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Noel Gruber was known for a lot of things in Uranium. Mainly the 7th grade winter play, of course, but in a town with a population that could fill a single neighborhood, people seldom forgot a single fact about you.
Fact. Noel Gruber, at least once a week, is seen riding the bus around town. He'll stay on for three full loops, eventually getting off at the same stop he got on.
Fact. Noel Gruber played with his mothers clothes and makeup well into middle school, and only realized he was supposed to be ashamed of it at age 8, when another little boy punched him in the nose.
Fact. Noel Gruber, ages 6-9, used to convince kids to play 'Ophelia', where they would all lay face down in the community swimming pool. He is still banned from said community pool at age 17.
Fact. Noel Gruber wears makeup to school. It might just be concealer, but it's still discussed like the burning of a church.
The Noel people have grown to know is someone who will never be able to escape every embarrassing public moment, and has learned to wear them as a slinky coat, rather than hide in their shadows. He himself is slinky, and cunning, and if you catch him at the wrong time, catty. Boys like him are usually beaten into submission by age 11, until they're the ones throwing punches, but Noel is an anomaly, tucked comfortably in the corners of his own mind. Hard to enjoy making fun of someone who laughs the loudest, and even harder to hit when he smiles back at you with blood on his teeth.
If any of them bothered to get to know him beyond the thick fog of his reputation, they might even enjoy his company. Most parents did, if they could look past the concerns of leaving him around their sons. He was polite to adults, made good grades, and as far as anyone knew, had never participated in any rowdy or uncouth activities.
Not that he'd ever been invited to participate, of course.
His first invite to anything even remotely rebellious came after the accident, when his and the choir's near deaths had absolved them of all sins in the eyes of the town. They were victims, and victim hood came with a clean slate. Seeing as they'd been assumed dead by the town as they spent those long weeks in the hospitals (months, for some of the less lucky) no one felt fit to bring up the way Noel used to cross his legs when he sat; the permanent nerve damage in his left leg made it hard for him to even slip into the tiny desks, let alone cross his ankles under them.
So when Mischa Bachinski saw fit to invite him to his dingy basement one Friday evening, it was like an offer from God himself; Noel had been growing crazy with the silence that was left after the town stopped mocking him.
It was one thing, to be hated. He reveled in it, a little. Artists were always hated when they were alive. Whores, too, but artists usually got a redemption post mortem that was never afforded to hookers. The bubble wrap treatment, however, was nauseating. He'd seen a few memorial posts on Instagram, stalking the accounts of classmates when they weren't sure if he'd make it. Yearbook photos from the 4th grade because they hadn't gotten close enough to him for a photo to be taken since. Embarrassing paragraphs about how he was 'a creative, gone but not forgotten'. As soon as the news broke that he'd pulled through, the posts were promptly deleted, and he was ripped from the pedestal of tragedy into the pits of pity. Ricky was used to it; Noel wanted to rip the throats out of every classmate he could find.
Sometimes, when he would zone out in class, he'd forget he was alive. Like this was one long show tune, and as soon as he blinked he'd be back, begging for a God that saw him fit to rot in a warehouse, body eaten by rats. Tragedy was harder to deal with when it wasn't an escape. Monique was beautiful until the end, even as she was left in a shallow grave without a prayer. But what he'd seen? It was like he was being haunted by his own ghost. Just like how Penny had gotten her soul back, Noel left his on the ride. Spinning, endlessly, relentlessly, connected enough to make him nauseated but not enough to puke.
He and the rest of the choir had an odd bond. They were close, uncomfortably close, in a way you can only be with the people you died with. In the same breath they were the terrors that lurked in the peripheral of Noel's mind. He held all of their deepest secrets, the kind you only share when you're dead and there's no one around to remember.
They'd met Monique, the only thing he considered truly his. His mom was perfectly comfortable borrowing things from his room and getting rid of any nicknacks she thought were 'too much', the house was decorated in a way he'd never liked, and 99% of his wardrobe made him want to splatter his brains on the school's front steps. Monique was entirely his own, born from a silk nightgown he'd bought at thrift giant when he was 13 for $2. It was big, then, loose and below his knees, but now it fit like a glove.
He kept the silk dress folded neatly at the bottom of his backpack, along with stolen fishnets and fake pearls courtesy of spirit halloween. He'd only ever worn her in his room, the nights when he got off of work a few hours before his mom did. But Mischa told him to dress however felt appropriate, and there was no outfit he'd rather experience a night of teenage rebellion in.
Ocean was already there when he came down the cellar steps through the backyards door, sitting primly on the bare mattress like the beginning of a film too grim to be legal. She'd loosened up, after the accident, which was more of a mindfuck than being resurrected. She wore pins in her hair which weren't school colors, and one of her socks wasn't pulled aggressively above her knee, slipping scandalously to mid calf. She was laughing, the way she did when she was 8 and hadn't yet decided to bear the weight of the world on her. She was still 15 minutes early, of course, but death changed, it didn't make something new.
"Noel! Come, sit." Mischa patted the spot on the mattress between them (did they ever give him bedsheets? It seemed equally likely the Davidsons had simply decided a mattress and a throw blanket was enough, or Mischa was a little gross weirdo who chose to sleep bare.)
"I will, I will. But I need to use your bathroom first." Noel walked quickly past them, into the attached bathroom that had been added 3 weeks after Mischa's arrival, likely so there wouldn't be a single reason he had to come upstairs. He could hear their conversation through the particle-board door.
"You can't argue that the Baby Got Back music video is comparable to opera! It's basically illegal!"
This was one of Ocean's favorite games to play. It used to be grating, getting debated for every light hearted opinion you'd ever had, but some time between death and rebirth, it had grown on Noel. Sometimes it felt like a few pieces of each of them got thrown into each other when they were hurdled back onto earth. Constance had a new appreciation for Eminem. Noel found some porcelain dolls charming. Ricky had mastered the art of being just mean enough to upset someone, but not enough that they'd punch a guy with crutches.
"I can, and I will. Both are stories with music. Baby Got Back fights toxic beauty standards, embraces women of all sizes. What has opera done that Sir M-I-X has not done better?"
"First of all, it's Sir Mix A Lot-"
"So you do know of his art?"
"Shush!"
Noel took a breath as he slipped his loafers back on over his fishnets; he could still smell the fast food funk on his uniform in the bottom of his bag. A silk slip probably wasn't the best choice for a Canadian basement party. But beauty was pain, and freezing to death in second hand lingerie was pretty damn aesthetic.
"Sir Mix A Lot was an artist ahead of his time and I won't have you disrespect a poet in our host's basement." Noel had no strong opinion on the matter, which meant his side was whatever would send Ocean into the most frenzied tizzy.
She managed to turn three different shades of red as she stared at him; he felt that same hollow feeling in his stomach that he always got right before he was the punchline. But Ocean didn't seem to even notice the outfit; she was sputtering her way through a monologue on how a 3 minute music video couldn't compare to hours upon hours of shows. It was a convoluted one, as she realized if she went down the hair splitting path of what was and wasn't 'real art', she'd be backed into a corner. Noel took a seat as she stood, finally finding her swing in the monologue.
"-and not to mention, most of the women in opera are plus size! So the point is null."
Noel would love to offer a rebuttal, if he'd kept track of what the hell she was saying. Luckily, Ricky was there to save him.
He was accompanied by Constance, carrying his crutches and AAC tablet as he butt scooted down the stairs. Mischa got up to offer help, but Ricky shook his head, enjoying his descent.
Noel felt guilty, sometimes, when he thought of what he used to think of Ricky. Or, really, his lack of thoughts about him at all. He'd known him since they were 5, and they'd been in different boats, but the same unfeeling, unthinking waters. He'd been so busy holding on he hadn't even thought of whether Ricky was alone the way he was.
He tried not to overcompensate now, knowing Ricky would beat him over the head with his tablet if he tried. He was fun, like that. He'd withdrawn from society, before, not like he had much of a choice. Can't reach out if there's nothing to grab. But he seemed so much livelier, now. Noel took evil satisfaction when he watched Ricky's crutches 'accidentally' land on other students' feet.
Once they were at the bottom Constance offered him a hand, steadying him as he slipped Lady Marzipan and Dame Judi Dench into his grasp. He walked from the base of the stairs across the cold concrete flooring until sat at the throne, Mischa's gaming chair, before he rubbed his fingers together to get his tablet back. Ricky still had inside jokes with himself, and his favorite was asking for things by calling for them like a cat. The pspspspsp was internal, but very implied.
"What did we miss?" Constance situated herself comfortably on the floor, using Mischa's single sad pillow as her cushion. It was from the upstairs couch, embroidered with Robbins and willow trees.
"These fothermuckers-"
"Nothing very interesting." There was a tension in the air. Not a bad one, like when a group of folks are caught gossiping, but an excited, underlying buzz that filled the dank basement. Like the hum of an old refrigerator. There was a final guest awaited, and she came from the door that led into the home, not the cellar door that sat in the backyard. Penny walked with a tightness that simply would never leave her body, as the pins in her neck and back were permanent features. She never turned her head, when she looked at you. She'd turn her whole body.
"Penny! Penny! Penny!" There was the looming shadow of Mr. Davidson, but any dread he brought was drowned out by the robotic voice yelling out the girl's name from the tablet. Another fun joke; Ricky turned up the volume when he wanted to yell. He wasn't sure if anyone else caught it, but that was the point of inside jokes. They were only for the 'in' crowd.
Her designated seat was Ocean's abandoned spot, before it occurred to Ocean to sit back down after her rant. Another marked difference; before, Ocean would have needled and annoyed until she was back on the bed, or tried to convince Constance to give her the throw pillow in the name of not having an ass to sit on. But she took her usurping with grace now, sitting on the cold ground next to Constance.
The click of the basement lock should have been unsettling, and Ocean mentally noted it as a loss of a fire exit, but it gave Mischa a guarantee he enjoyed. The Davidson's did not want to participate in his social life, and he was free to corrupt as he pleased.
The hum of unfulfilled promises rose as they sat in silence, looking to one another silently as they listened to dress shoes quietly click away on linoleum floors.
"So-"
"Booze?" Ricky was always straight to the point.
Mischa didn't quite get the excitement around it, but the scarcity mindset was a finicky thing. To him, this was a silly night with friends, of which he could have plenty more. The kind of night he had at birthdays, weddings, funerals, and any Tuesday that he needed nothing more than to silence the voices of those still dead. For the rest of them, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The alcohol wasn't the opportunity, however. What was being offered was excitement, rebellion, and secrecy. They had dark secrets, grim ones, but this was a fun one. Something to share in conspiring looks and whispers, instead of eye contact that felt like looking into the void.
Mischa stood, cracking his back, and Noel watched carefully from the corner of his eye. He couldn't stare too blatantly; this crush was a minor setback, a little bit of lore to be sprinkled in for drama. His first unrequited love, which would end in tragedy to set the tone for the rest of his inevitable memoir. Barely a few lines in a paragraph describing where he came from, before he got to the meat of it.
The way Mischa rolled his shoulders could fill pages, however. The implications of what laid underneath his baggy sweatshirt, the hair that was begging to have fingers run through it under his snapback. The most beautiful boy Noel had ever seen, wearing the dorkiest clothes he could think of.
Noel was snapped out of his internal monologue by Mischa brushing against his calf, now kneeling as he reached under the bed for his box of surprises. It was just a brush against cheap fabric, and it had every switch in Noel's switch box flipped. He really needed to get out more, if a boy brushing against his leg was enough to tuck away in his memories for later. But Noel did this with almost every memory he had of Mischa. The way his mouth wrapped around the bottle as they toasted to their afterlife. What it felt like when Mischa had grabbed his shoulder to steady himself on a patch of ice. The way he wiggled his eyebrows when he told bad jokes. Every second of Mischa was on a film roll, and when Noel wasn't recording, he was replaying it against his eyelids.
Mischa returned from the depths under his bed with a cardboard box that held treasures unknown. A small glass bottle of vodka, and a bigger plastic one, accompanied by a 6 pack of SeaGrams Jamaican Wine Coolers, a few loose mini bottles of wine likely lifted from the gas station down the block, a half empty pack of marlboro reds with a lighter stuffed in the box, a singular light beer, a zip lock baggie of weed, and 3 gummy edibles, a weird shade of blue and covered in the same sour crystal coating that came on top of sour patch kids. It was a cornucopia, picked lovingly with everyone's tastes in mind. Ocean eyed the bag of weed carefully, like one looks at an unleashed dog before it proves itself friendly.
"No fears, there is a box under the window. We will stand on top and blow the smoke, nothing from our second hands will get to you." Mischa was really good at that; picking up on what upset people, and finding ways around it while still doing whatever the hell he wanted. He began to hand the items accordingly; seagrams for Ocean and Constance (for the low abv and pleasant taste, respectively) , a mini bottle of barefoot red wine for Noel, and the cheap vodka for Ricky and Penny. Ricky had brought his thickening packets, and Penny had brought 7-up, so they'd both be able to get it down without issue. Mischa wouldn't dare let them corrupt his nice liquor with a mixer, so he kept the glass bottle for himself.
Once again silence took over the room, as 5 of the biggest nerds at Saint Cassian's took in the moment. Constance, having learned to take charge in her revival, was the first to open her drink. Ocean couldn't get the twist off properly, not with her left hand now being partially paralyzed from the accident, so Constance opened it for her without request nor complaint.
Penny opened her and Ricky's 7 ups, taking a few drinks of each to make room for the liquor and thickener. Ricky doctored them up, a grin splitting his face. No one would believe Ricky Potts even knew what alcohol was, let alone that he would drink any. Especially at a party (he ignored that it was a small get together. More than 4 was a party when your town had a population of less than 1,000) and no less, a party with girls. Ricky Potts was the kind of bachelor that lesser men could only dream of becoming.
Noel tried to keep his face neutral, but warm gas station red wine wasn't the easiest thing to choke down. He imagined it would be easier if he snagged a 7-up from the 6 pack Penny had brought, but he couldn't dare have Mischa see. Mischa, who took a swig of his own drink and smiled at his friends, taking pride. He provided something they never had. They loved him. Mischa hoarded the love in his heart; it was sparse, when he moved to America, given to him only by a girl across the globe, scattered with the leftovers of the final kiss on the forehead his mother gave him before he left. Now, he was enveloped in it, and he let it wash over him.
"It's good, right?" He looked to Noel first, who had the face of someone who drank milk past its expiration date.
"It's great." Noel tried to smile, but it came off somewhere between sarcastic and pained.
Constance had an innocent look as she offered her bottle. "Here, Noel, you wanna try mine?"
The true conundrum began. He could continue to participate in this dick measuring contest for one (and that's what it was, seeing how long he could drink something gross and pretend it was good for the sake of his honor) or he could indulge in whatever sugary, fluorescent concoction awaited in Constance's hand. But just like how Joel could barely resist drinking in the feeling of his own legs free in his dress, he held out for half a second before he reached his hand out for the bottle.
It was delicious. Of course it was, it was 95% fruit juice concentrate. He wished he could trade. Or take the rest of the 6 pack and drink in shame.
"It's alright, a little bit too sweet." Constance kept that same sweet look as she took her drink back, but Noel had gotten good at reading her, and could tell she was enjoying his self-flagellation.
"I could say the same about your grape juice." Mischa said it jokingly, but Noel couldn't even process how someone could think the liquid cork in his hand was sweet. It tasted like drinking particle board, tacs and Polaroids blended in for flavor.
"Pissbabies." Ricky forgot to put a space between the words, causing his tablet to take its best guess at what he was trying to say. This was why sign was the superior form of communication; but with Ocean about 3 weeks into beginner lessons, concessions had to be made to get his message across to as many people as possible.
And there was the reaction he wanted. Penny laughed behind her hand, scrunching her nose. It was nice to see her face move; Sometimes, when Ricky caught a glimpse of her from the back, he expected her to turn around with that same doll face, pulling him in to harmonize in a voice that felt foreign. He still didn't know how he felt about when he sang, or when the buckle in his legs was 'corrected'. Sure, it was easier to move around, but why change him if they kept Penny headless? His voice had felt raw when he used it, like scratching a preserved fossil against concrete for chalk.
But those complications sat in a box, folded up neatly next to zolar, and there were more pressing matters to attend to, like the warmth in his stomach, and the chatter around him.
"Noel, I know you've seen Pitch Perfect before. You've seen every single one."
"I have absolutely no clue what you're talking about."
"We watched them all! My 14th birthday, remember? You bitched the whole time but cried at the end of every movie." Noel was being offensive enough to warrant violence, seeing as Ocean was comfortably using 'bitch 'as a verb.
"I did not cry!"
"So you remember watching them?"
That left Noel in a squeeze.
"I still haven't seen any."
Ocean's head snapped to Constance. Noel's trickery was flagrant, but Constance wouldn't lie about something as grave as Pitch Perfect.
"But we-"
"I was sick that year, remember? I caught a cold and you freaked out and wouldn't hang out for a month."
"Oh. Yea." Ocean seemed to have popped, and quickly began to deflate. That was another side effect of the second life they'd been given. In another lifetime, with another Ocean, she would never have conceded. Had she been reminded of a faulty memory, she would have dug her heels into the ground until it seemed easier to just drop it. But part of dying is watching your life flash before your eyes, a highlight reel of every warm feeling you'd ever had. And coming back is a cold bucket of every shitty thing you've ever said or done dumped on your head.
"We could watch it now. Mischa, you get wifi down here, don't you?"
Mischa made a face, like an announcement was imminent that could throw a wrench in the night. "No, no wifi…"
Once again, bated breath. Had Ocean thought ahead, she likely would have had the DvDs in her bag. But for once, she'd found herself excited enough to only pack her essentials. School supplies, 3 extra pencils and 2 extra pens for lending, a separate eraser because the pencil erasers sucked, a second set of tights in case she got runs in her first pair, a second set of socks in case her first got muddy, chapstick, mascara, bandaids, super glue, Swiss army knife, 3 granola bars, her hydro flask, and a mini flashlight.
"Aah! I got you. I have a hotspot, fear not shawties." Mischa was up at the TV without another word, holding the power button aggressively as he pulled the Hotspot up on his phone. The TV was nice, but it was older, likely what the Davidsons had kept in their living room before upgrading. It took a minute of fiddling, and the group kept quiet, letting him swear at his frustration without background noise.
With little bravado Mischa tossed the remote to Constance, underhanded. She still dropped it, but it didn't bounce away from her, so it was a net positive. Mischa dropped onto the bed much the same, settling in for this piece of American masterpiece he hadn't yet seen. He took another swig, and it seemed to que a chain reaction. No one quite knew what pacing themselves looked like yet, so they were just going to go with whatever speed Mischa set. What wasn't anticipated was that Misha was chugging along the tracks to shitfaced as quickly as possible.
The placement of the room shifted, slowly. Noel and Mischa sat at the back of the bed, leaning against the wall as Noel pretended he wasn't shivering. Penny had pulled up the slightly sadder chair from the corner of Mischa's room to sit closer to Ricky, signing to each other while the others forgot to pay attention. Constance had Ocean's hair in two French braids, done aptly and with intense practice from the time honored traditions and precision of sleepovers old.
"Noel, you cold?" Mischa was doing his best to whisper, but it really wasn't necessary. They were like a splattering of islands; close, but entirely their own ecosystems in these quiet moments.
There was a quiet out; he could say he was fine, and appreciate the way he felt himself shiver in his fishnets. It was bearable, if he pictured himself on the corner of a cold Paris street. But he didn't want to be in Paris, in that moment. He liked the moment he was in just fine. There was no need to be in an alcove of his own mind, he was plenty comfortable where he was without it.
"A little. Do you have any blankets?" Mischa seemed to not have heard the second part of that, already peeling off his Vanilla Ice sweatshirt and handing it off to Noel. He didn't seem phased by it, happy to give Noel the clothes off his back. Noel tried to keep his head from spinning, but the combination of the 3 mini wine bottles and the residual warmth of the sweatshirt he was pulling over his head made him feel like he was about to drop.
It went on like that, everyone quietly watching Pitch Perfect and snagging more drinks from the box. Ricky was firm in his admonishing of Anna Kendrick's character, and was just as dedicated to it as Ocean was to defending Anna Camp's.
"Ooh, I'm so different for wearing eyeliner, I've never seen a movie with a surprise ending. Why do people think it's cool to not like things?"
"The whole point is that she learns to love performing, Ricky. It's an entire movie about the power of friendship and acapella, brought together with as dedicated a leader as possible. " Sondheim was rolling in his grave.
"I think part of the appeal of the movie is that she gets taken down a peg, though." Another exciting feature of a Shiney new life; Constance no longer felt like she was going to vomit every time she disagreed with Ocean.
Noel, meanwhile, could not give less of a shit. He'd finally brought his knees up to his chest and tucked the sweatshirt entirely around him; he was warm, and it was impossible to ignore how it felt to wear an item gifted by someone else. Mischa had shifted closer to him, head on his shoulder in a way that felt natural. It was too much; if he let himself keep sitting here, lightheaded and warm in the fog of people who love him, he could convince himself it was something more than it was. That Mischa leaned into him all the time, not just because he was drunk. That Mischa wouldn't mind if he held his hand, or touched his hair. The only thing that kept him focused was the cold sinking into the few parts of him not stuffed into the sweatshirt.
"Yo. You want a smoke?" Noel had no idea if he was being offered weed or a cigarette, but regardless of what it was, he was going to say yes. He'd say yes to fucking horse tranquilizer if Mischa offered it while leaning on him, looking at him softly. He'd take poison like a champ if Mischa held his face when he did it.
This was definitely going too far, but he nodded anyway, slipping his legs back out of the sweatshirt. When he looked over he saw Penny dozing off, head back and mouth fully open. Constance had moved the pillow into her lap, where Ocean had her head as she looked up at her. Ricky was scrolling through his phone, having lost interest in whatever was happening about 30 minutes ago. They weren't even islands, they were planets, tethered to and orbiting the very concept of indescribable heat death.
The concrete floor was freezing, even colder than he remembered, but there was reprieve via standing on top of the milk crate. Mischa joined him up there, and Noel was surprised it didn't cave in with the weight of the two of them. Mischa held up the pack of cigarettes, offering one to Noel. He knew this was an important moment; he had to be cool. If he coughed, or made a face, the jig was up, and Mischa would realize for a second time just how lame he was.
It was weird, to actually have a cigarette in his mouth. He used to be obsessed with the candy ones, even though they were nothing better than sugar and cornstarch dried into a terrible cylinder. Mischa looked at him for a minute, stifling a laugh so intensely his body was shaking with it. Noel once again was exposed and afraid, until Mischa plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, flipped it around, and held it back out. Noel took it back, the orange filter now in the proper place. Humiliating.
Mischa lit his own and held the flame out to Noel, who leaned over to light his own against it. He took a breath in, waiting to see how it would feel. People in movies always looked so satisfied by them, but all it was was vaguely gross. He blew out the smoke into the cracked window, getting a blast of cold air as he did. It was. Well it was just alright. He liked the smell more on someone else; every once in a while, he'd get flashes of the few times Mischa hugged him, smelling like smoke and cheap shampoo. Mischa hadn't been the first to catch his attention; when Noel was 12, he'd had a crush on the gas station attendant by his house. He'd easily been 19, tired and in no mood to put up with the fruity middle schooler who'd buy a single pack of gum and spend 30 minutes inside, staring at him. Noel hadn't even really known what it all meant, when he felt it. He just wanted to be near him, for him to think Noel was funny, or cool, or smart. And when he'd seen him on a smoke break, texting on a flip phone as he sat on a crate in the alley, a very distinct want had cemented itself in Noel's mind. Everyone thought it was funny to call him gay; for the way he sat, laughed, the fact that he used napkins instead of wiping crumbs on his pants. The way he'd run if anyone tried to throw a ball at him. But this thing in the pit of his stomach, the ache in his bones, was far more pressing than a few effeminate mannerisms. It was scary, and exciting, and the next time it popped up, he'd already received an uncomfortable sex talk and was able to pinpoint exactly what that feeling was.
Mischa was still smiling at him, but it looked expectant, and Noel had no idea what he was supposed to do about it. He smiled back but it felt awkward, forced. Of course, Noel was never good at smiling back. Facial expressions were hard, and he stumbled a lot when trying to guess what people meant. It was easier to play everything off as a joke, or to assume the worst. But he didn't want to assume Mischa was making fun of him. "You like it?"
"I like it just fine." They were still smiling at eachother like idiots, sharing a bubble personal space as they stood on the crate that was no more than 1x1x1 feet. They were almost chest to chest, and the combination of smoke and the heat of Mischa's breath clashing against the chill of the window made Noel feel drunker than he was. Mischa was looking him in the eyes, he could feel it, and he couldn't dare look back at him. Eye contact was always painful for him, but this? This was his soul being taken out and treated like a fidget toy. This was something ghastly wrapping itself around every single one of his ribs and tying bows on them. He took another drag, just to have something to do. He leaned back slightly, and his left foot, already clunky and right on the edge, slipped entirely. This was how he would die. Cracking his head open on cold cement in a Canadian basement, embarrassed and wearing women's lingerie. What a way to go.
Mischa caught him by the wrist, pulling him straight into him. There was some over correcting, and by the time Noel was stable, his left foot was between Mischa's, and his right leg was hooked around Mischa's thigh. They were nose to nose, and while he didn't notice at the time, the ashes from his cigarette had burned a small hole in the shoulder of the Vanilla Ice sweatshirt. His free hand was being held by Mischa high above their head, engulfing it. Slowly, carefully, Noel moved his right leg, fully steadying himself as Mischa lowered his hand. They were still close, Noel's chest brushing against Mischa as he settled. His hand was still encased in Mischa's. Neither of them were letting go.
"You should be careful."
"It's a small box."
The entire world could have burned away in an instant, and neither of them would have noticed. The only things that were real were between them. The warmth of their breaths. The softness of Noel's hand.
Noel had dropped his cigarette. They both looked at it, for a second, until Mischa held his own to Noel's mouth. The eye contact was back, but it was bearable, while Noel looked at Mischa through his lashes. It felt smoother, and nicer from him. The smoke was a gentle stroke against the inside of his body, instead of an intruder. Mischa's grip had slid from his hand to his wrist, and his thumb was circling the little nob as Noel exhaled.
They stood like that for a few more minutes, chest to chest, barely a breath apart as they shared Mischa's cigarette. And as soon as it was finished, it was as if nothing happened. Misha helped Noel off the box, and they walked back to the bed in silence, stepping over Ocean's splayed, sleeping body on the cold floor. Mischa wrapped his blanket around Constance's shoulders, who was drifting with her hands still in Ocean's hair. The original intent was for everyone to get home by midnight, but with 3 out of 6 asleep, and the clock reading 11:48pm, that was a hopeless thought. Instead, Mischa tucked the box back under his bed, keeping only the gummies and his personal bottle out. He handed one to Noel, who ate it without much consideration, and Ricky, who sniffed it before he was willing to try it.
They tasted awful, Like cleaning a bong out with your teeth, but once again, Noel was letting poisoned honey be dripped into his maw because the hand holding him was pretty. He chewed it, slowly, trying to pretend it didn't taste like lawn clippings.
Ricky was pretty sure the edibles were a bad idea. He'd never smoked weed, but he'd seen enough internet memes to get the general idea. He wasn't about to be left out, though. Just because Noel and Mischa were too busy making intense eye contact to include him in their cigarette adventure didn't mean he couldn't have fun.
Pitch Perfect was over, and with half the group out cold, Mischa turned the democracy into a dictatorship as he pulled up The Platform on Netflix. Captions could only be done in one language and Mischa picked Ukrainian, leaving Ricky and Noel to try and figure out what the hell was happening.
Ricky drifted off before the movie was even 30 minutes in, and the edible was wasted. Noel was still mostly present and awake, having switched to passing Mischa's fancy bottle of vodka back and forth in silence. The burn and discomfort had subsided, leaving him with a warm stomach and loose limbs. He was taking tiny sips, not wanting to get too drunk to remember this. It was a snapshot of a memory worth keeping; side by side with Mischa, friends in various states of passed out, and protected against the damp air.
"Yo."
"Yea?"
"You ever kiss anyone?"
"What?"
"In the warehouse, you say you are a sex icon who has never done it. I am bored, making talk. So. Have you kissed now?"
"And who exactly would I kiss?" Noel tried to keep his composure; it was a silly question, they were having 'guy talk'. Noel was never really included in those kinds of discussions, since his answers seemed obvious and uncomfortable.
"Anyone. That boy Matt in band, he has swishy hair and plays trumpet."
"Matt S. Or Matt T.?"
"Trumpet Matt, I told you."
"The two trumpets have the same name."
"That is bullshit. Absolute bullshit; why is one not Matthew? Or Matty? Ridiculous."
"I think they're in a coalition. But seriously, why Matt in particular?"
"There is no particles, just the first person I thought of. So, have you?"
Noel thought on his answer. He could just lie; he told everyone he had a boyfriend in Alberta for most of middle school, and in sophomore year he convinced Ocean he had hooked up with a boy at the fall fair corral competition. Not to mention, Mischa had no reason not to believe him.
"No, no one's shown up to whisk me away to a life of misery and woe quite yet. What about you?" Noel basically knew the answer to this. Mischa had promised himself to a girl 100s of miles away, and had no intention of breaking those promises.
"Oh, loads back home. No one here, though." That surprised him; it made enough sense, but Mischa rarely told stories of the Ukraine beyond wistful sighs. They really didn't know what his life had been like beyond the comfort of his mother.
"Well, good for you. I guess." There really wasn't a way to end this conversation that wasn't uncomfortable. Mischa was charming enough that people wanted to kiss him, and Noel wasn't. Just how it goes sometimes.
"I could kiss you, if you'd like." Noel's eyes widened; that really wasn't ever an option, in his mind. Sure, he'd noticed all of the nice things about Mischa, but it was all window shopping. He was spoken for, and had no interest in Noel besides hugs where you slap each other on the back at the end, and silly cigarette sharing. It was all for fun for Mischa, so it had to just be for fun for Noel, too. He couldn't let himself get too wrapped up in this, convince himself it could mean something.
"I can't imagine Talia would be too happy about that." Talia's name was like a bucket of ice water over him. He hadn't told anyone about what had happened yet.
In the incident, Mischa's phone had been wrecked. It had taken about 3 weeks for him to get a replacement, two and a half of which were spent recovering in the hospital. By the time he'd logged back in, he'd been forced to see her increasingly distressed messages, turning from worry to anger. She'd assumed he was ghosting her and blocked him. Even with making alternate accounts to try and message her and explain, he never heard another word from her. Instagram, Twitter, whatsapp, Facebook, she'd even deleted her comments off his YouTube page. It was devastating, but there'd been pressing matters to attend. Mainly the memories of who he had been when he was dead, but everything seemed to become so prevalent that he'd been able to bury his grief. She'd been all he'd had to think about for so long; graduate, get money, see Talia and find a home in a place he remembered fondly. Everything else was secondary. But with his return to life, the things he had ignored became prevalent; the people around him were friends, instead of just bodies.
"Things did not work out." He had a lot more to say on it, but it was hard to articulate the sorrow in a language that didn't come naturally. Noel seemed to understand that was the end of the conversation, patting his hand and nodding.
The build up seemed to have vanished; Noel regretted asking instantly. But he would have felt worse, if he and Mischa had kissed drunk and there was still some girl waiting for Mischa to text her back. The quiet in the room felt awkward, now, and Noel desperately wished someone would wake up, make a funny sound, something. Maybe if the edible finally kicked in he could forget how fucking weird this all was.
Noel focused back on the TV, which was showing some grim shit at that moment. The main character was chained to his bed, his roommate about to cut pieces off of him and eat him. Noel turned away, burying his head in Mischa's shoulder without a second thought. Mischa acted with equal instinct, wrapping his arm around Noel. "It's a rough movie, very poignant. We do not have to watch."
"It's fine, I'm just a little freaked out by gore. Tell me when this scene is over." They stayed like that for a good few minutes, Mischa rubbing Noel's back as he stayed firmly tucked into the crook of his neck. It was warm there, from the heat of Mischa's body and his own breath.
"It's over." Noel lifted his head and once again was nose to nose with Mischa. They were a hair's breadth apart, and the previous dread had been lifted. Mischa's hand shifted from Noel's back to his face, cupping his cheek in his hand. He could feel how much softer Noel was; how gentle he felt. Noel was trying to not rush it. Mischa's hand was warm, and he felt as if every part of his body was screaming to just do something already.
It happened all at once. It was awkward, at first; Noel had no idea if he was doing anything right, and he was so far in his own head he wasn't even thinking about how it felt. He was frozen, trying to figure out what was supposed to be done when Mischa's free hand grabbed his and guided it to Mischa's shoulder. His t-shirt was thin, and the reminder of the muscle under it was enough to kick Noel into gear. He was a burning ember, encased in his own heat. He felt Mischa's hand grab his waist a little too rough and took a sharp breath, trying to not be too obvious about it. He felt pulled in separate directions; he wanted to jump Mischa's bones and do every lurid thing he quietly thought about til shame overtook want. He needed to pull away before this got to be too much, or someone from the group woke up.
The decision was made for him when Mischa pulled him into his lap, likely pressing bruises into the peach soft flesh under his ribs. And then his hands shifted, and there was a boy's hands on his ass. The most exciting thing that had happened to Noel before this was when his freshman year biology teacher gave him a hug at the end of the school year, and Noel could feel his hands shaking a little where they held onto Mischa. At this point, a strong breeze would set him off. He knocked off Mischa's dumb fucking hat and his hair was just as soft as he had hoped, frizzy from improperly cared for curls and perfect in his hands. He couldn't help but tug a little, right at the base of the neck, and Mischa bit him in return. Noel was about 30 seconds from ending everything before it started when Mischa trailed his mouth down Noel's jaw, kissing his neck, dragging warm breath in a way that should've been gross but just added to Noel's excitement. He could feel Mischa's hands trailing up under the sweatshirt, dragging smooth silk with it. Noel turned his head to give Mischa room to bite him again, only to make direct eye contact with a definitely not asleep Ricky, whose face was equal parts amused and fucking horrified.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
Noel flung himself off of Mischa, accidentally yelping as he brought himself to sit at the foot end of the bed. Mischa seemed disoriented, and mildly annoyed til he turned to look at Ricky, whose direct eye contact sent him through the 5 stages of grief in about 10 seconds. Constance had barely been drifting and was now awake, even while Ocean slept as if she were still in her grave. Penny looked over, drowsy and lost, and there was a silent prayer between the guilty parties that Ricky would keep his (metaphorical) mouth shut.
"My mom's blowing up my phone right now." Ricky held his screen out to Mischa, showing 74 unread messages. The eye contact was intense, and uncomfortable, as Mischa and Ricky looked at each other for a solid minute. It was a trance.
"Is anyone prepared to drive? I am not safe to." Constance held up her hand. She'd had a total of 2.5 drinks, ending around 9:30, and it was currently creeping up to 2 in the morning after a good nap.
"Yea, I can take everyone home. Did anyone else drive over here?"
Penny had been dropped off by her brother, Noel had taken the bus, Ocean had walked, and Ricky had ridden with her on the way there. All of their ducks were in a row, besides the symphony of parents and siblings flipping shit. Except for Ocean's, but she was an outlier and not to be counted.
It was a slow, somber ascent up the stairs, Ocean and Penny still too groggy to even fully grasp what was happening. They loaded Ricky's crutches into the back as Mischa helped him into the front seat, Penny and Ocean slipping into the back without another word. Constance started the car's heat as soon as possible, waiting a second for it to stop being freezing. Only Noel and Mischa were left standing in the cold. Noel was still in the slip and sweatshirt, freezing from the waist down. Mischa was only in a thin t-shirt and pajama pants, and his hair was more of a wreck than usual. He looked stunning. Mischa held his fist out and Noel bumped it, smiling even as he rolled his eyes.
The car was finally warm as he slipped in. Judging from the lack of notifications, his mom had fallen asleep before he'd been expected back, and he'd need to sneak in the side door and pretend he got home at a reasonable hour. He was sneaking back into his house after curfew, crossfaded, after kissing a boy. In women's clothing. The other boys at Saint Cassian's didn't have shit on him.