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.
Elouan sips from a hot cup of tea the redhead prepared for him. It's different to the kind he gets with Lucile, and even less 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.