Chapter Text
Noel never knew why he felt different. Mischa didn't seem to know either– or maybe Mischa never noticed. It was obvious to Noel, though.
Ever since Noel was young, he had stolen his mom's dresses and heels and makeup and played dress-up in his room. For a while, he refused to wear pants, opting for the few dresses he could borrow from friends. He always lied about why he wanted them.
Once he learned about the LGBTQ+ community, he initially just thought it was weird. I mean, transgender? Who would want to be another gender? That's ridiculous! There's only two options! That's what his parents had said anyways. Anytime Noel would come home or leave the house in pink or a dress or skirt or anything deemed as "feminine", they'd say, "Noel, honey, you're going to confuse people if you go out like that. They'll think you're a girl and you wouldn't want someone getting the wrong idea, right?"
Noel would give in to their half-subtle protests and go upstairs, changing into a loose-fitting hoodie and tight jeans. But he always would stash his previous outfit in his bag, just in case...
Most people Noel grew up around, come to think of it, all lived by similar views: boys wore blue and played with cars and did the big jobs and were strong and masculine and never wanted to wear dresses or makeup. Girls were dainty and proper and raised children and did chores and wore pink and modest dresses and floral patterns and played with dolls.
Very traditional, outdated, values, if you asked Noel. But he still could never shake the feeling that something was different. Could never shove down the spurt of anger leaking into his chest whenever his parents spewed their simplified ideology.
Yet, he never told anyone. Why would he? If his friends knew, they'd surely think he was a freak, right? He thought he was a freak, so everyone else must think the same...
But here he was, on his bed, the pink, lip-shaped neon light above his bed casting a faint pink glow across everything it touched, coloring his light purple bedsheets with a wash of rose. His walls were boring white but were decorated with posters of French culture, French New-Wave Cinemas, sketches of dresses that Noel wished he could make, pictures with friends (mainly just the other kids in the Saint Cassian Chamber Choir), etc. He was formulating a text to send to Mischa.
It was a variation of the same text he had typed before but never had the guts to send. It all started the same:
"Hey Mischa. I wanted to talk to you about something"
Then came the actual discussion; the dreaded part. Noel didn't even know what he was fully feeling– he didn't want to admit he knew anyway. Admitting the truth was scarier than letting the lies eat him alive. Even if he lived a lie, at least it was a familiar one..
"I don't know how to talk about this and it's something new I've discovered. I totally get if you don't want to be friends after- it's understandable! I just thought I'd let you know so you're aware. Nobody else knows yet, not even anyone else from the choir or my parents... You're the first..."
Stalling. That's all Noel was doing. Stalling until he couldn't stall anymore- until he took a deep breath and typed the last sentence, "I don't think I'm a boy..."
And pressed send.