Chapter 10

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.