The following is a preview from my in-progress writing project. While I have done a couple of proof-reading checks, there may still be gramatical, spelling, or continuity errors that I have yet to iron out. If you know Lalli, feel free to notify him of any such issues you may find.
Elouan taps the front desk anxiously. This is not the job he had imagined when he moved into the city, following some impersonal script to talk to strangers in the front of a workshop. It felt as if his dreams of engineering had been dashed upon the cold reality of logistics.
He is far more suited to machines than people, why wouldn't anybody else see that? Working here he would speak to more strangers in a day than he'd meet in a year back when he lived in the countryside. There was no room for familiarity, no time to become acquainted, just a constant cycle of performing a formal politeness until either party had gotten what they wanted.
In a way the entire city had felt like this; you would meet so many strangers so constantly that if you ever made even a little time for them, you would never have time for yourself. And so it was that nobody reached out to a stranger, and nobody had reciprocated when Elouan tried to reach out himself, not even his colleagues at work.
It is the beginning of summer. Almost a month into this job Elouan had found himself unable to see eye-to-eye with the other boys and men of the workshop. The one time he had joined them for after-work drinks Elouan had found himself talked over and struggling to add anything to their conversation. He would have left were it not for the company of Lucile, the sole woman amongst his coworkers, who had made a point of enquiring about the boy and making him feel at least a little included. She must have been a bit lonely, he supposes.
She is an odd girl, probably a decade Elouan's senior, with a tough, humourless demeanor that she only seems to let down around him. At first his immature mind had interpreted that vulnerability as some kind of exciting and wild affection directed at the boy, but he recognises now that what she felt for him was far closer to a sisterly care. For some reason that feels a lot nicer.
The boy's train of thought is disrupted by a fist tapping against the side of his head, as if imitating knocking on a door.
"Can you hear me? Elouan?" It's Lucile, the boy looks over in mild bewilderment. "It's dead today, I don't think we're getting any more customers so I'm gonna close up early."
"Does that mean I can go now?"
"It means you can help me pack up, and then you can go."
The pair make quick work of the front of the shop, Elouan sweeps as Lucile tidies up the desk. This job would usually be down to just him, so she must really want to get out early.
"What's this?" Lucile asks, waving a little wire-bound notebook.
"That's my sketchbook, don't look in there - aghhh!" She's already flicking through the pages. His sketchbook is a private document. It's not that he doubts his ability as an artist - much - but more so that this sketchbook does not represent the best of his work. It is a place for doodling and experimentation, not quality work, and as such he never shows it to anyone.
"Elouan, these are really good."
"N-no, they're just sketches, they're completely unfinished. Not presentable at all."
"Sure, but they're good sketches. You've got a really good sense of proportion." Elouan doesn't say anything else, he just stands in a feeble pose with his head down and his hands fiddling. "How long have you been doing this for?"
"Um, since I was a kid. Maybe fifteen. I paint sometimes but I'm no good at it, I still have a long way to go." As he replies she continues to flick through, pausing now and then to soak in the details of a particular page.
"Did you know there's a life drawing class that runs near here?"
"Life drawing?" He tilts his head inquisitively.
"Yeah, a bunch of artists meet up to draw models and stuff, apparently it's very good practice."
"Oh. Thank you, but I don't think I would get much from that."
"What do you mean? You want to improve right? It could make you a lot more confident."
"No thank you. I've always worked best alone, without other people breathing my neck telling me what I'm doing wrong."
"I think you might be misunderstanding how an art class works." She's probably right but he doesn't want to admit it. "Please can you just try it, at least? You just have to go tonight, just this once to see what it's like, you don't even have to stay until the end."
"I'll think about it."
"Thank you. You know I'm only grilling you about this because you need it, right?"
"Right."
"It doesn't take a genius to see you're lonely, I just think you need a push is all."
She is right about that. The girl is only trying to help him, very selflessly in fact. Since moving here she's the only person who's ever really looked out for him. He feels a twinge of guilt for arguing with her.
"Lucile?" He asks.
"Yes?"
"I'll go. Thank you for telling me about it."
The boy isn't sure if he sincerely meant that. Once he gets home the day starts to crawl by, the thought of the art class looming in his mind as he considers whether it's actually worth going or not. By the time the evening arrives he's bored out of his mind, and wanting to make good on his promise to Lucile, he reluctantly packs his sketchbook and a bag of art supplies and heads out.
It is a brief walk from his house, no more than 20 minutes, and mostly along the riverside. The cobblestone roads quiet down around this time of day, or rather, its quiet for this city; too late for most people to be leaving work, but too early for anyone to be going out. Elouan watches the shimmering reflections of roofs and chimneys in the murky water below as he walks. He turns off a sideroad away from the river, and before long he's faced with an old looking building, like some kind of warehouse, large and sparingly adorned.
The lobby is empty, and the boy begins to wonder if he had entered the wrong building as he passes through empty staircases and corridors until he sees a light on through the window of a wooden door. He pauses outside it, hearing faint voices and a whisper of music within, and after a nervous sigh he pushes through the doorway and into the room.
It's surprisingly busy inside. Over a dozen young adults wearing modern looking clothes mingle, leaning on the walls or sitting around in a circle of chairs surrounding an empty daybed, a few have already set up easels. To the side a record player sits on a sturdy wooden table bellowing out a gentle tune, by its side there are reams of paper and boxes containing charcoal, pencils, sharpeners and various other artistic implements. No need for those, Elouan thinks, he was smart enough to bring his own familiar charcoal stick.
Unsure what to do with himself, Eloaun sits on a chair placed as strategically far away from anybody else as possible. He stays there for a few minutes, fidgeting as he sits, before realising he doesn't have an easel, so he stands up, walks across the room, and takes one from a stack in the corner. Typically he wouldn't use one of these, preferring to hold a sketchbook on his lap, but almost everyone else seems to have one. He looks around for a clock, feeling like the drawing should have started by now, but as he scans the room it gets quiet.
A well dressed girl emerges from a side-room. The others don't seem to take notice of her as much as they take her presence as some sort of signal. They all shut up and find their seats, and as they do so another girl standing to the side who barely looks older than Elouan speaks.
"We're starting now, the timer will be set to twenty minutes." She declares, twisting the dial on a sturdy looking mechanism before finding a seat herself.
Eloaun's attention is drawn to his subject, naturally. He usually prefers to spend a few brief minutes studying by eye before he puts anything to paper or canvas, building a mental image. He hadn't noticed when she walked in, but she's a rather pretty girl, with orange hair and a lanky build. She doesn't wear heels but she's noticeably taller than Elouan, which gives her a graceful if not slightly imposing presence. She sits down reclined over the daybed, with her back propped up by the cushions so her head is level. One arm rests by her side while the other holds the side of her face. The girl is wearing simple black shoes and a green sleeveless dress with a delicate golden trim over a petticoat, both ending just below her knees to give way to white knee-socks bound with ribbons at the top. On her top half she wears a simple white ruffled blouse under the dress with a scarf draped loosely over her collar. Loose, ginger locks spill down to her shoulders.
Elouan stares, he can't seem to stop it. He commands his head to move but his eyes stay fixed on the girl. Perhaps it's her outfit, or the sharp features of her face, or maybe her expression. It's a sort of bored, detached emotion she exudes, raw and graceless in contrast to her perfect makeup and elegant pose. Maybe it's the hair, he thinks, he's always been unusually weak to deep orange hues like her own. This is embarrassing, he thinks, something about this girl overpowers his better judgement and his mind races in a childish, hormonal manner.
Before he can get a grip on himself, the girl looks without moving her head, drawing her eyes towards him. Is he staring too much? Immediately he hides behind his easel, face burning red with surprise and shame. Why is this happening now? The last time he had feelings like this for a girl, so violent and sudden, he couldn't have been older than twelve, and even that wasn't so disarming. This is unbecoming of him. He thinks back across the last few months, he's been alone a lot since moving here, perhaps his biology is simply reacting to a lack of stimulation.
Elouan sighs quietly, he's barely just arrived and already he's creating an awkward atmosphere. Perhaps coming here was a mistake. Nevertheless, he steels himself and peaks from behind the easel. Realising the timer had already run halfway while he was overthinking, he joins the rest of the room in scribbling away, trying not to stare too long or too hard.
He feels like he's being watched, hyper-aware of every sound and movement around him. It's impossible to not feel remarkably out of place here, surrounded by people who know exactly what they're doing. He takes a glance of the drawings beside him, a charcoal piece capturing the subject in negative space, and a fine looking sketch made using some kind of thin grey instrument Elouan has never seen before. Both are leagues better than anything he could produce.
The next hour passes agonisingly slowly. Every few minutes the timer rings, and everybody stops what they're doing as the girl shifts to the next pose before it starts again. The sketches Elouan produces are tolerable and nothing more, capturing her form and the broad shapes her clothes make, but all the faces are indistinct and underworked. The timer rings a final time and the drawings stop.
By the time he's stood up everyone seems to have already started moving, forming little groups and making conversation. The orange haired girl talks to another girl, at least she's too occupied to notice Elouan. He slowly paces towards a group of boys who look only a little older than him. For a minute or two he stands a short distance away from them, hoping by some miracle that their conversation will leave some gap he can insert himself into, some opportunity to be seen and heard, but it never comes.
Before he realises what he's doing. He hastily packs his bag and leaves the door, walking quickly through the corridors, down the stairs, and out of the front door into the cool air outside.
The walk home is tense and cold. Pacing quickly, his arms cross and in frustration and shame he digs his nails into each bicep. The sky has darkened, turning the river into a pool of shimmering black. He had brought a coat but despite the midsummer drizzle he couldn't bring himself to stop walking and put it on. Each minute his clothes soak slightly more and his skin grows colder underneath.
By the time he arrives at his house he's practically running up the stairs. He slams and locks the door behind him as he reaches his room, and plunges under the covers of his small bed, not even sparing a moment to peel off his damp clothes. He tries to wipe his face dry, but moments later his cheeks are wet again with warm streaks running from his eyes.
The end of Summer brings with it a light chill and a thin blanket of clouds, pleasantly stable and temperate in contrast to the heatwaves and rainfall of the last few months. Elouan has always appreciated the stagnancy and safety of this time of year, even if it inevitably preludes the cold and darkness of Winter.
Work has been just as stagnant; in the months since taking up his job the boy has remained working the front of the workshop, and has become quite proficient at. He communicates to clients efficiently and systematically, often able to tell what their requests will be before they can finish. He still carries a small sketchbook with a pencil even at work, practicing his drawing when he has nothing else to do.
It is a quiet morning, and Elouan is once again considering producing his sketchbook to attempt to draw the interestingly shaped valve Lucile left on the counter. Ultimately he has no particular interest in producing art of valves or any other mechanical component for that matter, but its form eludes him, daring him to try to capture its odd curves and grooves.
He is about to reach under the desk when the front door opens, its little bell beckoning the arrival of a well dressed man accompanied by a young looking servant. As the man explains, he is from the architectural guild, who require maintenance on one of their computational engines. It strikes Elouan as odd that they would come all the way down the hill to this side of town just to find a mechanic, until he reveals that the engine is a particularly old and niche model, and that this is the eighth workshop he has visited since the start of the week.
This request, fortunately, is far beyond his knowledge to address, so he calls for Lucile so that she may use her years of expertise to resolve it. When the man re-explains his issue to her she lights up.
"Elouan this is perfect!" She says. The boy is confused. "You've been wanting to get away from the front desk for a while now right?"
"Yes?"
"I need you to go with him and check some details, I should still have the documentation for this model somewhere. The manufacturer went out of business years ago but I've worked on a couple of these machines before."
"Shouldn't you go, if you know what you're doing?"
"Oh no, I'm far too busy to leave the workshop right now. Besides, all you have to do is cross-reference it with some diagrams. Once we're sure exactly what model it is and what modifications have been made I'll take over."
There doesn't seem to be an escape from this. Elouan forces a smile and follows the man out of the door, giving a final sad glance towards that weird valve he couldn't draw.
He isn't sure how they intend to reach the architectural guild from here - they operate from the old castle on top of the hill, probably over half an hour from here even by tram. After walking for a brief few minutes his doubts are put to rest by a bizarre sight: a small, modern looking airship landed in the middle of a grassy square. Surely this can't be within regulations, he thinks, they must be running on an immensely tight timetable to justify this.
It is an odd craft, smaller than Elouan had thought was even possible for an airship, very unlike the hulking metallic giants he would occasionally see flying over the farmlands as a child. Strangest of all, the cabin appears disproportionately large for the lifting body, taking up maybe a quarter of the ship's volume and suggesting an extremely efficient and compact induced lift system. Or at least that's his best guess. The adornments further reflect this glimpse at a next-generation craft, all sleek ridged metal with minimal decorative elements, instead imposing a sense of style and grace through intricate paintwork across its sleek form.
Bewildered by the whole ordeal, the boy gingerly walks up the short steps to the airship's cabin, and the servant closes the door behind him. Before he can get his bearings, Elouan feels a distinctly uncomfortable dropping sensation in his gut as the airship lifts off the ground. He'd felt something similar before the couple of times he'd used one of those new "elevators", but those were mercifully enclosed, insulating him from the sheer vertigo of seeing streets and buildings shrink away beneath his feet. The airship lifts higher and the feeling does not subside, but the boy can't seem to pry himself away from the window. Even as he moves upwards and away the city only seems to grow; row after row of towering buildings revealing a vastness he could never have appreciated from the ground.
It is a brief ride, only a few minutes until they reach the great castle on the hill. The view is strange from up here, so different from the imposing impression it makes from the streets below. Far in the past this building was designed as a symbol of strength and imperial might, the man from the guild explains to him, supposed to instill fear in its enemies and confidence in its occupants, but it has long since surpassed its original purpose. Decades of changing hands and renovations has twisted its form, pipes and wires run across battlements into modern-looking extensions.
Not a moment after they disembark the ship, the man begins explaining the role of the computational engine to Elouan as the pair walk through the busy halls of the castle, weaving in and out of a flood of staff and servants. The crowds thin as they work through the building and down into its basement. The air grows cold and dry, the thick stone walls give the impression of being deep underground, despite still being at one of the highest points in the city.
They stop at the entrance to a secluded room housing the computational engine. This engine, as the man explains, is vast enough that it takes up the entire room; the walls around the boy are actually the insides of the machine. A dull churning noise fills the space. Hastily, he hands Elouan a metal tube containing the documentation before abandoning him to his own devices.
Usually a client would have somebody on hand to explain the task, Elouan thinks to himself, but then again this is exactly why his company was called forth; this engine is ancient, it could even be older than himself, and it was not a popular model at the time. It will surely take a frustrating amount of time to learn how the machine works before he can even begin to diagnose what's wrong with it. He sighs and twists open the tube full of papers.
There are times when Elouan doubts his choice of profession, days can pass where he does nothing but talk to customers and stare at the clock, but the times when he actually gets to work on machines make him remember why he took this path. In that state minutes will blend together into hours as he pours over diagrams and meticulously disassembles, mends, and reassembles intricate works of engineering. He finds himself in one of these flow states as he studies the computational engine, the arcane documentation gradually aligning with his understanding of the physical object in front of him as he tinkers.
"What does that do?" A voice calls out from over his shoulder and makes him jump. Standing behind him is a boy in servant's clothes, bent over so his head is almost level with the young engineer. Elouan must have been so deep in his work that he hadn't noticed his approach. The boy looks about the same age as him, but a little taller with pale skin and dusty green eyes. Strands of red hair poke out from under his hat and draw back into a neat bun.
"It's for uh... calibrating," Eloun says, showing him the tool he was using - a sort of cupped device on a tube somewhat similar to an alchemist's stethoscope in both form and function. The boy marvels at it wordlessly and Elouan looks back skeptically, he had been sent here to do his job, not make smalltalk. "I'm sorry, can I help you?"
"Oh, no. Just curious. I'm around these machines all day but I have no idea how they work."
"Well, they're not as complicated as they look."
"Yeah?" The boy, whoever he is, sounds unconvinced.
"Yeah, you see that row of disks there?" The redhead nods as Elouan speaks. "This whole room is basically just an array of hundreds of these, maybe thousands, connected together. So if you know one of them works, it's pretty easy to understand the entire machine."
"Right, but I don't even understand how one of them works."
"Right." He repeats back, sensing that a greater technical explanation will be lost on the boy.
The boy smiles again, then sits down on the floor next to Elouan, his legs sideways across the ground as he props himself up against the wall in a manner that feels unbecoming of a servant. He narrows his eyes.
"Have we met before?"
Elouan is taken aback by the sudden closeness and change of subject. The boy clearly has no intention of letting him return to his work.
"I don't think so? I mean I've only been living here for a few months and it's not like I've met many people. I'd probably remember." As he's speaking the boy leans forward and reaches out his hand. Elouan freezes as he brushes the brown hair of his drooping fringe away from his eye.
"Hmm," he still has a probing look to him, "you have distinctive eyebrows."
"Eyebrows?"
"They're very dark and thick, it makes you look serious."
He feels a twinge of confusion, what's this guy's problem? Sitting on the floor and messing with a stranger's fringe. Elouan usually hates anybody touching his hair, half the reason he let it get so long in the first place is because he hated haircuts, and his parents can't force him to get them anymore. He'd rather just trim the ends himself than sit through his hair being yanked and turned for an hour. This boy must have a poor sense of boundaries to not see the discomfort he's putting Elouan through. The brunet feels his face redden, probably from frustration.
"Wait, were you on that airship?" He asks, suddenly recalling the other red haired boy he'd seen earlier today.
"Yes, I was at your shop too."
"Oh". Elouan says. That's right, there was a servant boy with the man who came into the workshop.
"You're not too observant are you?"
"I umm, try to keep to myself." He says, awkwardly. Elouan is terrible with faces, he rarely pays attention to other people, always stuck in his own world. This precise scenario happens frustratingly often, it's embarrassing.
The boy gives him a deeply serious stare. His eyes narrow and his mood seems to drop for maybe a second, before he bursts out laughing, which seems odd because Elouan hadn't said anything funny. It's kind of a cute laugh, and a little infectious. Elouan inexplicably finds himself smiling, feeling a little less self-conscious.
"Hey what time do you get your lunch?" The subject has changed again.
"Not until noon." Eloaun looks around the room. "Do you know what time it is?"
The redhead rummages around in his trouser pocket and produces a thick metal shell about the size of his palm.
"12:25." He reads from it before stuffing the timepiece back in haphazardly. "Come with me, I know a good spot."
Before he can think of some excuse to say no, the boy stands up, grabbing a startled Elouan by the wrist and pulling him stumbling out of the door. They exit the basement level to an empty hallway. He walks with the type of brisk confidence that comes from a deep familiarity of a building, straying occasionally from the bigger main corridors to take shortcuts across narrow passageways and winding spiral staircases, making idle chatter all the while. The boy, still holding Elouan's wrist, pushes through a plain wooden door opening up to a small grassy courtyard with a large oak tree in its center.
It is almost disconcertingly quiet compared to the bustling halls inside the castle, the thick stone walls doing a commendable job of blocking out any noise. The wind above them whistles softly, but it does not reach low enough to rustle the leaves of the tree.
"You have something to eat right?" The redhead asks.
"Yeah, in my bag." Which is fortunate. He definitely should have asked Elouan this question before dragging him all the way over here.
"I've got these." he says, producing a pair of satsumas from his pocket, then sitting at the foot of the tree to start unpeeling it. There are no benches in this courtyard, so Elouan joins him on the roots a few paces away. A courtyard with no seats hardly seems like a "good spot" for lunch, perhaps that is why it is so empty, but that doesn't bother him. He's actually quite fond of sitting on the ground.
Elouan takes out a paper-wrapped flatbread from his shoulderbag. He doesn't mind eating them cold, so for the last few weeks he's been buying them first thing in the morning on his way to work. It also means that he doesn't need to spend his lunch break walking back and forth through town, so he has more time to draw. This morning he bought one with mashed chickpeas, salad, and some brightly coloured pickles.
He unwraps it, but before he takes a bite he's captivated watching the other boy make quick work of his fruit peel with his long, boney hands.
"Random question," he starts, slipping a segment of fruit into his mouth, "have you ever been to any life drawing classes in this city?"
"Hmm? Oh, I did once a couple of months ago." The memory is far from pleasant, he had tried to push it down and forget about the whole thing.
"Only once?"
"Yeah, it sucked. The lighting was bad and everyone there seemed pretty rude. Hang on, how did you know I did art?"
"I think that's where I've seen you before, you were at one of those art classes by the riverside weren't you? A couple of months ago?"
"Ohh, right. I was." The memory is far from pleasant, he had tried to push it down and forget about the whole thing.
"I'm sorry you had a bad time with it. I remember seeing this quiet new boy sitting alone and thinking somebody should probably talk to him."
"Oh." A feeling of bitter regret creeps up on him, he'd probably have gone again if he had someone like this to talk to there.
"That's kind of my bad, sorry, I should have actually gone over and said something."
"We're talking now though."
"Yep!" The redhead beams at him. "And now that you know someone there maybe you could go again?"
"I don't know, it didn't really feel like a place for someone like me."
"Don't be silly, I suck at drawing and they let me in. It's a friendly lot there, if you ever go again I'm sure they'd be more than happy to have someone new around."
Elouan feels a swell of excitement and fear. He's never had anyone to really talk to about art; some friends and family would say nice things about his doodles, but nobody understood it. He'd never had anyone to go to for advice or criticism, this could have a profoundly positive effect on his abilities, if he can pluck up the courage to actually talk to anyone there
"Hey, um," he says, forcing the words out of his throat. "So you go there often right?"
"Most weeks, yeah?"
"If I went again, do you think maybe, you could introduce me to anyone there?"
"Of course! I mean, I can't make it this week, but I can definitely do the week after if nothing comes up. Try arriving early, it's much easier to chat before it gets busy."
"Okay, thank you. I'll do that."
"And don't be nervous."
"Okay." It's a hard ask but he'll try his best.
The redhead stands up and stretches his limbs, letting out a cute yawn. "Well, I've got to go now, got work to do." He says.
"Me too, I'll see you soon I guess?"
"For sure."
"Oh," Elouan realises, "I didn't catch your name?"
"Marcel, and yours?"
"Elouan."
Marcel tilts his head and smiles. "You've got a very pretty name, Elouan. See you soon."
Elouan stands outside the old warehouse building clutching his bag. Over a week has passed since he met Marcel; they'd spoken again each time he visited the castle for work and it'd become something of a little comfort for him. He wasn't there last time though. Elouan ate alone and barely spoke a word that entire day. Hopefully he's just been busy, but the thought that it's something else is what's keeping him from entering the building. He sighs and walks through the door.
Following Marcel's advice he arrived earlier than last time, and when he reaches the makeshift classroom it's only just being set up, a handful of people dragging chairs and tables around. His usual instinct would be to place himself in a corner until the session has started, but remembering what Marcel said about the people here being friendly, he pushes himself to approach the others.
"Do you need any help?" He says rather mechanically to the girl furthest away from the others.
"Oh, umm, yeah actually, could you help me move that table?"
Elouan nods and walks to the table, grabbing one end as she holds the other.
"I don't recognise you," she says, "you got a name?"
"Elouan, and yours?"
"Amelia. I co-run this place so like," she pauses to grunt as the two place the table down by the wall, "let me know if you need any help, okay?"
"Okay." He replies, trying very hard to commit her name and appearance to memory. She's a little shorter than him, with very dark skin and a long black braid that reaches halfway down her torso. "What's the deal with this building," he asks, trying to make casual conversation, "it seems like a weird place for a classroom, and the rest of it looks totally empty."
"Oh this place?" She lights up at his question, like she'd been waiting for someone to ask it. "A long time ago they used to keep horses downstairs, but of course you don't see a lot of those these days, so the last owner sold it to the current owners, who run one of the factories down the river from here. Apparently they reckon that motorcarts are going to get real popular in a few years time, and all the space downstairs is supposedly 'gonna be perfect for putting them together'."
"Motorcarts?"
"Like a horse-drawn carriage but without the horse, or a train without the railway. I also don't get it."
"Uh huh." Elouan says, unsure where this is going.
"So, I used to walk past this building every day on the way to and from work, and I'm always wondering what the point of it is if nobody's ever in it, so one day I catch a guy hanging around the entrance and ask him if he knows anything. Turns out his company owns it, he tells me that story about the horses and motorcarts, and I say 'well if you're just sitting on the land not using it, can I borrow one of the rooms to practice painting in?'"
"And he agreed?"
"Yeah, I thought I was taking the piss asking but as it turned out, his son painted too but he couldn't find a teacher so he just like, let us use it. Then word spread a little, and now two years later we've got a little class of a dozen or so going. It's surprising what you can get by just asking, right?"
"Right." Elouan replies. He's not sure if he's ever asked anything like that of someone before, much less gotten something out of it. "What's going to happen when they start needing to use this building though?"
"Well I'm hoping by then that we have enough people that we can all chip in a bit of money to rent a room somewhere. If there's enough of us it won't be that expensive."
Elouan can't imagine the confidence it would take to set up and run a place like this, but Amelia makes it sound effortless. The two continue talking until the session starts and they split off to find tables. Spotting an interesting looking vase of flowers, Elouan sits down to try to draw them. They look a lot like the kinds of plants that grew around his home town, with straight stalks terminating with round clusters of tiny white flowers. Plants are hardly his favourite thing to draw, but it's a chance to practice his fundamentals; he'd read in a few books that this was important.
He fixes his gaze on the flowers, propping his sketchbook on his thighs and holding it up with one hand while the other draws, his eyes occasionally darting downwards to make sure his charcoal is in the right place. The first couple of sketches are messy and undetailed, which is on purpose. He's just figuring out the shape and proportions before committing to a fuller drawing.
Once his preliminary sketches are done he turns to a new page, slowly building up the form of the flowers while referencing the prior drawings. It's difficult rendering out the tiny heads of the flowers and he wishes he had a finer tool.
"Wow, that's really good!" Elouan looks over to see a girl leant forward with her hands on her thighs, gawking at his half-finished drawing.
He makes a slightly embarrassing squeak out of surprise and confusion. "It's you." He says, it's the girl that was modelling last time. "Hi, um, thank you. It's not finished yet." She stays leaning over, a playful expression adorns her face like she's waiting for him to say something, but before he can, she speaks again.
"So, you recognise me?"
"Of course, I mean- yes, you were modelling the last time I came here." He's surprised that she somehow remembered him, he'd very much kept to himself. She leans back and looks up in the air with an indiscernible expression.
"Oh. Yeah, that was a while ago wasn't it. Hey!" She lights up, "do you still have the drawings you did of me?"
"Uhh, sure, they're somewhere in here." Elouan gingerly replies, flicking through the thick paper of his sketchbook. The boy usually carries two, a smaller pad of cheap paper to scribble ideas and practice on, and a larger one for more focused studies that he takes more pride in. He had drawn this girl in the latter. "They're not very good, but here." He says, pointing to a mess of loose charcoal smears approximating her form.
"These are really nice, I love how you've captured my hair." She pages through looking at the handful of poses he drew her in. "They're very dynamic, you've got a good eye for gesture."
"Thank you, they're really rough though." Elouan feels a little bit of pride, he's glad she noticed. He only started really applying himself to art after he'd left school, and had never had a teacher outside of the library books he'd travel all the way to the nearest town to pick up. As such his style has always been rather rough and improvised, lacking a lot of the refinements that a real, properly trained artist would have drilled in by his age.
"Don't downplay yourself, you're clearly skilled, and if you keep coming here you'll only get better."
She sounds like she means it. A shy smile grows on the boy's face.
"Can I sit here?" The girl asks in a sweet tone, and Elouan replies by gesturing at the chair next to him. The girl sweeps her skirt to the side and sits down, a hand on her chin and looking at him. She has a pretty face - the boy can't help but notice - kind eyes which he struggles to make contact with and a cute nose dotted with freckles. It's framed nicely by her loose flowing orange hair.
There is an awkward pause as Elouan doesn't know what to say. She looks at him with a strange, perhaps skeptical glare which he isn't sure what to make of. It feels suspicious, he isn't used to receiving this kind of active attention, especially from a girl this pretty. Is she expecting him to say something?
"So do you draw as well? Seeing as you're not modelling today."
"Sure, I'm not much of an artist but I dabble, honestly though I'm mostly just here because of a few friends, I definitely model here more often than I actually draw."
"How come, what do you get out of it? Modelling I mean?"
"A sense of value, I guess, and they pay me a little. It's not much, and it can get a bit boring being sat totally still for so long, but it does make me feel very pretty so it's kind of worth it just for that."
"Oh, that makes sense. Sorry for the silly questions, I really don't have much experience with this."
"With life drawing, or modelling?"
"Oh! Haha," he laughs nervously, "life drawing. There wasn't much of a scene for it where I used to live. Though I suppose I've never modelled either," he laughs nervously, "I don't think I'd make a very good subject."
"I mean, you don't need to be good looking to be a model if that's what you're concerned about, life drawing is about having a real life subject more than anything else." She glances up and down at him, making him feel a little disarmed, "not that you would need to worry about that."
Worry about what? Did she mean to say he looked good? He's not entirely sure, but he also can't think what else she could have meant by that. His face feels warm.
"No, ha, I couldn't bear a whole room of people staring at me. But thank you."
"It's not as hard as you think, everyone's far too concerned with their own drawing to have time to judge you, some people even do it naked."
"Naked?" He says in an almost fearful tone. This was also something he'd read about in a couple of art books, but he couldn't imagine being the type of person who'd be comfortable exposing their body in front of that many strangers.
"Don't you know? About half the time they draw nude models here. I'm considering trying it myself."
"You are?"
"Maybe? I'll admit I'm kinda scared though."
"I can imagine, I'd be scared to model fully clothed."
"It's probably not much harder, but it is something new, and I haven't crossed that threshold yet. When I'm wearing clothes I'm showing people exactly what I want them to see, I don't have that kind of control over my body if I'm undressed." Her voice wavers, it sounds to Elouan like she's looking for a little validation.
"Didn't you just tell me that it doesn't matter how the subject looks?"
"I did, but I didn't say I wasn't a hypocrite." She shrugs. "I'm pretty confident in my looks, I know I'm very pretty, but I worry that it'd break the illusion if people saw what I actually looked like."
"I don't see it, I'm sure you'd look just as pretty without-" he stops himself.
"Without my clothes on?"
"Yeah- I mean no, I'm not saying that I- I mean I'm sure you look nice, but I meant to draw. From an artistic perspective." His face is bright red, he stares at his feet. "Sorry, I'm being awkward, I-"
"No, no, it's good." She interrupts in a kind voice. "I'm glad you said that."
"It wasn't weird?"
"Not at all. I think you've given me some confidence, thank you."
"Oh, well, you're welcome." He fiddles with his hair nervously. Someone calls the girl's attention; she gives him a smile and a little wave goodbye and skips off across the room, leaving him alone with his head buzzing and his chest aching.
Elouan feels weak. That bud of obsession he had felt months ago when he first saw this girl, which he had hoped to have left far in the past, was alive and well. His heart is racing, embarrassingly. He had hoped that talking to her would humanise her enough for him to not idolise her, but it just made it worse. She's real and she likes him, at least a little bit.
Why this? Why now? Unable to stop himself, he keeps stealing glances at her from across the room, hoping desperately that she doesn't notice. It's humiliating. The rest of the class passes by agonisingly slowly. When it finally ends he wonders if he should try talking to her again, but a nagging shame and insecurity roots his feet in place. Instead, he says a brief goodbye to Amelia before hurrying home.
It is now the fifth time Elouan has travelled to the castle for work. The architectural guild has been rather accommodating; letting him start late as compensation for the long commute, and even paying for his tram ticket. Marcel's absence the week before was an anomaly. Every lunchtime since he's arrived like clockwork, and the two chatted as they ate in that secluded little courtyard again. This had become something of a habit, it was something of a bright spot in Elouan's week, that he'd look forward to, thinking about Marcel each time he took the train up to work, wondering what he had been up to.
The boy rests with Elouan beneath the tree, sitting close like he did the last time they met. It's weird, Elouan thinks; he had become very used to the distance that adults - especially men - tend to hold from one another, how they'd never sit too close or hug too long. At some point in growing up everyone seemed to eventually reframe physical touch as something uniquely adult and sexual, and so any display of closeness became presumptuous and aggressive. In that way Marcel has the demeanor of someone much younger, as if totally oblivious to the implications of his body-language; it reminded him of being a child, when boys and girls regardless of gender would happily hold hands and rest their heads on one another. Overcome by a feeling of innocent, gentle warmth projecting from the boy, Elouan slides towards him until their shoulders are a breath away from touching.
"I didn't see you at the class last week," Elouan says, unwrapping a flatbread, "I thought you said you were going to be there?"
"What? Didn't you -" Marcel stops for a second, "oh of course, no I had something else going on that night."
"Oh," Elouan sounds a little dejected, "that's unfortunate."
"It is, I'm sorry. Did you find your way around alright at least?"
"Kind of. I'm not used to big spaces full of people like that, and I didn't like not knowing anybody there. I found some people to draw with though, I did a bit of a still life."
"Oh yeah, they love that stuff there, bowls of fruit and such, totally riveting. Who did you meet?"
"A couple of people, Amelia and some others who I didn't catch the names of, or maybe I forgot, I'm not sure. There was this other girl though, she talked to me about life drawing. I think I came off a bit cold but she was really nice."
"I might know her. What did she look like, was she cute?"
"She was uhh, kinda average height, I couldn't really tell, but her hair was ginger, kind of a similar colour to yours, but um, longer and a bit more red." Elouan feels a warmth building on his cheeks. "She was very well dressed too, quite fancy clothes and nice makeup. Very, you know - looked pretty. She sat next to me and we chatted for a while. It was nice."
"Sounds cute."
"Maybe a little" Elouan says in a small voice, and Marcel raises his eyebrows and smirks in response. "What?" He's too flustered thinking about it to look at the other boy, "why do you care?"
"Your voice is all over the place. It almost sounds like you've got a little crush, it's sweet." Marcel says in a tone that Elouan isn't sure is teasing or sincere. He's being bolder than usual today.
"I talked to her once, it's nothing." Elouan feels an embarrassing burning feeling in his cheeks.
"She's called Myra, she goes there quite often, so you'll see her again. Oh wow you do have a crush don't you?" Marcel touches his hand against the other boy's bright-red face, still turned away out of embarrassment as it flushes even brighter.
"Look, I just don't feel like this very often."
"Feel like what? Don't they have many cute girls where you're from?"
"No, not really no. Girls don't usually have that effect on me, I'm kind of surprised."
"What effect?"
"You know..." Elouan murmurs, isn't it obvious what he's talking about? He waves his hands around in a meaningless gesture. "Physical attraction."
"You're not attracted to girls?"
"Not really? I mean I had a girlfriend for a bit when I was younger, but that was because she asked me."
"And people who aren't girls?"
Elouan squints. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The taller boy shrugs. "Just trying not to make any assumptions." There is a moment of silence, then Marcel speaks again. "Really though, you should try talking to her again. The last I heard from her was that she's actually pretty lonely outside of those classes, maybe you two would get along."
"You think so?"
"I can't make you any promises, but, yeah. Probably. There's going to be a life drawing class this week and she hasn't missed one of those in months, so I bet you'll see her there."
"Right."
"So that means you'll get an excuse to stare at her," Marcel says gleefully, "maybe naked."
"Oh shut up."
The taller boy just laughs. It's a cute, honest laugh, and Elouan struggles not to grin at least a little.
"Do you draw then?" He asks, eager to change the subject.
"Ah, only a little, I'm not nearly as good as most people there though."
"What medium do you use?"
"Mostly pencil, a bit of charcoal. Not paint though, not yet."
"Why not paint?"
"You can't erase it. I'd be scared with every brush stroke that I was going to ruin the picture forever."
"Well, if you want to get your strokes right the first time there's really only one way to get better."
"Practice, right?" The redhead says in a defeated tone.
"Yeah, but no matter how much practice you do with a pencil it won't make you good at painting. You have to actually paint to do that."
"But I'm bad at that."
"Right now sure, but if you did a hundred bad paintings then the hundred-and-first one would probably be pretty good."
"Yeah but I really don't want to make a hundred bad paintings," he pouts. "That's humiliating."
"That's learning, I guess."
There is a pause, neither boy knowing quite what to say next.
"Oh, Marcel, you didn't have anything else to eat did you?"
"No, why?"
"I uh, brought you this." Elouan reaches into his bag and produces a second paper-wrapped flatbread. "You said mine looked nice last time, I thought you probably weren't going to have much food again, so you can eat this."
"Oh," he doesn't seem to know how to respond, "thank you." The boy gingerly unwraps his meal, hesitates for a moment, takes a bite, then another, and before long he's finished one of its halves. He smiles in gratitude, a few crumbs still on his face.
"I like you." He says.
"Huh?"
"Elouan, I like you. I want to spend time with you outside of work."
"You- you do?"
"This weekend, I'd like to see you."
"Sure." He's in mild disbelief, nobody's said anything like this to him since he was a kid. "What do you um, want to do?"
"I was thinking about what you said about practice, could you teach me more about drawing?"
"I doubt I'm a very good teacher, I don't think I'd be much help." Elouan starts to say, about to reject the offer, but he doesn't want to. He hasn't made a single friend his age since moving here, or for years before then for that matter. Marcel is a bit strange, but he's nice, the boy talks to him like he's actually interested in what he has to say, he's actually making an effort to spend time with him. "But I can try," he says gingerly, "it could be fun."
Something lights up inside Marcel, a sweet, gleeful look plays across his face.
"Hey so I need to check my calendar before I commit to anything, but are you coming to life drawing again? We could pin down some plans then."
"Yeah? Will you actually come this time?"
"I will, I promise."
"Okay, if you promise. I'll be there then."
He isn't here at all. Elouan feels distinctly annoyed, maybe even betrayed. Usually he'd feel like this was all his fault, like he'd messed something up or misread a sign that wasn't really there, but in the short time he's known Marcel that doesn't seem to be the case. The boy is an airhead, sweet and innocent but clearly disorganised, even more so that Elouan. Maybe he's just late?
Unsure what to do, Elouan fiddles with his collar idly. He wore his nice embroidered shirt with a simple apron over it to keep the charcoal off, wanting to look like he's making an effort, he guesses. It's unclear why he thought Marcel would care. Strangely, he doesn't feel as awkward or scared as the last two times he was here - all the fear and anxiety seemed to bleed away the moment he felt annoyed at the other boy. His spirits lift a little when he spots Amelia; he seemed to get along with her last time, so he approaches to talk to her.
"Um, hiya."
"Hi! You're back again, Elouan right?"
"That's correct, yes. Have you seen Marcel? He said he was going to meet me here."
"Who?" That's strange, he thinks, maybe he misspoke?
"Marcel? A boy about my age, a little taller maybe?"
"Can't say I know anyone here with that name."
This is very strange. He definitely heard her right, but that doesn't make any sense. Something here feels deeply wrong, and suddenly he's anxious again. Well that's fine, he thinks to himself, he's spoken to two different people here now, he doesn't need Marcel here to have a good time. If that boy can't find the time to come then that's his loss.
With the session about to start, Elouan finds a chair and Amelia stands behind an easel, adjusting it to her height. This week is life drawing again; it's only the second time the boy has tried this, including the first time he was here. He's pleasantly surprised to see who's modelling.
Myra enters the room wearing a plain robe, very different from her usual attire, though her face and hair are as pretty and well kept as ever. Her body language is more reserved than he's used to, and Elouan quickly finds out why; as she lowers herself on the daybed to assume her pose, and before the boy has a chance to ponder her choice of outfit she peels her robe off, exposing her delicate body, leaving nothing uncovered except a simple towel draped lazily over her crotch. It seems she had taken his comments to heart.
He cannot look. Elouan was fine with the concept of drawing nude models but this feels wrong somehow. To observe her, Myra, in this state feels like he's seeing something he's not meant to. Hiding behind the easel he silently curses himself. Obviously he wants to look at her, that's the problem; he wants it too badly. Everyone else can stare just fine because they just see her as a subject, so in a backwards way Myra could realise how obsessed Elouan is with her not because of how he's looking, but how he's too scared to look. The last thing he'd want is for her to think he's got feelings for her, so he has to look. He has to stare to prove that he doesn't want to stare.
Peaking out again, the boy observes Myra's body. There's a certain look on her face, the nervousness from before has slipped away, replaced with a sort of bored comfort. She's laying across the daybed with her back against the rear and her arm over her head. Her orange hair spills in shiny waves past her piercing green eyes and freckled cheeks, then over her shoulders, coming to rest upon her entirely flat chest.
This strikes Elouan as odd. He had gathered before - whether he should have or not - that she must have had rather small breasts, but in reality there's nothing there, just the slightest bumps of muscle and fat dotted with two rosy pink nipples and a smattering of faint freckles. It becomes clearer the longer he looks; her waist is small but not entirely lean, with a gentle layer of fat indented by muscles, and her arms are long and smooth but they look easily stronger than his own. This body clearly belongs to a boy.
It finally clicks: Marcel? Is that really what he meant when he said he'd be here? He had the same shade of red hair - just tied up in a bun - and his androgynous features would look more girly under a simple layer of makeup. He'd be about the same height too, it's definitely him.
He looks at it another way: Myra is a boy? Elouan supposes? She's a very pretty boy, or rather Marcel is a pretty girl?. Elouan hides behind his easel again, waiting for a minute or so to pass before peaking out from the side. Myra, or Marcel, isn't looking anymore, thankfully. He tries to return to his sketch but as he pushes the pencil towards the paper he can't bring himself to make a mark.
His head is in disarray. He'd never seen this type of person before. Heard about it maybe, in cruel jokes and mocking remarks, maybe he'd been called it once or twice by more insecure and masculine boys when he was younger. It's not what he had pictured though; Marcel doesn't look disgusting, not some gross mockery, some parody of a woman or failed man. It's as if he's just a girl that happens to be a boy. His clothes before had fit very well, flattering his already gentle figure, and his face is beautiful. Elouan had thought it was good looking before but something now, perhaps the way his hair frames it, or the subtle makeup, or just the new light he's seeing him in, stirs something deep within Elouan's gut.
The timer rings and Elouan realises he has barely traced an outline of his subject. He barely improves as the session goes on; his lines loose and imprecise, his proportions wonky and uneven. Midway through he notices that he's spending far too long looking at the page and not his subject, the opposite of his usual method, and the results of this are blatant. The frustration only adds to his fluster.
It's a little agonising. The timer rings for its fourth time and Myra adopts a vaguely sensual pose with her eyes softly closed and her arms lifted above her head, exposing the flesh of her armpits. Any other day this would be an excellent opportunity to study the intricate muscle groups around the inner shoulder. Elouan is conscious of his own sweat, and by the time the session is over he feels like he could throw up.
While everyone else is packing up, Elouan just sits there, unsure what to do with himself, paralysed by awkwardness. None of his drawings were particularly satisfying; he flicks through the pages of his sketchbook trying to take his mind off of the situation, but of course it's all pictures of her, so obviously it doesn't help. As if reading his mind, Myra, or rather Marcel, strides right up to him and waves, smiling cutely. He's still naked, wearing nothing but the same towel as before, now tied weakly around his waist.
"Hi, so," he sounds shy, the girly affect to his voice contrasts slightly with his frame, "I took your advice."
"Hi." Elouan says meekly, he doesn't know where to look.
"I almost didn't, I was fretting all afternoon about whether I should do it or not, and then if I did, how much makeup would I wear? And how would I do my hair? And how would I want to pose?" The shyness from his voice is gone now. "In the end I just tried to pretend I was wearing clothes and it was a normal session. I think it went okay?"
"I think so?"
"I didn't look too nervous did I? Or unnatural?"
"I don't think so." He couldn't really tell, he had been far too self-conscious to notice if anyone else looked weird. Marcel continues to look at the boy with a sort of vaguely expecting expression. "Um, so uh, why?"
"Why what?" He replies as if there's nothing at all unusual about the situation.
"You? Her? Myra?"
"I'm Myra, yes."
"Marcel?"
"Hi."
Elouan squints at the redhead in front of him. Her smile - his smile - looks mischievous, but not ill-spirited.
"Is that your real hair?"
"What?" Myra, no, Marcel takes a fistful of red hair into his hand and gives it a couple of sharp tugs. "Of course, I've been growing it out for years." It's definitely real, Elouan has just never seen a boy with hair that long before. It makes sense, it's just hair, but he'd never been imaginative enough to consider anyone actually looking like that, or why they'd do it.
"Are you messing with me or something?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Why did you pretend to be different people?"
"I really thought you'd notice. It's not like I look that different but you really didn't recognise me when you came here the other week. I specifically told you I'd be there and then had a long conversation with you, but you still didn't put it together." Marcel pulls a cute face, "so anyway I thought it would be funnier if I played along."
"I told you before, I'm bad with faces, plus you're doing a different voice."
"It's really not that different." He shrugs. "You figured it out eventually though?"
"Only after you messed around with me for weeks."
"What do you mean?"
Elouan narrows his eyes.
"You got me to call you cute."
"Aren't I?" Marcel puts his hands on his hips and tilts his body, emphasising the curve of his waist.
"What are you expecting me to say? Ha ha, I called a boy cute, aren't I stupid?"
"I'm sorry," Marcel's tone drops, "you sound like you're actually upset"
"Kind of. Sorry, it's just," he has to think, "it's embarrassing, that I didn't recognise either of you." Elouan throws his shoulders up, "I don't know. I feel like an idiot."
"Hey..." the older boy's voice grows softer and deeper, he reaches out but Elouan turns away. "Hey come on, you're not an idiot." Marcel touches the shorter boy's shoulder, making goosebumps run up his arm.
She's still really pretty, or rather he's really pretty. He doesn't know what to make of it, he feels like a fool but he's still inexplicably drawn to the redhead. Even if he tries he can't be angry, just embarrassed and flustered.
"Elouan?" He asks, his voice sincere and maybe a little nervous, "when you said you could teach me, were you serious about that?"
"Of course!" The boy thinks about it. "You'd still like that?"
"Absolutely."
"I mean, I've not really taught anyone before."
"I don't mind."
"And I'm still not that good myself. I could try though, if you want me to?"
"Could you teach me then, please?"
"What like, now?"
"No I mean, later. Were you still okay to see me this weekend?"
"Oh. Okay, yeah, I can do that." His heart keeps pacing, it feels heavy, it's hard to keep track of his thoughts. "I'd really like that. I'm not sure if I have enough space for it though, my room is very small."
Marcel pauses for a moment, twirling a spindly finger around his loose red hair. He would look vulnerable in this state, naked above the waist with only a towel wrapped around his soft hips to keep him modest, but he has an unmistakable air of confidence and comfort.
"How about my place then?" He asks.
"Well I suppose everybody needs to have a hobby." Lucile's teaspoon clinks against the side of her cup as she stirs the drink. "It's not that weird."
"You don't think so?" Elouan sips his tea. Bitter drinks don't do much for him, even this sweeter mint tea feels a little gross on his tongue, but he enjoys something about performing this ritual with his colleague. The very concept of a cafe is still something of a novelty to him: a place to eat food that doesn't really fill you up, and have bitter drinks that don't quench your thirst, but the atmosphere in this one is soothing to him. So maybe that's the point.
It's an aging building, certainly a few decades old, maybe a century, and sitting on the edge between the old town and the more recently industrialised end of the riverside where Elouan works. If the worn red brickwork wasn't enough to give it away, then the brass pipes sprawling along the outside and piercing into the walls betray architecture designed before anyone had even considered you could pump water into a building. In that way it reminds Elouan of home, though few of the spaces where he grew up were this clean or well maintained. There's no dirt on the ground or drafts in the air. Dark viney plants hang either side of intricately metal-reinforced windows, outside of which rest wrought iron tables and chairs that might have been quite nice to sit at were it not so cold and wet this time of year.
A pair of well-off looking girls in school clothes chatter about some book one of them is holding, a couple who can't be much older than Elouan share a bit of cake, and a middle aged man with long dark hair neglects his drink as he stares wistfully out of the window at nothing in particular.
"They do that a lot in theatre don't they?" Lucile interrupts their silence. "Having the men dress as women I mean."
"I guess?" Elouan knows what she means, but he has uniformly seen it used as a joke; shorthand to communicate to an audience that the character is hopelessly undesirable. "That feels different though, they're not trying to look good."
It always struck him as rather mean spirited and uncomfortable; A 'pretty man' is an oxymoron, which is of course the joke behind this sort of performed crossdressing, a joke at the expense of any man who would believe himself to be an object of affection. He's not sure what's meant to be funny about it. "Marcel's not doing it as a joke."
"I think it's quite sweet, most men only seem to put the bare minimum into their appearances, it's very charmless. He sounds cute."
"Maybe. He'd be cute if he was a girl." Elouan tries not to agree with her outright, keenly aware of what the optics of that would be. "Besides, when you talk about men putting effort into their appearance I feel like you're thinking about dresses and makeup."
"You know, Basile dressed like that a couple of times when he was a kid. Obviously he doesn't now, but I think getting to experiment like that is part of why he presents himself very well now." She shrugs. "Maybe Marcel will be like that once he grows out of it."
"Basile? You mean your husband?"
"No, silly, my fiance. Give it a few months." Elouan didn't hear about this man for a while after he met Lucile, but as she's grown more trusting of him she's increasingly bringing him up at every opportunity. It's sweet, he thinks, for a woman to be so openly enthusiastic about a man and not just begrudgingly tolerating him.
"What makes him different then? From other men I mean."
"Oh, simple." She starts counting on her fingers, "he wears clothes that fit properly, he's very clean and uses nice soaps, and he's not scared of putting on a little makeup. If every man did all those things then I bet you'd hear a lot fewer of them complaining about not finding a partner. I wonder why they don't."
"I think they're probably scared, all those things are what people think girls do."
"Probably," she shrugs, "men are terrified of looking like girls."
"Ah, no, I think it's something else, I think they're scared of failing." Elouan explains in a quiet tone, as if this is something he's not supposed to be saying. "If a boy actually tries to look like a girl, he's going to fail. If he puts on a dress and makeup he won't look like a girl, he'll just look like a boy with a dress and makeup. That's why whenever they do that for theater or whatever they're trying to look bad."
Lucile thinks it through in her head. "So if they dress up with the intention to look like a man in a dress, they won't feel like they've failed?"
"Yeah!" He nods and smiles, she gets it. "They don't get upset because they don't look like a girl because they're trying to fail."
"That might be true, but you're assuming that most boys would get sad about not looking like girls."
"I think it makes sense. Every boy goes through a period of wishing he were a girl."
At that Lucile shoots him a really weird look that he can't quite pinpoint the meaning behind. "You know I'm not actually sure if that's true." She says. "Though, could that be why Marcel is doing it?"
Of course. Marcel. That was what he had been asking her about in the first place.
"Well yeah I guess." Elouan mumbles. "But surely if he wanted to be a girl then dressing up would just remind him that he looks like a boy. So he'd avoid it."
"But you thought he was a girl for weeks?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm not sure then."
"You should drink your tea." Lucile points at his cup. "It'll be getting cold."
for the lesson tomorrow, enough for him to deviate from his usual schedule. Steam pours out of the door and windows of the building, dispersing fine mist into the cold Autumn air outside.
It's not that he was never nude around men growing up, it seems to be an inevitable part of bathing, but he'd never been exposed around this many strangers before he moved to the city. There felt like a sort of mutual understanding seeing more or less the same group of bodies year after year, it felt awkward but you got used to it. Now every body he sees is a new one, and every set of eyes around his nude form is a new one. It's impossible to feel comfortable or private.
He shuts off his tap and hangs his towel on top of the wooden panel that half-obscures the bath, then dips a toe into water. It's warm, hot even. Elouan has always preferred his water to be scorchingly hot, right on the border of what he can handle. Since moving here he's gotten to enjoy the sensation a lot more often.
Lowering the rest of his body in, he sighs as the temperature seeps through each layer of skin, fat, and muscle. Bodies have been on his mind, perhaps one in particular. Elements of Myra's form have been etched into his memory through the repeated study and reproduction that drawing demands. Hers, or his, seems to Elouan to be a lot prettier than his own. This body is weak and frail, his unimpressive muscles cling limply to his too-visible bones. Hers is gently toned with a healthy layer of fat; she looks both stronger and softer than him at the same time. It's the sort of body he imagines would be comfortable to hold, or be held by. Far better than his bony frame.
At first he thought he was just attracted to her, but knowing she's a boy has opened another door. An element of jealousy has dug itself in and refuses to leave.
Discretely, he peers out from behind the wooden panel, clinging to the sides of the metal tub as he leans forward. The men here are ugly, the same as always. Each body that passes his glance is too flat, rough skinned, and coated in thick messy hair. Maybe Lucile is right, maybe if they tried a little - took care of their bodies, groomed a little, at least held themselves a little better - then perhaps some of them could have the smallest measure of beauty.
Elouan doesn't find himself pretty, not in the least, but he's aware that most men look worse. The prospect of aging into a body like these ones fills him with a sense of dread that feels like lead in his stomach. He closes his eyes and lowers himself back into the water.
One of the first things Elouan bought when he moved to the city was a wind-up alarm clock. It is a cheap model made of stamped metal with a bell that sounds flat and ugly, but it has been a reliable piece of engineering and now several months after buying it the boy cannot imagine how he managed to get by without one. Rather excitingly the clock has a programmable schedule which Elouan was quick to take advantage of, setting one alarm to set off during his working days, and a second one he keeps muted until he needs to wake up at a specific time on a given day. This is one of these days; the dull bell rings out on the tenth hour of the morning and a well rested Elouan slips himself off of his bed and onto the floor of his room.
Rummaging through his thin wooden draws he locates his best outfit: a cream coloured shirt with an orange jacket over the top, and a pair of gray trousers with no holes, patches, or loose threads on them. He agonises for maybe five minutes brushing his hair back and forth until it is in the most tolerable state he can manage. At least he has a hat to hide the worst of it.
On his way he stops at the baker's to purchase a small bread roll to eat along the way, and stops again further down the road to buy some fruit. In a conversation with Lucile the other day he had learned that citrus fruits were apparently quite essential to maintaining his gums, so he gets a tangerine.
From there he catches a tram heading away from the river and up the hill, the same tram he'd usually take to get to the castle for work. It's a little less busy than he's used to, and the journey seems to pass quickly. He steps off into the clean streets where Marcel lives, and wanders around looking for the address the boy had given him on a scrawled note. When he reaches the house he hesitates for a moment, checking and rechecking the street name, the house number, and the number on the box of chords by the door which are presumably some kind of bell system. Seeing that he has made no error, he pulls the chord, knowing that if the wrong person answers then it's Marcel's fault and not his.
Stepping back as he waits for someone to answer, he admires the architecture. It's a modern building made with modern techniques, sleeker and taller than its neighbours, but still flourished with ornate arches and metalwork that give it an understated regal quality. Plants hang from the small inset balconies and compliment the occasional accent of teal paintwork. It's a little intimidating, so tall and completely out of Elouan's affordability. Maybe one day it could be, if he ever makes something of a career out of his mechanics. Maybe.
From the other side of the door he hears a faint pattering of feet running along a stone floor, and then the door swings open to reveal a pretty red haired boy grinning stupidly.
"Hi." He says.
"Hello, sorry I'm early."
He's dressed like Myra, though it's a more restrained and casual look than Elouan is used to seeing on him; a cute ruffled blouse which puffs out around the sleeves paired with a simple, pleated dark blue skirt that clings to his waist and flows out a little as it goes down, giving him a nice silhouette.
"What are you talking about?" He says. "Come on in."
Elouan follows the boy into the house and through the big empty lobby, up the wide carpeted stairs a couple of flights until they reach the apartment. It's still quite surprising to him how Marcel lives; it's hardly a palace, not even a particularly great apartment, but it is an apartment, which is far more luxurious than anything he's ever had.
Stepping inside, Marcel's room is spacious, with plain furnishings and a much higher ceiling than Elouan's room has. The walls are a pale, washed out green, and the furniture is mostly painted hardwood or black wrought metal. On the far wall there is a tall window and a partly glass door, opening out to a small balcony covered in untamed plants. There's greenery inside too, with a couple of viney plants growing down from shelves, and an assortment of small ferns with thick dark leaves. As Elouan walks through the entrance there is a tiny kitchen to his right, and a wider space to his left ending with a table and shelves and turning around the corner to reveal a double bed with a wardrobe.
"So," Marcel says, plopping himself down on the daybed, "what are you gonna teach me today?"
"Right, teaching." Elouan has to pause for a moment, surprised that the plans he had been fixating on for the last couple of days are now eluding him. "Well I've never actually seen you draw before, so I think it would help me figure out a direction if I can see what your process is."
"What should I draw?"
"I don't know, it doesn't really matter."
"Can I try drawing you?"
"Sure?"
The moment the answer leaves his lips, Marcel grabs a pad of paper and a pencil he'd left on the desk. He spends a couple of minutes scrawling on it, only looking up every now and then to glance at his model. A multitude of expressions race across his face - Marcel generally seems very in control of his emotions, but when he's focusing his face goes all over the place. It feels like Elouan is seeing something quite private. When he's finished he turns the pad to show his young teacher.
"It's not as good as when you draw me."
"Maybe." Eloan says, scanning over the picture trying to piece together the boy's process. "I think you're falling into the same trap that I used to. It doesn't look like you're drawing the object in front of you, it looks like you're drawing the idea of that object you have in your mind."
"You're losing me." He says, pinching his thumb and index finger a hair apart. "Like a little bit."
"Hold your hand there." Elouan commands."
"Huh?"
"Try drawing that gesture you're making."
"Why?"
"I'm trying to make a point, just- just try, it doesn't have to be good."
The boy gives him a slightly confused, impatient glare, but nonetheless he positions his pad of paper on his knee and starts sketching. The result is a lumpy shape with what looks like a thumb and finger with three other digits curled behind them.
"This is great." The young teacher says.
"Really?"
"No - I mean, it looks bad, but that was the point. Why does it look bad?"
"Cause I'm bad at drawing?"
"No, look." Elouan makes the same gesture with his hand and holds it up to Marcel. "You can't actually see my last finger in real life, it's hidden behind the others. You've internalised that a hand is a shape with five other shapes coming out of it, but that's not how it appears in real life."
The boy looks at Elouan's hand, then back at his drawing. "I think I get it."
"Ahh." He exhales. "I'm really glad. I was worried that wouldn't make any sense." The other boy smiles back at him and there's something very sweet-looking about his slightly squinted expression and the flash of teeth between his lips. "Um, so, this might not make as much sense as the last bit, but could you try drawing your hand again, except try to just draw the shapes it makes, don't worry about getting all the details right."
"The shapes?"
"Like, see how that line between your wrist and the knuckles on your thumb and finger make a triangle? Try drawing that. There's a kind of teardrop shape between your fingers too."
"Okay but let me draw your's instead." He puts his hand on Elouan's as he says this, which makes the boy feel oddly shy about the request. "It's easier if I can hold my paper. Plus you're just sitting there anyway."
Marcel's next attempt is rough again, hardly much better than the last one, but it is much closer to the actual shape of the hand. The boys go back and forth for a while on this same study, covering maybe half a dozen sheets of paper in crudely drawn hands.
"You know now that I think of it," Elouan says, "they say that hands are supposed to be really hard to draw."
"Really?" Marcel replies in a slightly irritated voice.
"Mm. Well, I think you're already making good progress regardless though."
"They all look terrible."
"It's better than what you started with though right?"
"You think so?" The boy asks. There's a strange look in his eyes like a child looking for approval - it's disarmingly vulnerable.
"Of course," Elouan says, "it took me years to understand this and you're already getting it."
Marcel doesn't say anything in response but he does look to the side and smile. He isn't sure but it looks like he could have a slight blush.
palatable to him, but you're supposed to drink tea slowly anyway so he imagines the boy probably won't notice. As he stares idly at his cup, Marcel sits himself on the one other chair his little table can house, lifting his skirt a little so it doesn't get caught under him.
"You're still dressed like that." He hadn't wanted to comment when they spoke at the door, it felt like a bad note to open on so he hadn't mentioned it at the time, and then got too caught up in art to remember to ask until now.
"Well noticed." Marcel sounds unbothered.
"Why?"
"Did you think I only dressed up for art class?"
"How should I know?" The boy asks. "I have no idea why you do this."
"I already told you, I do it because it makes me look pretty."
"Boys aren't supposed to be pretty."
"According to who?"
"I don't know. They're just not." Elouan grumbles. "You're evading my question, why dress up like this? Today I mean, every other time I've seen you you're dressed like any normal boy."
"Well, that's because every other time has been when I'm at work. I couldn't really get away with it there."
"So you only dress like a boy for work?"
"You're starting to get it. I'm sure from your perspective it looks like what I'm wearing now is a bit of a costume - something inauthentic, whereas my work uniform is the real and unperformed me, but really it's the other way around."
"Aren't you worried about what other people will think?"
"Of course, I want to look cute, and pretty. I wouldn't worry about what to wear if I didn't care about that."
"That's not what I meant."
"Oh you mean I should be scared that people will think I'm gay?"
"No, not scared, I mean maybe you should be cautious, people can be quite horrible, if you were gay I mean, which isn't what I was saying -" Elouan struggles not to trip over his words, "are you?"
"Gay?"
"Yes."
"That's kind of a personal question." Marcel smirks at him, still flopped over the daybed, flowing hair and brass earrings shining in the midday sun beaming through the windows. If he's doing this on purpose, Elouan thinks to himself - if messing with him - it's working.
"It's just a shame that you had to meet that boy version of me first, I hope you don't feel like I misled you."
"Not misled, just... I'd like to understand." It's not entirely true: he was misled, Marcel had messed around with him on purpose, going out of the way not to tell Elouan that he and Myra were the same person, but that clearly hadn't come from a place of malice. If he wants to remain friends with this strange redhead - which to be sure, he does - it would help to know what exactly he is. He looks up at Marcel, then down, then back up again before speaking. "Are you a girl?"
"A girl?"
He pauses again, wondering if he'd misspoken, or been misunderstood in some way. "Yes, are you a girl?"
"You shouldn't need to ask that, you've seen me naked haven't you?"
"But do you want to be a girl?"
"I'm not sure I know what you mean."
Elouan can't think why, but the words cut into him. Like he'd reached out a hand to someone who didn't know what a handshake was. He thinks carefully about how to phrase his next question. "I mean, you say Myra is the real you, and Marcel is only the name you use for work. Should I call you Myra?"
The redhead goes quiet, eyes looking up in thought with a furrowed brow. Somehow, it seems as if he hadn't predicted a question like this.
"Which do you think describes me better," he asks slowly and deliberately, "a pretty girl or a pretty boy?"
"Pretty boy." Elouan says quicker than he'd intended to.
"Marcel then. Definitely Marcel." He sounds certain. "Though, around any of my friends you should probably call me Myra, it'd be confusing otherwise."
"Okay, sure, I can do that." The brunet doesn't feel like he's gained much insight into Marcel's identity at all, but it feels pointless to ask more, they're here to learn drawing, not to talk about who wants to be a girl or not.
As the weeks pass Autumn comes into full swing: the days draw shorter, and Elouan can't leave the house without a coat on. Outside the old warehouse where he takes his life drawing lessons, a fine mist of light rain messes up the boy's glasses. He rummages through his bag to find his hat, which he did thankfully bring, but in doing so he sees that something is missing.
"I can't find my sketchbook."
"You definitely brought it with you?" Marcel says, putting on a hat of his own. "Right?"
"Definitely, I had it earlier today at your place. I was showing you those new sketches I did, remember?"
The redhead thinks for a moment. "You didn't leave it there again did you?"
"I might have." Elouan says guiltily. "Almost certainly, actually. Do you think we could go back for it?"
Marcel puts his hands on his hips and looks into the gray sky, the sun is low in the sky but it is far from totally dark. "Are you sure you want to? It's getting pretty late."
"Don't you have your watch?"
"Girls don't wear timepieces." He says in a manner sounding almost proud of himself.
"If we're quick I can ride the tram back, it'll be fine. Besides, I'll be bored out of my mind tomorrow if I can't draw." He lies, he'll probably be fine without it, but in addition to the drawings he'd been showing Marcel there's a few vaguely embarrassing portraits he'd attempted to make of the other boy. He'll happily trudge through a bit of rain to eliminate the risk of those being discovered.
---
By the time they reach Marcel's place the weather has turned for the worse and the sun has fully set. Either it was later than Elouan thought when they had left, or they had been exceptionally slow in walking up the hill. Sure enough though the sketchbook is there, sat unassumingly on a chair. The boy quickly grabs it and pockets it in his shoulder bag. He's about to announce his departure when he sees Marcel staring out of the window.
The weather outside has grown terrible: the air thick with rain whipped almost sideways by the wind. By this time of evening the trams will have all stopped. Elouan winces in anticipation of the long walk home he'll have to endure.
"I should probably leave soon, before it gets worse out there." He says.
"Are you sure? The trams will have definitely stopped for the day."
"I'll be okay, it's not that bad." There's a pause again, the silence filled by trees rustling in the whistling gale.
"Mmm." Marcel doesn't look away from the window, rain patters loudly as it crashes against the glass. "You're not working tomorrow are you?"
"Working? No. Why do you ask?"
"If it's easier, you could always go home in the morning."
"What do you mean? I- oh." He realises what the boy is asking. "No, thank you. I wouldn't want to impose like that."
"You're not imposing, I'm asking you."
"To stay here?"
"Yes. You're already soaked, I'm worried you'll catch a cold if you go out there again."
"Your bed isn't very big."
"I have a sleeping roll, it's fine."
"Oh. Of course."
Marcel is probably right. He dwells on the thought, obviously he wouldn't mind staying with the boy a little longer, but he feels as if he's guilted Marcel into this position. Elouan is only at the boy's house because he mindlessly left his own belongings here, it's his fault and he should have to deal with the consequences himself. But it's cold outside, and dark, and wet. And Marcel's room is warm. He's not sure if he has the strength to say no.
"Please," the redhead continues, "I'd feel terrible sending you out there again."
Elouan doesn't reply at first. He stares at his feet, unable to say yes. "That would be nice. Are you sure it's okay?" He asks.
"Yes - look." the boy reaches for Elouan's hand, taking it into his own and squeezing gently. "Stay here tonight, please?"
"I will. Thank you." He says gingerly. A wave of relief washes over his body.
The boys take off their bags and jackets, leaving them hung up to dry. Elouan regrets not having brought his coat as the icy rain was heavy enough to soak through every layer of his clothes. Even his skin feels wet as he reaches a hand underneath his shirt. He would have expected to have warmed up a little by now, but he's dripping wet and shivering.
"Macel?"
"Hi?" He replies, standing on one one leg as he strips a stocking off.
"Do you have anything I could wear while my clothes dry out?"
"Oh sure, but don't you want to wash first?"
"You can wash in here?"
"Yeah, there's a few showers on the floor below, I was going to take one myself."
"Oh." Elouan still isn't used to buildings having running water inside them, let alone hot running water. There certainly isn't anything like that at his house. "I've never used a shower before though."
"You really are a country bumpkin aren't you?" Marcel sighs.
expected. "Well, good luck. I'll be waiting outside, don't take too long!" He says, closing the door as he leaves.
The room is totally foreign to him, entirely unlike the bathroom he grew up with or the stalls of the bathhouse he uses now. It's communal, technically, shared between the four residents on this floor. There's a small sort of lobby with sinks and mirror where Marcel is currently waiting which contains two doors leading to showers, one of which Elouan is now in. The shower room itself is a bit cramped. It's in an 'L' shape with a set of wall mounted hangers and a tiny bench near the door, and the showerhead itself around the corner inside a little lowered section of the tiled floor. The walls are all tiled too, with a mixture of white and teal patterned ceramics. There's a small window to let light in and air out, or rather it would let light in were it not night right now, so instead the room is illuminated by the red glow of a powered light.
He's not used to seeing lights like these inside, relying on modern power rather than burning fuel. The light has a strange quality in its interaction with human skin, it smooths out the texture and makes it look rather soft, and his veins become very visible giving him an almost translucent appearance.
The shower itself is not the first one he's seen, and he understands how they work, in principle - something like a fixed hosepipe with a similar dispersing jet to one used for watering plants - but he'd never actually stood under one.
He's very cold, still damp from the rain but now even colder in his nakedness. He thinks how if this were a bath he'd only have to be unclothed for a brief moment before plunging into its warmth. Remembering Marcel's plea to not 'take too long', he turns the pressure control and his face is immediately blasted with a jet of ice cold water.
Elouan yelps and immediately switches it off. A moment passes and he hears a voice from outside.
"Are you okay in there?" A confused voice calls out from the other side of the door.
"Yeah, maybe. I don't think I get it."
"Get what?"
He pauses for a moment, quite embarrassed. "The shower, the dial is set to warm but it's still cold."
There's a knock on the door. Elouan hastily wraps his towel around his body, covering his chest and crotch, and opens the door. Marcel barely waits a moment before he steps in wearing his underclothes. Moving straight past the boy, he begins fiddling with the shower's knobs. Once again a jet of water streams out of it, and he holds his hand in the flow for a few moments.
"It's warm now, you can step in."
Elouan stands there nervously, still covered by his towel. Having his body exposed at the bathhouse never felt that difficult, but something about the circumstances here make him feel acutely self-conscious. There's a crossed connection in his brain; he's never naked around girls, and Marcel seems to be categorised in his head as something like a girl.
"You know it's really not bad once you get your head under?" The redhead speaks like he's talking to a child. Not unkind but perhaps a little impatient. He's misunderstanding though, there's another reason that Elouan hesitates to undress himself.
Marcel squints like he's not too sure about what he's about to say. "Do you need me to show you?"
"Maybe."
Before he can elaborate, the boy sighs and strips off the last of his clothes, stepping into the shower and immersing himself in the water. "You see? It's your turn now, come on."
Elouan feels blood rush to his cheeks and ears, turning away in an instant.
"What." Marcel says.
Staying faced against the corner, Elouan doesn't respond.
"What?" He asks again. "Don't tell me you've never seen another boy naked."
"It's not that, it's..." He isn't sure where he's going with this. Of course it's different, he's - well, Elouan thinks about it. It's just that, you know, it's - no - he isn't quite sure. Marcel isn't a girl. Why does this feel different? Maybe he is making a big deal over nothing. Steeling his nerves, the boy peels the towel off of his lower half.
"Come on!" Marcel says in a teasing tone. The boy doesn't budge. "Come onnn!" He repeats, this time grabbing Elouan by the wrists and dragging him unwillingly into the warm stream of water with him. It's strange and unpleasant for a few seconds, but he quickly gets used to it as the hot water pours over him, its warmth soaking deep into his body. When he pushes his head under he splutters, seemingly unable to breathe.
"You okay?" The taller boy asks. Elouan coughs a little. Only now does he release his wrists. "Look, if you tip your head back a little it won't get all in your face, see?"
Elouan feels embarrassed and a little guilty, somehow, even though Marcel is the one who stripped off first. The redhead's eyes are closed under the flow of water. His face barely a step away from the other boy's, his cheeks rosy from the heat, and his lips parted just a little. He can't see like this, Elouan thinks; he feels a little more relaxed, and something bold in him lets his eyes wander over the other boy. Twice before he saw this body during life drawing, but this feels different somehow. Maybe it's the physical closeness giving him a totally different angle to what he's had before, or maybe it's the way the light plays off his wet skin, highlighting the curves of his soft fat. This is also the first time he's seen the boy truly naked, with not even a single small towel to give him modesty.
Eloaun realises he is letting his curiosity get the better of him. He is keenly aware of the proximity; the shower itself is small, and it's hard for either boy to move without slightly brushing against each other's skin. Focusing on scrubbing himself, Elouan pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind, unsure if he's uncomfortable or too comfortable.
"You know," Marcel says, "I would have thought an engineer like you could have figured this out yourself."
"Well, I work at the front of house these days. And most of the machines I work with don't spray me with cold water." He wasn't trying to sound funny, but the redhead laughs anyway.
a, wrapped up in warm blankets over some underclothes that the boy let him borrow. They're a nice quality, made of thickly woven white linen, and a faint smell of something like coriander clings to them.
"Hey so," Elouan starts to ask, "I'm sleeping on the floor, right?"
"What do you mean? You're my guest, you get the bed."
"That's not fair for you, it's my fault I'm having to stay here."
"You're still caught up on that?" He sounds almost worried. "You know I really don't mind? Please let me be nice to you."
"You are being nice to me." The brunet finishes off his cocoa, and smiles. "I'll be okay on the floor, don't worry."
"If you're sure." He replies, seemingly unconvinced, but unwilling to argue.
By the time Marcel has finished setting up the bed it is quite deep into the night. Both boys finish drying their hair, brush their teeth, and climb under their respective covers.
The sleeping mat is hard and quite cold, the sheet a little thin. Elouan spends a while rolling in the dark from one side to the other as he tries to find a position that doesn't feel too rough on his side. Minutes, or what feels like an hour, pass and his eyes remain wide open. From atop the bed, he hears Marcel stirring as well.
"Hey?" He says quietly. "You still awake?"
There's a pause and the redhead replies. "Yeah? You okay?"
"I'm fine, yeah."
"You're fidgeting a lot, are you uncomfortable down there?" He asks in an oddly concerned voice.
"Maybe a little."
There's another pause. He wishes he could see Marcel's face and get some idea of what he might be thinking about. "Would you rather be up here instead?"
"No." He replies bluntly. "I don't want you to have to sleep on the floor."
"I meant do you want to come up here with me."
"Ah." Elouan thinks for a moment. On the bed. With Marcel. Next to him.
Wordlessly, the brunet climbs out of his sleeping roll and onto the side of the bed, where the taller boy has shifted up to make room for him. He crawls under the covers, already warm with Marcel's heat. There's that faint smell from before, under the lingering aroma of soap; it must be Marcel's. It's a pleasant scent, sort of bright and floral, and maybe a little musky.
"You okay?" Marcel half whispers.
"Huh?"
"You're sniffing quite a bit, did the rain get to you?"
"Maybe, yeah." He lies.
"You're rather passive aren't you?" Marcel says in a quiet, slightly playful voice. "It'd be pretty hard to manage if you weren't so obvious."
Is he obvious? Elouan had always thought himself to be quite reserved and subtle, but Marcel somehow always seems to know what he wants to hear. As if to prove that point, he snakes an arm over the brunet's side, resting atop his bicep.
It's that closeness again; his touch is tender and gentle, like it's the most natural thing in the world to him. Elouan suddenly feels acutely aware of the position of both boys on the narrow bed, they are sat quite precariously on opposite edges and the space between them feels loud. He's afraid, slightly, not of what might happen if he closed that gap, but afraid of what it means that he wouldn't mind it. There's something on the tip of his tongue, a tiny request that doesn't really matter, that wouldn't mean anything if he didn't feel like this about it.
"Can... can I come closer?" He whispers.
"Please."
Eloaun shuffles across the bed until his body touches Marcel's. He places an arm over the taller boy's chest, who in turn reaches his arm further across him - under his neck and around his shoulders. He's warm - really warm - and comfortable. The shape of Elouan's body impresses against the redhead, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle.
"Is this okay?" Elouan asks.
"Of course, silly."
Marcel sounds very tired, and soon starts to drift off. A trickle of red light spills from the streets through his curtains, just enough for the brunet to be able to pick out each pretty feature of his face. His hair tumbles messily over his freckled cheeks, fluttering ever so slightly with each breath that escapes his soft lips.
The view from the castle windows has always made Elouan feel exceptionally small. Miles of city span out below, it's a sight he couldn't have imagined a year ago, but now it feels incredibly normal, almost boring. A long-hulled airship floats in the distance, a little below eye level.
This is where the boy chooses to eat lunch when he can't find Marcel; atop one of the quieter staircases in a lesser used tower. He's probably going to miss this a little, he thinks, now that his work here is coming to an end. Nothing about the job he's been doing for the Architectural guild has been particularly fun or engaging, just some diagnosis and maintenance, but it was at least a change of pace from the usual, slow, front of shop work.
Up here has always felt like a brief glimpse into a bigger and brighter world, but there's a hollowness to it today. He could speculate the reason for this: it could be the darkening Winter sky, or the simple fact that the magic is wearing off after repeated exposure, but he'd be lying to himself if he attributed it to anything other than Marcel's absence.
It feels utterly empty without him here. He's come to accept that the boy is busy and inconsistent, these occasional unannounced absences are to be expected, but he still can't help but worry a tiny bit every time, wondering if he said or did something to make the boy dislike him. How long has it been since he last saw him? Two days? Three days? It feels like a week.
Eloaun glances over his shoulder at the compact metal clock adorning the wall. Six hours and five minutes, give or take. He'd contemplated buying a little pocket watch like Marcel has and determined it was a poor idea. He's taken to staring at any clock in his vicinity multiple times an hour, hoping every time that by some miracle that the hands had skipped forward by some great leap. He'd never be able to take his eyes off of a watch at this rate.
He sighs in a very mild anguish. Six hours and three minutes.
minutes before Marcel, or Myra, emerges from the doorway wearing a beautiful pale green dress with a coat and a pretty beret. Her face lights up the moment she sees him.
"Hi!" She waves at him.
"Hello." He says in a slightly awkward tone. "You look nice."
"Thank you." She gives a small twirl to show off her outfit. "Hey, I gotta go talk to Cyril about something real quick." As she says this she grabs his hands and makes him blush. When she blinks he can see the pretty reddish shade of eye-shadow she's wearing. "I lent him my nice pencil and I kind of need it back."
"Sure, tell me about your day when you're done?"
"Of course." Myra looks like she's about to leave, but she doesn't let go of his hands. She looks away, then back at his face, then down ever so slightly, then back up. Just when Elouan thinks she's about to say - or do - something, she lets go and walks across the room without missing another beat.
Elouan doesn't mean to sigh out loud, but it happens anyway. As he gets to work setting an easel up, a familiar voice calls out to him from across the room.
"Hey El!"
"Amelia, nice to see you." He smiles but his expression quickly shifts into something more serious when he notices her grin. She looks sly, or smug?
"So what's that about?"
"What's what?"
"You two, you've gotten pretty close haven't you?" Her tone isn't teasing, but it is a bit playful, like she's in on a secret.
"Have we?"
"Don't think I haven't noticed. You two are always around each other, being all touchy and everything." The touching had been striking Elouan as a little odd. He wouldn't know how to explain it himself so he tries to divert a bit.
"Right, yeah. I've been teaching him- er, her a bit on the weekends. So we see a lot of each other."
"Oh I'm aware, she won't shut up about it." She says in an almost accusing tone. "It's strange seeing her so lit up about somebody, she usually tries to be so aloof."
This is unusual for her? Elouan had just assumed she had a very lively personality, he's certainly not seen a different side to her other than this one. Even as a boy she's excitable and lacking a proper sense of personal space.
"It's sweet." Amelia says.
"What is?"
"You know, you two."
"What about us?"
"Oh, are you not there yet?"
Not where? Elouan thinks to himself, he thinks he knows what she means, but he's not certain. He wonders if his silence is speaking for him.
"Ah," she leans back. "Ahh I get it. Sorry, I shouldn't be prying."
Elouan feels a pair of arms reach over his shoulders; Myra sticks her head out over from behind him.
"Hey, watcha talking about?" She says playfully.
Amelia gives a weird glare at Elouan. Maybe she's right about something, the two have become a little touchier than most would be comfortable with. He had thought he was imagining it, but there seems to be something different in the air the last couple of weeks, since they shared that bed.
It's not like that though - he would know if it were like that. Myra's closeness is warm and platonic. It feels nearly the same as the kind of intimacy Elouan received from his friends when he was a young child, there's an innocent nature to it that makes it come very naturally. Orange hair brushes against his face as she turns her head to look at his face for a short moment before turning back to Amelia.
"Nothing much." The boy says.
"Amelia?" The redhead asks, "did you tell him about the showcase already?"
"I was getting around to it."
"Showcase?" Elouan says.
"Yeah," Amelia replies, "you know that art museum on the hill this side of the river?" He doesn't know but he sees no point in interrupting. "They're going to be running a little exhibition a couple of months from now, showing off works by local amateur artists. You interested?"
"Sounds like it could be a fun trip, I guess."
"No, silly." Myra says. "Do you want to submit one of your pieces?"
"Ahh." He thinks about the prospect for one awkwardly long moment. "No."
"No?" Amelia asks. "How come?"
"I don't think I'm the kind of person they're looking for."
"You absolutely are." She says in an insistent tone. "You're a very skilled painter for your age."
"I am?" This is the first he's heard of it. Elouan's technique is a mess: his fundamentals weak and his style nonexistent.
"Yeah. Honestly you're probably better than most of us here."
"I don't think that's true."
"He's being humble again." Myra says, still draped over his shoulders.
"Well I have been practicing for a while." He mumbles in response. This sort of flattery isn't something he is used to nor comfortable with.
"Come on, it'd be fun." Amelia says excitedly. "Think about it, you could get some serious recognition. Don't you wanna get some eyes on your work?"
"Not really, no. I don't really like showing my work off to other people." This isn't the full truth. If he actually submitted something he'd get worried sick wondering what everyone thought about it. If a real professional critiqued his work he'd probably keel over and die on the spot. But that would sound pathetic if he said it out loud.
"You should think about it." Myra says seriously, letting her voice slip a little deeper than she usually does around other people. "I really think you'd get something from it."
He's about to refuse again, but something stops him. What does he want out of art anyway? Does he really dislike showing off his work, or does he just fear criticism? For most of his life his art has stayed between him and a couple of close friends; it's personal, something to be shared intimately but not displayed openly. Even his parents have barely seen his output. But now it's changed, whether he meant for it or not, Amelia and the others here have all seen his work, they even like it.
For a moment he seriously considers the prospect of submitting a piece to this gallery. It's small and out of the way: barely anybody will see it. There is the littlest chance that someone of note could see his work, take interest in it. Maybe someone who knows far more about art than he does. Suddenly an enticing prospect arises: since moving here his artistic ability has more or less flatlined. These classes are nice but everyone is here to learn, with nobody to teach. It has refined his sense of proportion and given him an ample supply of artistic subjects, but he can't say it has taught him anything he didn't already know.
Maybe this is it, the reason he moved to this city in the first place, to get more out of life. A chance to meet more people and eventually learn from them. Money and freedom were always nice, but hard to be too passionate about. A greater sense of purpose though? The thought of it itches at the base of his neck, and in that passing moment Elouan grants himself the luxury of dreaming.
Sunlight hits his face as Elouan steps off the tram into the clean, quiet streets where Marcel lives. This is the fourth time he is visiting that weird girly boy to teach him drawing. Four weeks in a row - he's been counting. When he reaches the door he pulls the chord to ring the boy's bell without looking at the numbers, having already long since memorised its position.
He starts counting in his head, and before he's gotten to sixteen the door swings open, Marcel grinning as he looks down the stairs towards his young teacher.
"Hi!" He exclaims. The boy clings to the doorframe, he's dressed a little differently than usual; wearing a simple linen gown with no shoes.
"Hi, I'm a little early, sorry." He always gets here early; the tram arrives ten minutes before he's supposed to, and the walk is less than five. The last few times he'd just waited outside for a while.
"Ah no worries," Marcel says, stepping back to hold the door open, "come on in."
Elouan has to walk quite fast to keep up with the boy as he scampers upstairs. As he runs, the hem of his gown dances conspicuously around his bare legs. How odd, the boy thinks.
They reach the tiny apartment and Marcel sprawls himself over a daybed, laying on his chest with his legs kicked up behind him and his head propped up by his forearms, hands cradling the sides of his face as he looks towards Elouan. Gold light from the window, speckled through leaves, dances in the orange locks of his hair. And as he makes himself comfortable the skirting of his gown rides up his legs a little again, exposing a flash of delicate thigh.
"It's far too late in the day to be dressed like that." Elouan says, quite distracted from unpacking his bag of drawing supplies.
"You complain when I dress like a girl, and now you complain when I don't dress like one."
"I never complained about the skirts."
"But you're complaining about this?"
"It's improper."
"You say that like you haven't seen me naked three times already."
"That's totally different."
"Is it?"
It's definitely different. Two of those times were life drawing, and the other was a shower; all were totally functional nudity. The boy's probably just being lazy here, there's no point to it at all. "I think so. Anyway," Elouan says, eager to change the subject, "that sketchbook I gave you last week, have you been using it?"
"A little bit. Did you want me to show you?"
"That was the point of it, yes."
Marcel goes to the other end of the room and rummages around in a bag, producing the sketchbook Elouan had bought for him. "Here." He says in a subdued tone, before walking back to show the boy his work. "I didn't do that much, I hope that's okay."
Elouan slowly flicks through the pages. Most of it is very rough, but that's the point. Almost all of the first five pages have been covered from top to bottom with loose charcoal lines. With the instruction to avoid drawing anything too complete or too complex, the boy had focused on capturing the general shape and proportion of objects. None of them look good exactly, his sense of form and perspective is well off, but there's an immediate sense of improvement visible just by comparing the first and last page.
"Marcel, this is really good."
"They look terrible."
"I didn't ask you to draw something that looked good, I asked you to practice sketching, and you've done a great job at that."
"You think so?" He asks meekly - it's a tone Elouan rarely hears him use. "Is there anything I can do to improve?"
"Well," the brunet replies, scanning over the sketches while he tries to think of an answer. The linework is surprisingly precise; it looks fine on the smaller details, but the larger shapes are very feathered - built up from multiple quick, rough strokes. Each subject takes up little space on the page, rarely bigger than a couple of inches across. "The first thing that leaps out to me is how small you're drawing."
"Small?"
"Yeah, do you draw from the wrist?"
"What do you mean?"
"So, when you're drawing, do you rest your wrist on the page or do you leave it floating like this?" He asks, holding a stick of charcoal above the paper without his hand touching it.
"I draw like this." Marcel replies, grabbing his own charcoal and putting it to the paper as if he were about to write something.
"Okay, so that's drawing from the wrist. It's fine for details, but it's going to make things difficult when you try to make larger shapes because it limits how far you can move across the paper in a single stroke." The boy nods along, it's unclear how much of this is going in, but he'll keep trying regardless. "It's limiting how big you can draw, and that's causing two problems."
"Right. What are those?"
"So firstly it's going to be difficult to capture any detail because you can only draw as finely as the width of the tip of your instrument, which is pretty wide relative to the size of your sketches. Secondly, your hand has a slight wobble to it; the smaller you draw the bigger of an impact those wobbles will have on your lines."
"Okay, that makes sense, but what am I supposed to do about that?"
"You just start drawing from your shoulder, or at least from your elbow."
Marcel looks back at him bewildered - like he's speaking a foreign language.
"Okay right, you've probably not been shown before," Elouan goes to his easel and picks up the stick of charcoal "It's uh, like this." Marcel watches as the boy clasps his instrument across his palm, holding it in place between his thumb and index finger. He raises his arm to the paper and traces a line, pressing the charcoal down using his index finger.
"That's weird. I don't think I can do that." He pouts.
"Sure you can, look," Elouan takes his hand. Inside the taller boy's palm he places the pencil, helping curl his fingers into the right spots. His hand follows just behind Marcel's until he's touching the paper. As he lets go of his hand, the redhead hovers over the paper and skeptically draws a curve, which is entirely wonky. He squints and tries again three more times, each equally poor attempts. The brunet begins to open his mouth before he interjects.
"I'm not so sure about this."
"That's okay, we don't have to get into it right away."
"Could I make some tea?" Marcel asks. "Sorry, I know you came all this way to teach me, but I'm struggling to find the mood for it."
"That's okay, I know how it is. It comes and it goes." Honestly he doesn't mind at all; these lessons are a perfectly nice excuse to spend more time around Marcel. The drawing itself has become somewhat secondary to him by this point, not that he'd say that out loud. The redhead smiles at him, then walks to the kitchenette and quietly begins making drinks. He boils some water on the stove and pours it into a teapot. A minute or so of silence passes as he waits for it to brew.
"I still have no idea what I'm going to paint for that showcase." Elouan says, trying to fill the air.
"Oh? So you've changed your mind?"
"Maybe. I'm still not sure." He crosses his arms in thought and drums his fingers across them. "It's kind of fun to think about though."
"Didn't you just learn about that four days ago?"
"I did. Is that strange?"
"You've still got plenty of time right?"
"Maybe, but I want to start working on it as soon as I can. I've never really shown off my art before, I want it to be as good as possible."
"You're quite excited about this aren't you?" Marcel says, handing him a cup of tea.
"A little. Maybe. Yeah."
"It's cute."
Elouan warms his hands on the teacup and takes a smell.
"Peppermint." He observes.
"That's the kind you like, right?"
"It is." He smiles at the boy, who in turn looks quietly relieved.
"Oh good. I probably should have made sure before I bought a whole bag of dried leaves." Maybe 'tolerates' describes his relation to peppermint tea more than 'likes', but it's certainly better than the other kinds of tea, and he doesn't want to ruin the moment.
They make idle chat for a while as they drink; Elouan complains about work for a bit, and Marcel explains the plot of a book he's been reading. When the redhead finishes his tea he returns the cup to the kitchenette, then lays back down on the daybed, unintentionally exposing his leg in the same manner as he did earlier.
"Are you ever going to get dressed today then?"
"You're still caught up on that?"
"It's past midday." Elouan says flatly.
"Wanna help me pick an outfit?"
Elouan leans forward on the daybed. "Yeah? Sure?" He puts his half drunk cup of tea down and follows Marcel to his closet.
"You have a lot of clothes don't you?"
"Do I?"
"At no point in my life have I ever owned half as many."
"Oh right, country boy, of course." He continues flicking through the rack. "Clothes are a lot more affordable in the city, we have big machines that make them."
"I know that." He says defensively.
"The second hand markets are dead cheap, maybe I should take you there one day."
"Well, maybe. I could probably use a couple more outfits."
"What sort would you be looking for?" Marcel asks. "More boy's clothes? Or...?"
"I think you already know.' Elouan says. The question isn't even worth entertaining. He pulls a confused, slightly frustrated expression and asks the boy "what do you even get out of it anyway?"
"That again?"
"I still don't understand it."
"What about it don't you get?"
"Who's it for? Do you want people to think you're a girl?"
"I don't know," he shrugs, "not really. I just like how it makes me look."
"But doesn't it make you worry?"
"Worry about what?"
"If it were me I'd be worried about looking like a - uhh, you know," he hesitates in finishing that sentence. "Like a man in a dress."
"Do I look like that?"
"I don't know."
"Is that what you see when you look at me?"
Elouan shakes his head adamantly.
"But you think you would look like that?"
Elouan shrugs. "Maybe."
"Why? You're shorter than me, and more petite. You could pull it off a lot easier than I could."
He's not sure anyone has ever used that word to describe him before: 'petite'. It's not entirely unfair as a descriptor though, the boy could hardly describe himself as especially big or well built.
"Okay, sit." Marcel gestures to the side of his bed. He rummages around a drawer and produces first a green and pale skirt patterned with leaves, and then a plain white petticoat, both of which he tosses to Elouan who barely catches them. "You need to take your pants off."
"Pardon?"
"They'll ruin the shape of it. Put the petticoat on first, I won't look, I promise."
Elouan's head is spinning, but he listens to the boy. He unfastens his belt and drawstrings, and hastily peels his trousers off before stepping into the petticoat just as quickly. He brings it up to his hips and pulls the drawstrings tight.
"Like this?" He asks.
"A little higher," Marcel replies, "you're wearing it like trousers, you need it up here or it'll make your torso look too long." He pulls it up by the sides and pulls the string. Elouan feels a gentle buzz as the boy's hands press against his front to tighten the string into a swift knot, it's been a while since his skin has felt a touch like that.
Next the skirt itself comes on. Its construction is simple, really just two rectangles of fabric sewn together with a drawstring of their own, splitting down the sides so that when it's on Elouan there are a pair of slits where his pockets would be. He looks down and gives it a little spin, watching how the pleats fan out with his rotation, settling back down in a loose puffy shape, held up by the ruffles of the petticoat. It's quite pretty and very girly - far girlier than anything he's worn before. The boy feels a slight blush forming. Marcel steps back and looks at his handiwork, placing a finger across his mouth.
"Okay you need to lose the jacket, it doesn't go at all."
"I thought I was just trying the skirt?"
"Yeah but it'll look bad if the rest of your outfit doesn't match."
Elouan pouts and starts unbuttoning it.
"That shirt too."
"As well?"
"Do you wanna look pretty or not?"
The boy's words aggravate Elouan and his hesitancy gives way to stubbornness; of course he wants to look pretty. By the time he's stripped his top half down to his undergarments, Marcel has produced a delicate looking blouse.
"I got this when I was a bit younger, I haven't had it adjusted so it'll probably fit you okay."
Elouan hastily plucks the blouse from his hands and puts it on. It's an off white with pleated layers around the chest and sleeves, the latter of which puff out around the shoulders before tapering in sharply and terminating at the elbow. Even if it's too small for Marcel, it feels a little oversized on Elouan. The sides of it drape around his delicate torso and the bottom of the sleeves leave a little too much room for movement.
"If you just tuck the bottom of it into your skirt," Marcel says, doing it himself. There's that feeling on his skin again, hands. "Hmm. It's not much of an outfit. Would you let me put some makeup on you?"
"Absolutely not." Elouan shakes his head, this is already way outside of his comfort zone.
"It won't look right if I don't."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." He says very firmly.
"Fine, just a little bit though." Elouan folded quicker than he'd meant to. It's not a big deal though, it's just a little makeup, he can handle that.
The redhead retrieves some powder, brushes, and a pencil from across the room. Delicately he applies it to Elouan's face, dusting something pink on his cheeks before asking him to close his eyes so he can put something on his eyelids with the pencil.
"Look," Marcel says as he works, "see how your hair frames the sides of your head? It makes you look quite androgynous. It's pretty long too, it could look really nice if you got a proper cut."
"It's long?" He hadn't noticed. Now that he thinks about it he hasn't had a real haircut in years, he's only been clumsily trimming his fringe when it starts getting in his eyes too much.
"There, come on." Marcel says, grabbing the boy by the hand and dragging him across the room. Apparently the makeup is done. Elouan sheepishly follows the older boy to a mirror, and for the first moment he can't look, terrified of what he'll see. Some ugly boy stuffed into an ill fitting outfit like a crude mockery of a real girl, a joke.
His heart sinks, there's a dreadful, dark metallic feeling going from his chest down to the base of his feet. He looks... okay? That's odd. Certainly not terrible, maybe a little messy; the clothes aren't a perfect fit, but in the same way as a girl borrowing her older sister's wardrobe might look a little imperfect. How had he not noticed how effeminate his hair had grown to look until now? It too is messy, uneven and shaggy, but the dark brown curls are long enough to cover up his jaw and brow, and for a moment he likes the way his face looks. Why doesn't he hate this?
"Marcel.." When he looks, the boy seems very pleased with himself.
"Hi."
Elouan feels giddy, he feels his face glow red with blush. "Do I look bad?"
"No, of course not. I think that skirt might even suit you better than me."
"You think so?" Elouan looks back at his reflection, twirling back and forth on the spot with slowly increasing vigour, watching as his skirt and hair tumble around. This is very unbecoming of him, he feels like a kid. There's a warm throbbing feeling in his chest now that bleeds out through his body and makes him feel like he's glowing. His head is light; the boy sits down a couple of paces from the mirror, knees up to his chest, struggling to take his eyes off of himself.
The makeup was worth it. It's only subtle, but his face looks smoother and his cheeks redder, and the darkness around his eyes makes them look a little bigger and somehow cuter. Simultaneously it is his face that he's seen every day, but also something different and new. Somehow it looks more like himself than his reflection ever had before.
"It's really nice." He says, his head still spinning. Marcel joins him on the floor, close enough that his leg touches the boy's own, seemingly admiring his work. "I think - sorry, I feel like I'm being weird."
"You do look very pretty." He says, reaching a hand out to brush the boy's hair away from his face and tucking it behind his glasses. It's not the first time Marcel has touched his hair like this, but somehow it feels different now. His hand is tender. Elouan follows his gaze past the hand and up his arm towards the boy's face.
At some point Elouan's hand landed on the boy's other arm without either of them noticing until this moment. Elouan looks down, his skin is warm and soft. It's the same warmth he'd felt before when they had shared a bed - a sort of safe and comfortable feeling, but at the same time hot and prickly like alcohol. Slowly his hand draws lower, down Marcel's wrist, testing his luck. Then the whole world seems to go silent as the brunet reaches the hand, which unfurls with his approach. Their fingers meet and gradually entangle with one another.
When he looks up again their faces are close enough that he can feel the taller boy's gentle breath. His skin is clear and unblemished, and pretty - covered in dark pink freckles clustered on his cheeks like stars in the night sky. He's quieter than usual - quieter than Elouan has ever seen before, his soft lips barely parted. It would be so easy, he thinks as he looks down across the boy's face, so easy to lean forwards just an inch.
"Do you really mean it? You think I'm pretty?" Elouan asks, unable to move his gaze up to meet the redhead's eyes.
"Of course." His voice is uncharacteristically quiet and feverish, and his body is entirely still.
"You're really pretty." The brunet replies. It's the only thing he can think to say.
There is no rational thought that leads to it: no deliberation or weighing of options. There's a gap in his decision making process. He spoke those words, a moment passed, and now he is pressed against the boy's lips.
It's cautious at first, just tender flesh meeting flesh. They hold like this briefly, hovering there rather awkwardly, both boys afraid to ask for more as their lips rest against one another's. Then they press in deeper - lips sliding against lips. It's wet, and warm. Elouan's head floods with a drunken slippery feeling as if his whole body had stopped weighing anything. He leans in, his kiss now even firmer, almost desperate. He pushes Marcel down to the ground as he kisses the boy a second - then a third time, only releasing his lips once he's flat on the floor. Red hair tumbles in all directions over the rug.
Elouan bends downwards only for his glasses, already loose from pressing against Marcel's face, to tumble off of his nose and onto the boy's chest. The redhead giggles as Elouan pouts, then leans up to place them back onto the boy's face. There's another moment of tenderness as he slides them on and delicately brushes Elouan's droopy fringe away from his eyes again. His hand lingers over the brunet's cheek. For a moment their faces are a hair away from each other again, and now the shorter boy is flushed red. But the moment passes. Elouan looks down and away, and suddenly they are just two boys wearing strange clothes sitting awkwardly on the floor. He stands back up.