly social, but with naturism already being such a niche lifestyle with all sorts of stereotypes that scare people from trying it, respecting each other's personal space has become somewhat of a holy rule. It's another thing that cannot be taken for granted outside of those settings: the precious comfort of not being all that special, just another boring, naked guy, and not the only "boring" naked guy in a lecture room surrounded by a bunch of clothed students.
More minutes pass, the nagging in his middle growing from a mild but constant dull ache to a not-so-mild constant dull ache intermitted by urgent pangs. He lets his eyes roam, desperate for any source of mental stimulation, the paintings on the wall, the sky, the crowd itself. After some searching for familiar faces, he spots Akaashi in the crowd, focused on his canvas, until he briefly stops working on his probably masterful rendition of a naked lauch to shoot him a friendly, grateful, maybe encouraging smile.
Do it for him. He tries to smile back, only subtly; he's never been much of a smiler, but his mouth stays frozen in what must be a horrifying grimace. Well, maybe they don't pay much attention to his face. They probably have different classes for drawing portraits, so he shouldn't worry about looking approachable. As long as he keeps his body under control and doesn't turn into a squirmy, wiggly mess, he'll be fine.
It's not like he's actually going to have an accident in this setting, not with all those people around, but there are ample ways for him to make a fool out of himself and turn into a college running gag for the rest of the year without him puddling the floor.
Half an hour in, and five minutes into a pose that has his arm go numb from having it raised above his head, legs slightly shifted, he's gone from trying not to squirm to fighting the impulse to fling himself off the stool and out of the room.
It's his fault for attempting to distract himself by thinking about all the far more enjoyable things he'll do after surviving this karmic punishment; buying ice cream, walking through his favorite part of the city park (which had a noisy fountain), and finally going home to watch Jurassic World for the dozenth time in his life.
Alas, he cannot think about any of those things without also thinking that he'd really seriously want to pee first. That, of course, has started a whole new wave of mental images, full-on recordings playing behind his eyes of him joyfully relieving himself in various places, one less socially acceptable than the other. There was this one dreadful incident following a college exam of multiple hours where he wasn't allowed to use the bathroom after for some ridiculous anti-cheating reason, and suddenly, everything feels ten times as worse because...crap, what he'd give to be in that stairway now, with that dumb bottle, kneeling on the floor and letting go of his burden, sliding against the wall, eyes half-lidded, jaw slack amidst a rush of muffled curses and sighs, ashamed but so happy to finally let go that time and context didn't matter, couldn't matter.
He doesn't have time to think about how silly it is to wish for a repeat of one of his weakest moments, not when there's a perfectly fine bathroom waiting for him, when a hand goes up in the crowd, belonging to a young man with neatly gelled hair whose smug face he already hates. He can't stop himself from scowling at the guy. If he's going to excuse himself for a freaking toilet break, Kei might as well scream.
"Professor? I was just thinking that we haven't practiced a lot of standing poses yet. Maybe we could do that for the rest of the lesson? Just suggesting."
Standing poses? Demonic hell sirens ring in Kei's frazzled brain, beads of sweat forming on his temples along with goosebumps all over his neck. Oh no. Oh no no no no, please no changes in gravity. He's going to die, he's going to fucking die!
"Hm. Indeed, a sensible objection," The bushy eyebrow guy destroys the last remnants of his hope, addressing the rest of the crowd with a nod. "So, if everyone is mostly finished with our latest pose, we'll now do a standing one, with less time, so make sure to focus on rough shapes and action lines before adding finer details. I've said this lots of times before, but finishing a job messily is better than not finishing it at all."
"Alright." The professor, he really ought to stop staring at his eyebrows, turns to look at him. Kei doesn't try to smile anymore, just not look like he's on the verge of throwing up, fainting, or having an anxiety attack, all of which are challenging enough. "Would you please assume a standing position, feet at shoulder width?"
Kei nods and does as instructed, despite every fiber of him screaming at the gravitational shift. His abdominal muscles strain as he tightens them for a sliver of security, making him briefly wonder if, even without the obvious desperation tells, his body has tensed in such a way that a student who's indeed looking for "finer details" could easily tell that he's holding back what feels like ten liters of boiling liquid.
He glances down at his pubic area, twisting and kneading his hands behind his back while his lower lip is permanently drawn between his teeth. Thankfully, no blood has been rushing to any places besides probably his face, and his abdomen still looks mostly flat save for a slight, barely noticeable swell between his hipbones.
Only eight minutes are left, and he's hanging by a thread. His hands continue to twist wildly, nails scraping across his skin again to give him some physical sensation to focus on that isn't his thrashing bladder. Sweat is rolling down his face now, tickling the back of his neck, and despite him doing his absolute hardest to stop, his body won't stop trembling. He needs to go. Oh fuck, he needs to go. Why did he agree to this? Why did he think that anything that Kuroo and his owl friend come up with for him to do is an idea worth following? Why did he drink that stupid probably diuretic sports drink? Why did he have to make an already stressful situation twenty times more stressful just to avoid five minutes of mild embarrassment? Why why why?
He's caught in yet another spiral of regrets and self-loathing until a spasm makes his insides convulse, a hot surge of need followed by the very familiar feeling he often gets when he's struggling to tear down his pants in front of the toilet after arriving home already in dire straits, a feeling usually followed by a pulse of liquid spilling into his underwear, only that he's not wearing underwear now so there'd be nowhere for his output to go but on the nice wooden floor between his feet, in front of a few dozenth students who didn't consent to a spontanous demonstration of liquid physics.
Panic seizes him, his perfectly straight pose faltering, his life and every mistake he's made to get him into this position flashing before his eyes. His right hand jerks up, the other one gripping his left thigh for dear life as his knees buckle and squeeze together without him being able to do a single thing about it. "Professor?" His voice is all but a whisper, impossible to hear, so he tries again, vocal cords straining. "I-...Professor!"
"Are you not feeling well?" The man eyes him with genuine concern. "We only have five minutes to go, but if it's something serious, you're of course free to-"
"I'm sorry, it's just a cramp. I'm not used to staying in the same position for that long." His mouth moves on its own, and he listens to himself talk as if watching a distant, alternative version of himself, calm, collected, like an engine composing the very last of its power, running on nothing but fumes and prayer. "I think it'd help if I cross my legs."
"Oh, please do. We haven't been practising crossed legs poses enough. Those are very tricky to draw because of the perspective." The professor nods, earning a few groans from the crowd and the noise of erasers rapidly swiping across several sheets. "You've been doing a great job, so don't worry. This has happened to many of our models."
If only you knew, Kei can't help but think, and he has to bite back a whimper of surprisingly intense relief as the act of crossing his legs, creating a makeshift pin without having to utilize his fingers, helps so much that despite him still needing to go so so badly, he feels confident to last the remaining five, now four-and-a-half minutes.
He can do this. He'll make it to the end. Like the professor has said in a completely unrelated context, finishing a job messily is better than not finishing it at all.
Finally, the lesson ends, but Kei hesitates to make a move, terrified that doing so too quickly would cause his bladder to spill over and force him to wet himself in front of all those people anyway, so he waits, takes a few shallow breaths to test the waters before untangling his legs. He must've not done it slowly enough because as soon as he's not "pinned" anymore, his bladder cramps again, a thin rivulet rolling down the inside of his thigh. A yelp dies in his throat due to a sudden lack of air, and he hurries to turn on his heel, plugging himself with his hand now that he's not in view anymore and speed-walking to the blessed sanctuary that is the space behind the curtain.
Once there, his eyes catch sight of a metal bin standing in a corner, invading his brain with vivid fantasies of him grabbing said bin and doing unspeakable things to it. He's already naked; it'd be so easy, and make so much more sense than putting clothes on just to run to the bathroom where he'd have to at least undo his pants all over again.
The main thing that stops him from lowering himself to this state is that it would be very audible, not to speak of the mess he'll be forced to clean up without a witness. No. He pushes that thought away, staggering to his chair like a furless baby deer just learning how to walk. He's come so so far without humiliating himself, save for one moment of losing his composure; he's not going to ruin that now by being impatient.
Sitting on the very edge of the chair, he puts on his socks first, then his underwear, grimacing at the dampness from his earlier leak. It feels ridiculous to put it on only for it to instantly get wet, but walking out butt-naked isn't an option either. As he pulls his jeans up, squeaking and gasping at the newfound shockwave of desperation that makes his knees buckle once more, he's forced to make a decision. Pulling the zipper up halfway is doable, barely so, but no way in hell is he touching that button.
His shirt and hoodie are supposed to come next, but he'll have to remove his glasses first, put both pieces on and then his glasses again so he won't trip or crash straight into a wall, and all that proves to be too much, so he stuffs his remaining clothes into his backpack, hurls it over one shoulder, and hightails it out of the lecture hall. He's glad that he's decided to wear slip-on sneakers instead of ones that have to be tied first because he'd rather run out barefoot than spend another second not getting the relief that he so feverishly craves, or worse- getting relief, but at the cost of his dignity and ability to continue studying at this prestigious college without a paper bag on his head.
After a painfully long trek down the hall, with a hand permanently glued to his front, he barges into the vacant restroom, whining in anticipation as he tugs at the waistband of his unzipped pants, a mere three steps from the closest urinal. He trips, stumbles, heaving a dry sob- his legs choosing the worst time to refuse to cooperate. Please, just a little further, just a tiny bit further, please please please! Another leak breaks loose, spraying his hand and the damp spot inside his underwear before he's close enough to redirect it into the bowl without splashing his shoes or the perfectly white floor tiles.
His eyes water, mind swirling as the sharp hiss and familiar plinking of a stream- his stream- against the porcelain hits his ears, a cringy but vivid symphony of freedom. Yes, yes, yes, yes! Fuck, he made it. He fucking made it. It's all over. It's finally over!
"Ahhh..." His body slumps, wobbles, forcing him to widen his stance as his legs continue to tremble. His heart rate, which has reached a crescendo up until now, drops rapidly. His breathing normalizes at a slower rate, but steadily, lulling him in. He's so caught up in that sweet, delicious euphoria, having avoided embarrassing himself and the raw pleasure of finally peeing, finally, finally being allowed to, that he barely registers the door that he hadn't bothered shutting sliding open to the sound of lazy steps.
"Yoo, Tsukki." A familiar deep, scratchy voice echoes in the small room, joined by a no less familiar whistle and a laugh, though not of the malicious kind. "What's that outfit for? Already missing summer? Eh, if anyone can afford it, it's you."
Kei doesn't have to look aside to know that Kuroo is shooting him his trademark grin while he proceeds to break several unspoken rules of the men's room, unleashing a modest waterfall into the urinal to his right. At any other time, Kei would freak the fuck out, blush a hundred shades of crimson, and curse himself for not locking himself in a stall like he usually does. Yet, he can't bring himself to do any of that now, even when his brain makes sense of the "missing summer" part of Kuroo's remark.
After the drama he'd survived, a true near-death experience as any worse outcome would've led to his forever doom, it really truly can't get worse, and all he wants to do now is reap his rewards by letting himself relax as relief fills out every crevice of his mind. No one, not even Kuroo, can ruin that for him. He'll never know what it'd be like to suffer like he just did. Fuck, he did so well; he deserves to feel good now!
"Aww, completely absorbed," Kuroo resumes his playful teasing, which would make Kei roll his eyes if he were able to move them consciously. "I know that feel. Speaking of feelsy stuff, isn't the art thing happening today? Are you nervous?"
"No, we're already done." Kei bites his lip, sore from how much he's been nibbling and sucking on it, frowning. He was going to ignore Kuroo's attempts to entangle him in a conversation, not feeling rude because bathrooms aren't a place to have small talk in, but the words slip past his filter anyway. "And I wasn't nervous. It was fine."
"See? I knew with that naturalist hobby of yours, this gig would be a breeze."
"A breeze is a bit much," Kei mutters, barely audibly over the striking sound of both of their releases, his own winding down into a lot less aggressive but still relatively heavy flow. The dumb sports drink had definitely added to the urgency, its chemical compounds irritating his bladder, and with how much he's expelling, it was definitely more of a case of waiting too long, not a psychological response triggered by nerves only.
"And, by the way, the term is naturist. A naturalist is someone who specializes in identifying and cataloging plants and wild animals. That's a completely different thing."
"But isn't that basically what you're studying?"
"So?" Kei makes a face, frowning harder as Kuroo starts laughing like a hyena, but he's not really mad. He's too relieved to be mad, too damn satisfied, even if he can't afford to show it in the company of one of his senpais...or anyone else, really.
Not peeing yourself during a job doesn't seem like a thing one should be proud of. Yet, against all rationality, his hypercritical inner voice, and the knowledge that he'll lie awake in bed hours from this moment, thinking back and convulsing in a bout of shame because how dare he be fluffy about the outcome of drama this stupid, he can't help but bathe in the flush of endorphins, aware of their fleeting nature and even more eager to grab onto them, greedy after being deprived of good feelings for so long.
"Whatever." Kuroo sighs loudly as his own flow fizzles out, and even though Kei doesn't want to look, he can see him shiver from the corner of his vision. "It was nice to talk to you once more before the weekend. And, of course, I'm glad everything went well with the nude modeling. Not that I expected anything to go wrong, mind you."
If only you knew, Kei mouths to himself and his ongoing flow that's now all but a trickle. He exhales through his nose, eyes fully closed, his spine tingling. Oh, if only he knew that being in his birthday suit was by far the least difficult part about that gig.
Shortly after Kuroo has left for good, the trickle stops, giving him some more time to reflect on recent events without a certain someone questioning him for spacing out. Did all that really just happen, and did he survive it with his dignity mostly intact? It feels surreal, like a dream or a movie that he walked into the wrong theater for. Just earlier, standing on that stage of hell, he felt like he was living his last moment on earth.
After washing his hands and splashing his still flushed face with cold water, Kei inspects himself in the mirror, only now remembering that he should at least put his shirt on before leaving, and probably the hoodie too if he doesn't want people to stare at the goofy print. It's almost funny how quickly one gets used to a state of even partial undress, but who would know this better than him, the silly natur(al)ist who's more ashamed of secretly liking cute shirts, or telling people that he needs a toilet break, than walking around with his junk and butt out in front of those very same people.
It's more sad than funny, but as he pulls the fluffy purple hoodie, his favorite out of all the purple hoodies he owns, over his head, a small laugh escapes him anyway.