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Noel Gruber’s 18th birthday fell on a Friday, and the St. Cassian Chamber Choir celebrated it instead of practicing. Ocean had brought him a cake (miraculously unpoisoned), Misha launched the confetti, Penny and Constance placed a handmade crown on his head, and Ricky played the piano as they all sang “Happy Birthday”.
It had been heartwarming to see the people he had grown to care about throughout high school throw him a small gathering for what might be the last time. It’ll only be college, and they have the Internet to thank for making communicating over long distances possible, but it’ll never be the same. They wouldn’t get to be this close as often, so Noel cherishes it the best he can.
After the gathering, the group went their separate ways, with Noel being the last to leave the room. He was about to walk to his usual bus stop when he saw Mischa leaning against the lamppost in the corner—ankles crossed, hands in pockets, and forearms exposed by his rolled-up sleeves.
“Noel.” He called, his voice deep and rich with a Ukrainian accent.
“Mischa?” Noel blinked as the boy jogged over to him. “I thought you left with the others?”
Mischa practically bounced on the soles of his feet, his face lit with an excited grin. “I have gift for you. I want to give it in person.”
“I—” Noel bit his lip, reigning in his surprise. For all his brooding looks, it wasn’t uncharacteristic for Mischa to be thoughtful. Back in their sophomore year, when he had an internet girlfriend named Talia, Mischa would send her a bouquet every month, each with a unique meaning. It was incredibly sweet, but man, was it a monthly stab to Noel’s chest. “Thank you, Mischa. That’s so sweet of you.”
“Come,” The other boy beckoned, motioning to the parking lot where his red, slightly beat-up pick-up truck was parked. “We’re going somewhere. There’s bit more to the surprise.”
“A surprise?” Noel gasped. It’s played up to be a touch more dramatic than usual, but he couldn’t deny the rush of excitement coursing through him as he followed Mischa. “My, Mr. Bachynskyi, what tricks could possibly be up your sleeve?”
Mischa opened the passenger seat, signaling for Noel to enter. “No tricks. Just pure intention, baby.” He closed the door firmly and jogged around, taking his place in the driver’s seat. With a twist of his key, the truck roared into ignition and pulled out of the parking lot, driving away until St. Cassian High School was a shrinking blob in the side mirror.
Noel rolled the window open, letting the cool afternoon breeze hit his face. It smelled of spring—earthy and light with the scent of blooming flowers. The seasons may change, but Noel is certain that there's nothing he hasn't seen in their small hometown. Everything they drove past is a familiar blur—just rows and rows of identical suburban houses, the handful of establishments, and the occasional pedestrians walking by.
Soon, the houses became infrequent, and the suburbs gave way to the grasslands. Postlines on both sides of the road stretched into the horizon, tinged with warm, watercolor hues of orange and pink. Noel never thought Uranium City, their little corner of Saskatchewan, could be this remarkable.
It wasn’t long until Mischa’s truck slowed, pulling up to a roadside, where flowers took over the field as far as the eye could see. He hopped out of the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door for Noel.
Noel felt his heart stutter when Mischa’s body pressed up behind him, and his hands covered Noel’s eyes. “Don’t wanna ruin the surprise element.” He explained under his breath.
Noel couldn’t see one bit, but he listened intently to the way their shoes scraped against the dirt on the side of the road, to how Mischa halted his maneuvering after only a few steps. He didn’t know what he was expecting. But it was certainly not this.
Misha opened the tailgate of his pick-up, revealing a small picnic set-up, set aglow by golden fairy lights. A red-and-white plaid blanket covered the rusty, metal floor, with pillows propped against the sharp, hard edges of the vehicle. And on it, against the rear panel, was a single red rose on a dainty wicker basket.
“Is this… for me?” Noel asked, his voice quiet and his look perplexed.
Misha nodded with a fond smile. “Yep. After you.” He held out his hand for Noel, who hauled himself up the back of the truck.
Noel sat, making himself at home while Mischa followed closely behind. He picked up the rose, his legs criss-crossed as he took the setup in. He inhaled the flower’s delicate scent. “Oh, Mischa, this is beautiful! Thank you.” His eyes turned a bit glassy.
Mischa’s eyes were on him the whole time, full of affection. “Don’t thank me just yet, poet. There’s more.” He opened a flap of the basket, pulling out a bottle of crystal clear Smirnoff.
“Vodka?” Noel laughed. He wouldn’t have guessed the basket to contain that, given the romanticism of Mischa’s surprise. But this couldn’t be more on brand for the other boy.
Mischa chuckled, too. “Remember you told everyone at choir about your French dreams?”
“Dreams” is a tamer way of putting it. They were, more accurately, Noel’s depraved, nihilistic fantasies.
Mischa continued. “Something about being hooker in the City of Love, wanting a man who drives you to drink… It’s too complicated to do all that now, but we can start simple.” He said determinedly. Mischa lifted the bottle high in a toast before setting it down. “For your 18th birthday—a drink.”
“Mischa… You can’t even believe how incredibly happy this makes me.”
“Oh, I can believe.” Mischa grinned. He made an expanding gesture with his hands. “You smile so wide, it puts the sun to shame.”
Noel swatted his chest, ducking his flushed, beaming face. “You’re so silly. When did you plan all of this?”
Mischa stretched. Their thighs touched as he inched closer to Noel. “Last week. Was able to get this together few nights ago.”
“Well, I love it.” Noel declared.
Noel felt Mischa’s arm on his thigh, its heat emanating throughout the rest of his body.
“I guess it would be better to have your first drink at home, but I knew your mother would throw a fit,” Mischa spoke, his eyebrows bunched together in a mix of worry and frustration. “And my parents don’t give access to other parts of the house. Forgive me, this is all we have now.”
Noel touched his face with one hand, pressing the pad of his thumb against the crease between Mischa’s eyebrows. His fingers seemed to move on their own accord, massaging the skin there to smooth out the harsh, angry lines. Mischa’s hand wrapped around Noel's wrist as he did so.
“I’m not bothered by that at all, Misch.” Noel lightly huffed. “And are you kidding? Just look at the sunset!” Noel retracted his hand and gazed at the sky, admiring the colors deepening by the minute. “ It's so beautiful…”
“Indeed. So stunning...” Mischa echoed, but his reverent gaze lingered on the glowing contours of Noel’s face. He coughed around his fist and, righting himself, pushed the bottle into Noel’s free palm. An invitation. “Drink.”
Noel took the offering.
“We have whole bottle to finish. Welcome adulthood. Happy birthday, poet.”
“Best birthday ever, thanks to you.” Noel took the first swig.
The vodka felt smooth against the velvety walls of his throat. It was only when the liquor pooled in his stomach that he felt the burn in its wake, the sharp, medicinal taste of alcohol on his tongue. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “God, my mother would kill me.”
Mischa gulped down the liquor as well.
“You’re drinking, too?” Noel asked.
Mischa swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he did. Noel tried his hardest to look away. “Obviously. It’s your birthday.” He pointed out.
“How do we get home later?”
Mischa pushed a stray strand of hair away from Noel’s face. It must’ve been loosened by the whipping wind on the car ride earlier. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it. I’m not easily drunk. I’ll drive you home safe.”
“If you say so.” Noel hummed. “Do you know I’ve never been drunk before?”
“But you’ve tasted alcohol, no?” Mischa asked, taking another hearty swig of vodka.
“A bit,” Noel replied, borrowing the bottle. “One time, when I was twelve, Mom took out the wine because we had guests over. They were busy talking, and there was a half-empty bottle lying around, so I took a sip. It has become a little secret since then.”
Mischa gasped, an exaggerated thing. “Scandalous.”
“Oh, come on! Not everyone drinks vodka like water on a regular Tuesday!” Noel whined.
Mischa chuckled. “Fair. But it’s Ukrainian tradition, poet.”
“Whatever,” Noel grumbled, rolling his eyes playfully.
A comfortable silence blanketed them as they passed the bottle back and forth, and the sky bled into a dark, inky purple. It all suddenly dawned on Noel: the briefness of the moment, the looming tick of time, the realization that he’s legally an adult, accountable for his life decisions.
Growing up, Noel fantasized about tragedies. He envisioned himself as a sexual provocateur who went through men like he was leafing through a book. His daydreams were a haze of cigarette smoke in cheap motels, midnight rendezvous by the Seine, and unread poems burned by firelight—all mere flashes of a dangerous, fast-paced life to escape the mundanity of fucking Saskatchewan.
The thing is, he did work for it. He sucked up grueling shifts and summer jobs at Taco Bell, but his savings, as well as the fund his mother set aside for him, couldn't afford him a plane ticket to France. Those fantasies were dark, but to Noel, nothing in his life could get as tragic as this.
“Hey, Mischa?” Noel prompted as he chipped at his black nail polish. The other boy hummed in acknowledgement. “Ever thought about college? I mean, we’re graduating soon. This has been fun, sure, but it’s not forever. That part’s a bit hard to take in, to be honest.”
“Music has always been one for me—if my YouTube doesn’t make it so obvious—so maybe that. Or college in the city, like my parents keep saying.” A corner of Mischa’s mouth lifted in a half-hearted smile. “I don’t know if they say that ‘cause it’s best or if they just want me out, but it doesn't matter.” At this, Noel frowned.
Mischa's parents—his adoptive ones—haven’t treated him any better than a housefly since he arrived at their doorstep three years ago. They fed him, sent him to school, and gave him a small, private room in the basement, yes. But beyond the bare minimum, they largely neglected the boy. Mischa once complained about how frustrating it was to have to crawl out through a small window because his parents lock the basement door when they're home. And back in some of their earlier shows, Noel would notice him glaring at the crowd whenever no one came to watch him perform.
“Honestly, I’m considering. Thing is, there are few things that tie me to Canada. I long for Ukraine. I want to go back, even if my mother died those years ago. It has been home, y’know?”
Noel took another swig. “Yeah, I get it.”
“How about you?” Mischa lightly bumped his knee. “Writing, is it?”
“Oui. The novels, the poems, and all that jazz.” Noel shook his hands for effect. He folded them back in his lap, gnawing at his lips as he resumed. “I’ll take up English Lit at Toronto in the fall. It’s not France, but hey, it’s somewhere different, isn’t it?”
Misha took the bottle, kneeling as he thrust it up into the air with a cheer. “Оплески! To somewhere different!” He hissed at the aftertaste. “Will you miss this place?”
“Not really. I know I definitely won’t miss the homophobic assholes in church.” Noel grinned wryly. “But I’ll miss you—” His heart skipped a beat when something flashed in Mischa’s eyes. “A-and the choir—and heck, even Father Louis! I’ll miss all of it. Honestly, leaving terrifies me.”
“Why’s that?” Mischa’s hand rested on his thigh, a warm, grounding weight.
Noel gulped. “I was born and raised in Uranium. I’ve never been anywhere else. What if it goes horribly wrong? What if my life there would be just as bland as it would be if I stayed here?”
Mischa sighed, his gaze intense, his hold on Noel’s thigh insistent. “Noel, listen. You’re smart, the most genius poet I know—”
Noel scoffed. “I’m the only one you know.”
“Beside the point!” Mischa tutted. “Of course, it would be scary. It would be batshit terrifying because it’s new. Toronto is bigger than all you’ve ever known, sure.” He tilted his head by way of agreement. “But it’s better to try test your chances, than staying here and regretting you never left at all. The world needs more poets, Noel Gruber.” His finger gently prodded against Noel’s chest. “It needs you.”
Noel gave him a small, fragile smile. “You really think I could get out of here?”
“I’m positive.” Mischa leaned back, reaching for the Smirnoff and tipping it over his mouth. “First time for everything, no?”
Noel giggled. “Like drinking vodka under the pastel sunset?”
Mischa smirked. “Yep. Exactly that.” He passed the bottle over to Noel. “Drink.”
Noel drank, his voice raspy as he said, “You know, you’ve ticked off some of my firsts.”
“Oh?”
Noel nodded, listing them off on his fingers. “My first drink, first time being in this corner of Saskatchewan, first time in a long time watching the sun go down.”
“Are there other firsts I haven’t fulfilled, birthday boy?” Mischa chuckled, inching closer, enough for his breath to cast warmth onto Noel’s skin.
Noel suddenly grew aware of their proximity, of the sole answer to Mischa’s innocuous question. “There’s—Well, I—I haven’t had my…” Noel drifted off. He cleared his throat. His answer was shy, reluctant, but no less true. “My first kiss.”
Mischa’s brows shot up, his eyes wide and incredulous. “You serious? I thought you had when you dated that guy. Jason, was it?”
Noel shook his head. “No, we just dated. Held hands at most. When he used to hang out at my place, Mom thought he was just a good friend tutoring me in French.” He snorted dryly.
“May I?” Mischa’s eyes bore into his, imploring.
Noel’s breath hitched. “May you what, Mischa?”
“May I kiss you, Noel?” Mischa clarified.
Noel pulled back, his palms suddenly clammy; he had to wipe them on his uniform pants. “I—Are you drunk?” He stammered.
Mischa shook his head once. A sharp, firm dissent. “No, are you?”
Noel mumbled, looking everywhere but at Mischa. “A bit tipsy, but I don’t think I’m drunk yet.”
Mischa took his hand, lightly tugging. “Do you want to do this?”
Noel finally looked him straight in the eyes. “If you think you have to do this because it’s my birthday or because you have to fulfill my silly list of firsts, don’t. There’s no pressure at all, Mischa. You’ve done so much for me already.”
Mischa tsked. He took Noel’s other hand, his brows knitted together like they do when he doesn’t understand a particular English sentence. “You’re not hearing me, Noel. Do you want to do this?”
Noel gaped, then slowly nodded. “Yes, I do.”
All the tension in Mischa drained, gone with the wind. It was replaced by dead-set determination. “Good. Because there’s nothing I want more.” He took Noel’s face in his palms and surged in with a kiss.
When Mischa’s lips slotted against his, Noel didn’t see fireworks in the back of his mind like he thought he would. After the initial spark fizzled upon contact, all he felt was relief, like thirst finally quenched or an aching soothed by a balm. All he could do was hold onto Mischa as the other boy kissed him with a thorough, unhurried passion.
Noel never knew something this excruciatingly soft would be his undoing.
When they finally parted, it was with a gasp. They panted softly, still closer than deemed platonic, still inebriated from the kiss.
Noel broke the silence, voice breathy and rasping. “Why did you do that?”
Mischa laughed airily. “You are not dumb, Noel. Why do you think?”
Noel furrowed his brows, eyes widening in realization. “You… like me?”
Mischa blew out a breath, looking up at the now starry sky. “God, poet, I love you so much. My heart aches for you in longing.”
“Mischa…” Noel breathed out. “I love you, too.” He looked around at the cozy, romantic scene Mischa had set up. God, Noel had been too in over his head about his feelings that he hadn't seen the clues all along. “Since when did you realize?”
Mischa answered immediately. “There wasn’t a specific day, Noel. There was never an incident when I was suddenly hit by love. It started slow, with the way you embraced me tight when I miss my mother and my home back in Ukraine. How you understood my every thought with a single glance and smile at me in return when I did things that brought you joy. It was with every poem you wrote that gave me a glimpse of your soul.” He made a breathless, awestruck sound. “God, Noel, loving you is built up in waves. There is no realization. It just crashes into me every single day.”
Noel sniffled. He felt his heart thudding wildly under the palm against his chest. “Damn it, Mischa, how could you be so perfect? You keep telling me I’m the poet, but you just spewed pure poetry.”
“It’s far from poetry, darling,” Mischa whispered, caressing the bones of Noel's knuckles. “Just the truth.”
Noel took the vodka with a shrug. “Same difference.” He downed the bottle in an attempt to gain every drop of liquid courage that he needed. “Come here.” He rasped.
Mischa smirked at the demand. “Can’t get enough, love?”
This time, it was Noel who cradled Mischa's face gently. “You’re just too addictive.”
“More than vodka?” Mischa's teeth grazed the shell of his ear as his voice rumbled, breath fanning Noel's burning skin.
“Vodka is water compared to you.”
Misha took the bottle from Noel's hand, draining the Smirnoff until the last drop. He returns to Noel with a downright mischievous smirk.
“Let's give you your first make-out session, baby.”