Work Text:
It goes something like this:
It was a month before New Years, and there was a red dress on Noelle’s bed. It’s a nice dress, made out of fine velvet, with white lacing on the trim. Noelle didn’t need to try it on to know it would fit perfectly. There was a note pinned to the collar, and Noelle didn’t need to read it to know what it said. She took the dress from her bed and hung it up in her closet, and she took the note and tucked it into her drawer. She’d never look at it again, but thinking about throwing it away made a stark chill crawl up her spine.
It goes something like this:
Noelle brushed her hair one thousand times before she goes to bed each night. She didn’t need to count each stroke anymore. As she brushed, she read her sheet music under her breath, memorizing her lines. For her solo.
It goes something like this:
Toriel—er, Miss Toriel—was playing the accompaninment. She was nice and spoke softly, and her fur smelled like cinnamon and buttermilk. She fiddled with her glasses as she looked over the music, her hooves moving across the keys with gentle precision, and when Noelle hit a wrong note, she only smiled and said, “Again, dear. You’re nearly there.” Sometimes, Noelle wished Miss Toriel was her mother, and she hates herself for it. Miss Toriel played the piano while Noelle sang and it was fine, all things considered.
It goes something like this:
“What are you doing here?”
Carol elbowed Noelle in her side as soon as the words leave Noelle’s lips. She winced, and corrected herself:
“What happened to Miss Toriel?”
“She’s sick,” mumbled Kris, a bit of red peeking underneath their fringe. They were staring at a spot on the floor just left of Noelle’s feet. “Snail flu. Whatever that is.”
“Kris has gracious agreed to fill in,” said Carol, her smile as thin as paper. “Don’t be rude, Noelle.”
Noelle’s ears pinned against her head, and she could feel her skin heat underneath her fur.
“’S fine,” said Kris, scuffing their sneaker against the floor. The sound is loud in the quiet practice room.
They looked nice, Noelle realized. They had gotten a new piercing in their left ear—a small silver stud that caught in the fluorescent light. Their hair was pulled back sloppily, like they’d done it without a mirror. Noelle felt her mouth twitch a little. Noelle felt her stomach turn a lot.
“Unfortunately, there’s no time for you two to practice, but Kris has assured me they know the music,” said Carol, her tone belieing the depth of her expectation.
Kris nodded, in that slight, awkward way they did that meant they were a bit confused as to why there were still expected to maintain conversation. Noelle’s mouth twitched.
Carol’s lips thinned, but she said nothing. She nodded stiffly and walked out of the room, her heels clicking against the tile with they same rhythm of Noelle’s racing heart.
The door clicked shut.
“You m-memorized the music?” asked Noelle, because she couldn’t think of anything else to ask.
“You mean the kitschy Angel song you sing every year?” Kris’s voice was flat, but not unkind. “Yeah, I know it.”
Noelle scrunched her snout, unable to tell if she was irritated or…something else.
“Okay,” Noelle swallowed, flexing her fingers. The air in the room felt thin. “Okay. Are you ready?”
Kris shrugged—a small movement, barely a lift of their shoulders.
Noelle threaded her hands through her hair. Even as she was lifting her hand she was scolding herself, already imagining what her mother would say if she could see her right now. Stop fidgeting. You’ll ruin the styling. Noelle’s hair was coiffed to perfection, stacked high with white silk ribbons that her mother had tied herself, her fingers brisk and icy, not a single strand out of place.
Oh, cheese and crackers, she was scared shitless.
Noelle’s hands were trembling. She’d been able to ignore it when Carol was in the room—years of practice keeping still under her mother’s gaze—but now the shaking was impossible to hide. Her fingers fluttered against her skirt like trapped birds. She clenched them into fists. Then unclenched them. Then clenched them again.
Kris let their gaze flicker downwards, their eyes bright, scarlet.
Noelle felt her face heat. “I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “I just—it’s just nerves. I always get nervous before—”
Kris grabbed their backpack from where it was slumped in the corner of the room, their face blank and silent. Noelle tilted forward, trying to peek at what they were looking for. They moved with that strange, unhurried economy they had—no wasted motion. Kris pulled something out of their bag, reaching out and offering it to Noelle without even looking at her.
It was a bottle of hard eggnog.
Noelle shrieked, jumping back. Immediately, Kris whipped their head around, their eyes wide underneath their fringe. “Shhh!” they hissed, voice cracking with indignation. “Do you want your mom to—”
They stopped. Swallowed. Dropped their voice to barely a whisper. “Do you want her to catch me with this stuff?”
“Kris! Angel’s sake, why do you have that?”
“Mom,” mumbled Kris, looking down at the bottle. “’S for my mom. Well, the bottle in my bag is. Got two.”
“Wha—you’re sixteen!”
“Mom isn’t.” Kris shrugged again. “And the grocery guy doesn’t care. It’s Hometown.” They paused, scuffing their shoe again. “…No one cards.”
That was true. People in Hometown could be…lax. Noelle forgot that sometimes, given her mother was anything but. Speaking of…
“Kris!” cried Noelle once more. “How could you even think of taking that out when my mom could be right outside the door!”
Kris tilted their head, just slightly. “You stop squealing,” they mumbled. “And she won’t come back.”
Noelle pursed her lips, ready to drop it. She wasn’t in the mood to fight with Kris at the moment. They were doing her a huge favor, and they’d need to work together for the performance. She needed to focus. She needed to be professional.
And then they opened the bottle.
“Kris!”
“Dude,” Kris’s eyes dropped to Noelle’s hands, still fisted in the fabric of her skirt. “You’re shaking.”
Noelle looked down at her own hands. Traitors.
“…Just one sip,” said Kris.
“Are you kidding—we’re underage.”
Kris didn’t respond. They just held the bottle out, steady, their expression unreadable. There was something in the set of their shoulders—a tension Noelle hadn’t noticed before. Their fingers were wrapped tight around the glass neck. Their knuckles were pale.
Kris was nervous, too.
Noelle grabbed the bottle.
She stared at it like it might bite her. The glass was cold against her palm. She could smell it—nutmeg and alcohol and something sour underneath.
Her mother’s voice rose in her head automatically, sharp and immediate. Unladylike. Undignified. That’s not how I raised you, Noelle. Noelle tipped the bottle anyway, just enough that it touched her lips.
It burned. Not like fire, exactly, more like smoke. It spread down her throat and into her chest, blooming outward until her skin felt tight and strange. She coughed, clapping a hand over her mouth, eyes watering.
Kris’s mouth twitched.
Noelle glared as snot ran down her snout. She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand—unladylike, undignified—and said, “I don’t want to do that stupid performance.”
The words hung in the air.
“Then don’t,” said Kris, quiet.
Noelle shook her head. “The performance—my mother would—”
Kris tossed their backpack into Noelle’s arms. She fumbled, nearly dropping it.
“My mom called,” Kris’s voice was flat, but their eyes—their eyes had something in them. Something careful. “Awful headache, threw up everywhere. You need to get her her medicine.”
“Kris, that doesn’t even make any sense,” sighed Noelle. “Why wouldn’t you bring her the medicine?”
Kris looked at her. Just looked. “Do you know how to play the piano?”
“Do you know how to sing?”
Kris reached up into Noelle’s hair. She froze. Their fingers brushed against her antlers as they pulled a ribbon loose—the white silk slipping free, her carefully constructed updo beginning to unravel. Noelle’s breath caught. Kris didn’t seem to notice. They took the rubber band out of their own hair and gathered it back, tying it with the ribbon in a messy ponytail.
“I can read sheet music,” murmured Kris with a shrug. “Know my do-re-mi’s. How hard can it be.”
Noelle said nothing.
“There’s actually medicine there. In the bag,” said Kris. “’S just the urgency we’re lying about.”
“Kris…”
“You know where the spare key is.” Kris said breezily, but their eyes were fixed on the door, not on her. “And when you’re unpacking, only take out one bottle of eggnog.”
“Kris—”
Kris’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk. “The unopened one.” They paused. “No offense, Noelle, but my mom is sick enough already. Doesn’t need your germs, too.”
Noelle stared at them. The backpack was heavy in her arms, and she could feel strands of hair falling loose around her face. Her mother would be furious. “…Alright.”
“Alright?”
“Alright,” repeated Noelle as she left the room.
#
The Dreemurr household was quiet.
Noelle let herself in with the spare key—under the mat, just like always—and slipped off her shoes at the door. The house smelled like cinnamon and buttermilk and something faintly floral, the same way Miss Toriel always smelled. It was warm. Lived-in. There were dishes in the drying rack and a book left open on the coffee table, spine-up to save the page.
She found Miss Toriel in her bedroom, propped up against pillows, a cool cloth over her eyes.
"Oh—Noelle, dear?" Miss Toriel's voice was rough, but she tried to smile. "Kris mentioned you might stop by. I am sorry you have to see me like this."
"It's okay, Miss Toriel." Noelle's voice came out steadier than she felt. "I brought medicine. Kris said—"
"Snail flu," Toriel groaned. "I do not even have snails. Where could I have possibly—" She broke off, waving a paw weakly. "Never mind. Thank you, dear. You are so thoughtful."
Noelle set the medicine on the nightstand and lingered for a moment, watching Miss Toriel's breathing even out. There was something achingly gentle about her, even sick and rumpled and exhausted. Noelle thought about her own mother, who never got sick, who never allowed herself to be seen as anything less than perfectly composed.
She walked away.
#
Kris's bedroom door was open a crack.
Noelle hadn't meant to go in. She'd meant to leave the backpack by their door and slip out the way she came, maybe find somewhere to hide until the festival was over and her mother's anger had cooled from furious to merely disappointed. But her feet carried her down the hallway anyway, past the family photos and the crayon drawings taped to the walls, until she was standing in the doorway of Kris's room.
It smelled like cinnamon.
No, that wasn't right—it smelled like Kris. Like the slightly sweeter, slightly muskier version of Toriel's scent. Like apple shampoo and something earthy underneath. Noelle stood in the doorway, breathing it in, hating herself a little more with each inhale.
The room was messy. Not dirty—just lived-in. There were books stacked on the floor, a controller left on the rumpled bedsheets, a half-finished drawing on the desk. Noelle drifted toward it without meaning to. It was a sketch of a castle, dark and looming, with something glowing at the center. She couldn't tell what.
She sat down on the edge of Kris's bed. Just for a moment. Just to catch her breath.
The sheets were soft. Flannel, maybe. She ran her palm over them, feeling the worn fabric, and imagined Kris sleeping here, hair loose across the pillow, face slack and peaceful in a way it never was when they were awake.
Cheese and crackers, what was wrong with her?
She should leave. She should—
The front door opened and closed.
Footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Unhurried. Noelle's heart seized in her chest. She looked around wildly—nowhere to hide, nowhere to go—and then Kris was standing in the doorway, still wearing her white ribbon in their hair.
They looked at her.
She looked at them.
"You're still here," Kris said. It wasn't a question.
"Was I... supposed to leave?"
Kris didn't answer. They crossed the room and dropped onto the bed beside her, close enough that Noelle could feel the warmth radiating off them. Their shoulders were almost touching. Almost.
"You didn't want to go to the festival?" asked Kris, quiet.
"I didn't want to run into my mom."
Kris snorted—a small, soft sound. "Your mom never shows up to the fair." They glanced at her sideways. "Too much greasy food."
Noelle looked away. It was true. The mayor made an appearance at the opening ceremonies, gave a speech about community and tradition and the Angel's blessing, and then retreated to her office to do whatever it was she did there. She wouldn't be caught dead eating fried dough or riding the tilt-a-whirl.
"What did you do with the eggnog?"
"Cheese and crackers, Kris, I didn't give your mom your illicit drugs, okay?" Noelle's voice came out sharper than she meant. "It's in the bag."
Kris's mouth curved. Just slightly. "Killer."
They lapsed into a silence. Nothing about it was comfortable. Noelle could hear her own heartbeat, could feel every place her body was almost touching Kris's. She stared straight ahead at the drawing on the desk. The glowing thing at the center of the castle. A heart, maybe.
"Were you gonna drink it all yourself?"
"Hm?"
"The eggnog." Noelle's voice was quiet. "Were you going to drink it all yourself?"
Kris was quiet for a long moment. "Was gonna share. With Monster Kid. But they've been..." They trailed off, frowning slightly. "...kinda a dick lately. So."
They looked at her. Noelle felt their gaze like a physical weight.
"Did you..." Kris paused. Swallowed. "...want some?"
"...Okay."
Kris grabbed their backpack from the foot of the bed, unsheathing the eggnog. Looking at the bottle now, Noelle could remember how it tasted—how it burned her throat and made her skin buzz. Her throat tightened around nothing. Kris unscrewed the cap and took a giant swig.
Their face went through several interesting contortions.
"...you're holding in a cough, aren't you?” asked Noelle, a smile already creeping across her lips.
"No." Kris's voice came out as barely a rasp.
Noelle threw her head back and laughed. It burst out of her—loud and unladylike and free—and before she could think too deeply about it, she took the bottle from Kris's hands and took a sip of her own.
On her second taste, Noelle realized that even though it burned, it was sweet. The nutmeg and cream and something warmer underneath. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sniffled.
"...Mom's gonna be so pissed at me."
"'S okay." Kris took the bottle back. Their fingers brushed hers. "Think she bought my excuse."
"Did she really?"
Kris winced. "...Probably not." They corked the eggnog and shoved it back in the backpack. "Hey. We shouldn't drink in here. My mom might—" They glanced toward the door. "She could wake up."
"She seemed pretty out of it..."
"Still." Kris slung the backpack over their shoulder, then turned toward the window. They pushed it open, letting in a gust of cold December air. "Let's finish this somewhere else."
They swung their legs over the windowsill.
Noelle tilted her head. "Couldn't we just use the front door?"
Kris looked back at her. Their expression was almost—not quite—a smile.
And then they dropped out of sight.
Noelle's heart hammered. She scrambled to the window, peering down. Kris was already on the ground, looking up at her, their breath misting in the cold air. They raised an eyebrow. Waiting.
Noelle had never climbed out a window before. She'd never done a lot of things before tonight.
She grabbed the sill and swung her legs over.
#
The festival was a glow on the horizon.
They walked through the back streets of Hometown, avoiding the main roads. Kris moved like they knew every alley, every shortcut, every loose fence board they could slip through. Noelle followed, her nice shoes getting scuffed, her carefully styled hair falling further and further loose. She couldn't bring herself to care.
The eggnog passed between them in silence.
Sip. Burn. Sweetness. Pass it back.
Kris drank less than she did. They seemed more interested in watching her—glancing over when they thought she wasn't looking, their expression unreadable. Noelle felt their gaze like a spotlight. Like she was being seen for the first time in her life.
#
The festival was louder up close.
Noelle hadn’t expected that—she’d attended every year since she was small and knew exactly what it looked like, exactly which vendor sold the best roasted chestnuts and which stall had the longest line. But that was a long time ago. When her sister and her father were still…
It was different this time. Different in a way that felt familiar.
Brighter, maybe. Louder definitely. The smells hit her all at once—fried dough and cinnamon and something she couldn’t name but that smelled exactly like the color orange. Strings of lights looped between the stalls, and everywhere she looked there were people—laughing, eating, jostling each other over the ring toss.
And Kris was there, too. Just like they were when they were still kids, when everything was so much simpler. Walking ahead of her like an asshole.
Noelle had to trot to keep up. She didn’t mind.
They stopped at the roasted chestnuts first because Noelle said she wasn’t hungry and Kris seemed to take that as a direct challenge, producing a paper cone of them from the vendor before Noelle had finished her sentence. The chestnut was warm in her palm. She ate three before she admitted they were good.
“Told you,” Kris said, which was unfair because they hadn’t said anything.
They drifted past the stalls—the ring toss, the glass-blowing demonstration, a puppet show that was clearly meant for much younger children but that Kris stopped to watch with total earnestness, arms folded, expression unreadable. Noelle stood beside them and pretended to check her coat for something and definitely didn’t spend the entire time watching Kris’s face.
The ferris wheel was at the far end of the grounds.
Kris looked at it, then at Noelle, then back at it. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.
#
The gondola swayed slightly as it lifted, and Noelle grabbed the safety bar with both hands, which she immediately regretted because Kris was right there and they definitely noticed. They didn’t say anything. Noelle loosened her grip to something that could, generously, be described as casual.
The festival spread out below them. From up here it looked like a snow globe someone had shaken—lights everywhere, people small and bright and moving in the patterns that people moved in when they were allowed to just be happy about something.
“Kris.”
“Mm.”
“Thank you. For—” She gestured vaguely, at the festival, the gondola, the chestnuts, the whole improbable evening. “You know.”
Kris said nothing for a moment. Below them, a child shrieked with laughter at something. The gondola swayed.
“You were shaking,” Kris said finally, like that was an explanation. Like that was the whole reason.
Maybe it was.
Noelle looked at them. At the side of their face, the new piercing catching the light. The ribbon still holding their hair back, more or less. They were looking out at the festival, jaw set, like they were very focused on not looking at her.
They were going to make a joke. Noelle was certain of it. Her whole life, when things got too close to something real, Kris made a joke and took three steps back and everyone pretended that was fine.
They opened their mouth, and Noelle interrupted, quiet but firm: “Kris.”
And Kris turned to look at her.
The gondola swayed. Far below them, music played.
Later, Noelle would not be able to say who moved first. She thought maybe it was her. She thought maybe it was both of them at once, in the way that sometimes a thing that has been tilting for a long time simply tips.
It was brief. Kris’s lips were cold from the winter air and tasted a little like eggnog. The gondola rocked.
When they pulled apart, Kris looked at her with an expression Noelle had never seen on them before. Wide, a little. Unguarded.
“Oh,” Kris said.
Noelle’s ears were burning. “Oh,” she agreed.
Below them, the festival continued entirely without their input. Somewhere, someone won the grand prize at some silly carnival game. The crowd cheered.
Kris turned back to look at the lights. After a moment, very carefully, like they were doing something they weren’t sure they were allowed to do, they reached out and found Noelle’s hand on the safety bar.
Noelle didn’t move.
The gondola climbed.
#
It goes something like this:
They drank the whole bottle, alone in a quiet field only Kris knew about. And when the taste of it hit her tongue, all Noelle could think was that it tasted like Kris’s lips, and burned like their skin.
It goes something like this:
Noelle walked home with cold fingers and bits of ice stuck on her coat from sitting on the snow, watching the grounds empty out. Her mother is going to be furious. The Angel song is still going faintly in her head, but for once it doesn’t sound like an obligation. It just sounds like something she knows.
It goes something like this:
There is a ribbon missing from Noelle’s hair. She does not go back for it.