bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

This should have been fine. Case took his clothes off in public all the time. Shirtless at the skatepark, at parties, throughout the summer when the heat was unrelenting and he wanted his body to breathe. Boys were allowed to strip and be half-naked in public; shame-free about low muscle tone and patchy body hair and exposed nipples. Case looked up to the plaster ceiling, into the dim, yellow light; if he lied to himself, he could believe he was staring into the sun as it hung in the sky on a lazy, August afternoon.

Maybe if you do this, the voice said hopefully, Sir will let you go home?

Maybe. The thought allowed him to blink back the burning threat of tears. He wasn't going to cry. Wasn't going to give Sir the satisfaction of seeing him crack. This was fine. Case exhaled. Steady, even. Composed. He nodded, yes, I can do this.

Sir nodded back, the corner of his mouth twitching with satisfaction. He swept his tongue over his cracked bottom lip. Wet tongue was replaced with sharp incisor, nibbling and toying. "Take off your clothes."

Case lifted the hem of his hoodie, pulling the sweatshirt over his head. The shirt underneath carried along with the static, raising and exposing his bare torso. Belly-button and ribcage flashing peek-a-boo. He quickly pushed the shirt back down. No, not yet. Not until he was ready.

Sir remained mute. Watching. Apparently unbothered by the delay.

Case paused, not sure what to take off next. He tugged at his shirt, because that was how he normally got undressed, but suddenly felt sick at the idea of his top half being completely naked. Maybe because, for the first time, he knew he was about to be objectified. This wasn't like undressing in the gym locker room, surrounded by other guys. It definitely wasn't like getting undressed in front of Hannah, the giddy-nervous-hormonal prelude to sex. This felt wrong. Dirty. The wrong kind of dirty. Tainted . . .

He moved his hands down to his pants.

Blood pounded inside his skull. Fluid whooshed in his ears.

He hooked his thumb into his waistband.

Tight—his chest was too tight. Crushing his heart, his lungs.

One swift motion and his sweatpants were pooled around his ankles. Pants off, underwear on. Okay . . . okay, this is happening.

Goosebumps crawled over his exposed skin. Every hair on his body—the coarse leg hair, the peach fuzz across his torso—stood on end, needle straight against the stagnant basement air.

He held up the sweatpants, smoothing them with a gentle shake. Vertigo played with his senses, making him feel dizzy-drunk. Sir's gaze penetrated under his skin, magnetizing, silently calling for him to look up, come closer.

Don't do it, he told himself, fighting the urge by folding his pants. Don't give him the satisfaction.

Keeping his head down, he dropped the rolled-into-a-lumpy-bundle sweatpants onto the discarded hoodie. Two down, two to go. He inhaled, long and deep through his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing. His head now felt like a helium balloon attached to his shoulders, listlessly bobbing in the air.

He's not going to touch you, reaffirmed the voice. He's not going to touch you, not unless you ask for it.

Okay, he thought back, finding comfort and strength in the darkness. Okay. Here it goes.

Case lifted his shirt over his head. His fluffy hair bloomed with static. His expressionless face bloomed with embarrassment. Fabric left his body, and for a short moment, it felt like his soul left, too. He held up the thin material—still warm with his body heat—like a white-cotton shield.