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.