Archive of Our Own

Noel had always wanted to like the smell of cigarettes. There was a certain sophistication to the idea, even in a Freudian oral fixation sort of way. The way the smoke twisted in the air like the pristine satin drapes of his dreams. A singed wedding veil flying in the breeze. The air of sensuality from lighting someone else's cigarette with your own. Pressing the burning embers together to create a new spark.
But alas, the smell made him gag.

He tried it once, some time ago. Leaving his shift, praying for the stench of bean paste to be left within the walls of that hellscape, he almost missed the two of his coworkers posted up at the back of the store. The streetlights around the carpark had been ripped out, cracked by some teenager with nothing better to do, so they were easy to miss in the dark. They were two older women, Noel wondered why they were still here. As soon as he turned eighteen, he was out of this shithole. The only way he'd stay in Uranium would be in a coffin.

He didn't know why, but tentatively he waved to the women. Usually, he kept to himself during work as much as he could. Avoiding anyone from St Cassians at all costs, he doesn't know what he would do if someone from school found out where he works. He would be a complete laughing stock.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, one of the women rummaged through her pockets, eventually pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
‘Sorry, you don’t mind if we have a smoke, do you?’

A million thoughts rushed through his brain at this moment. Holy shit—This is my chance to finally be cool—Will my mom smell the smoke on me?—Have you seen The Blue Angel?—can yuo put that out on me—

‘Uh…Can I take a hit?’

Despite his completely juvenile phrasing and obvious voice crack— his coworkers humoured him.

‘Sure, kid.’ One said, after a not unnoticeable shared chuckle.

He can do this. He's seen the movies. This was his moment. Finally, a teenaged coming of age staple. A foray into true sophistication, adult life, finally taking a risk–

‘Ack!’ And he broke down coughing.

The women, although not unkindly, laughed so hard they doubled over in coughing fits of their own. They took the cigarette off him, the younger one slapping him on the back goodnaturedly.

‘Thank you…’ Noel spluttered, despite his embarrassment.

Noel was searching for something. Some kind of pain to distract from the complete monotony of life in Uranium city. Something that will ruin him— give him experience with loss, give him pain because at least then he knows he's still living. Something to explain where this hole in his heart comes from, why he is the way he is if nothing bad had ever really happened to him.

He was always somewhat of a strange child, never fitting in exactly with his peers. In his first week of school he avoided the boys entirely. His first true exposure to other human life and already they disgusted him. He preferred to concoct dramatic storylines through the artform of the Barbie doll. After an especially engrossing narrative where Barbie turned to the drink upon finding her boyfriend with her sister, his teachers set his parents aside for a ‘private chat’ and was given an unsubtle encouragement to “try out some boy stuff! Play a bit of kickball, it might be fun!” As one can imagine, this didn’t turn out well. The boys ridiculed him throughout all of his early schooling, and when middle school came around the girls began to find problems with him too.

Every once in a while he would find the confidence to express himself, a small act of rebellion in the bleak slog that was life in Uranium city. Once, he dared to put on black nail polish. It didn’t last, the bus to school was as crowded as ever, he sat at the back as always. His peers laughed the same as they do every day, but today every chuckle felt aimed in his direction, each eye felt like it gave him a longer sidelong glance. He caved in on himself, hunching down in his seat, more self conscious than ever. Slowly he picked off the nail polish til only the last speckles remained. On multiple occasions he overheard his mother on the phone, exasperatedly worrying about what to do about her son. That he won’t hang out with other boys, that he might be… you know. They say it as if it’s a fatal illness, the same cadence you might use if someone was diagnosed with dysentery in the 1800s. A pitiful, glad-it’s-not-me, almost schadenfreude condolence.

He would hear his parents arguing about it sometimes, which one of them exactly caused him to act this way. For a long time Noel blamed himself for their divorce— unfortunately it was nothing nearly as tragic. His mother assured him that it was just boring adult things like monetary disputes and petty disagreements.

When he was younger he used to try to cut himself, slashing at his arms with a blunt kitchen knife. Though slightly juvenile, there was almost a romance to it, he imagined some vague future lover kissing his scars—visual proof of the pain he endured, and loving him in spite of it. The habit was broken quickly however, the first time he drew blood he fainted at the sight of it. He decided it wasn’t worth the turmoil from that point onwards.

This is how he ended up standing outside, leaning on the grey concrete wall of the empty Taco Bell parking lot long after his closing shift had ended. In one hand, a box of matches, stolen from the depths of the store's kitchen. The other hand lay trembling at his side.

He lights the first match. Nervously, both hands shaking, Noel pressed it into his knuckle.
White hot pain. He feels it instantly, the jolt of pain and adrenaline performing their spindly dance across his nerves, a red mark forming deep through layers of skin. An involuntary gasp leaves his lips as his fingers spasm and the box of matches drops to the ground.

Only then, bending down to pick up the box, is when he notices another figure crouched behind the trees on the edge of the parking lot. A sense of panic rushes through him. He's not the most well liked person in his year, for obvious reasons. Whoever's here at this hour is probably not going to be friendly.

Before he moves to back away, he realises something. A sound coming from the figure hiding in the dark.
They're crying.

Soft snivelling cries, muffled under a futile attempt to quiet them through layers of fabric. A sound he knows all too well. Noel, still curious, treads forward slightly. The individual is shorter, probably a girl. (Though one should never assume, Uranium is not the most diverse of places. Noel still shudders thinking about the girl whose schoolbag got lit aflame after someone accused her of being a lesbian.) She has curly hair, tied back in a familiar silhouette.

It's Constance.

They're not close, far from it. Outside choir practice he's only talked to her a couple times in passing. She's nice. —Probably not nice enough to not blab to Ocean about seeing him in his Taco Bell uniform. He cannot risk it.

Hearing Noel's footsteps, she looks up suddenly from the book in her arms. Shit.
She wipes her face quickly, clearly frightened.

‘I wasn't crying!’

‘No… Uh, I didn’t think so,’ He lies. Get me out of here, he prays to a god he doesn't quite even believe in. Awkwardly he stutters out, ‘The ending that bad?’ pointing to the book in her arms.

She giggles through her tears, shaking her head. She holds the book up for him.
St Cassian Catholic Highschool Yearbook.

‘Ah.’ He sighs internally and sits down beside her. The page is miserable. Sparse with signatures, albeit still more than Noel's, but each one is more vague and polite than the last.

I never really met you, you seemed friendly.

You make good cupcakes!

You were so nice.

Thanks for lending me your pen.

‘Jesus.’

‘I'm so sick of this.’

‘Of people knowing how nice you are?’

‘Of everything. Everyone. This whole town is full of assholes.’ Her sweet voice doesn't lend much credence to this sentiment.

Noel chuckles darkly under his breath, ‘I know how you feel.’

‘No you don't.’ She snaps. ‘…Sorry. I- I'm sure you do.’ She looks away from him, avoiding eye contact. ‘I’m just… I'm sick of everyone thinking I want to stay in this crummy town just because my parents do. I'm sick of everyone thinking I'm just some brain dead cupcake-making zombie like them,’

She blurts this out defensively, but seems to regret it as soon as the thought enters the air. It hangs there between them, her sudden vulnerability to someone she frankly, barely knows. Her voice begins to waver and shrink and the next part comes out near to a whisper.

‘You know… I stay awake at night wondering what people will think of me after I die. If they'll just forget me straight after we leave school. Everyone here seems to be going on to bigger and better things ya know… but I'm just good ol’ reliable Constance the lifer.’

She starts to sniffle again, which sends Noel into a minor state of panic.

‘Hey. I can’t make this better, but,’ He lights a match and raises an eyebrow.

Her eyes glow in the light of the flame. She glances back to the book with a look of furious determination and rips out the offending page. Rips is a strong word, carefully, she takes out an exacto knife from her dress pocket and extracts the page from the book. He wonders silently if she always carries it around at school all day. She takes the matches and sets the first page on fire.

‘Pinkie swear to not tell anyone about this?’

The forest around them glows as the page dissolves.

‘As long as you swear to not tell anyone where I work.’

‘Deal.’