Chapter Text
The grass beneath their feet is tall enough for the straws to reach over Even’s sneakers. They tickle his bare ankles, leaving dew trails on his skin.
He hugs himself tighter, buries his hands in his armpits and draws his head further into the hood of his sweatshirt. Dips his chin under the neckline. In the chilly morning breeze, his cotton sweats might as well be made of netting.
The rest of the city is still asleep, worn out from its Friday night adventures. A lone dog walker pauses on the other side of the pathway, staring shamelessly at them as the dog goes about its business. Other than that, the park is deserted.
Even wonders, yet again, how the fuck he ended up here.
It’s a rhetorical question by now. He knows how. And why.
Around him, runners mingle. From the way they’re chatting away with each other, greeting the volunteers, lighting up in recognition as more people arrive – it seems like only he and Isak are first timers.
A familiar ache had settled behind his breastbone at the realization.
He just doesn’t want this to be yet another thing he messes up.
For Isak’s sake. He owes him that much.
At least he’s not the only one who doesn’t look like a semi-pro. That had been his other fear, the one that almost kept him home today. Would have kept him home if Isak hadn’t more or less dragged him out of bed, way too early in the morning.
There are two guys at the front of the group, wearing shorts in complete disregard of the chilly morning temperature, their shirts branded with some athletic club he doesn't recognize. They're doing some kind of complicated warm up, jumps and swings and intricate steps that makes it look like they're dancing. He tries to stop himself from rolling his eyes at them, but in the end, he doesn’t quite manage it.
Other than that, everyone looks pretty normal. Even if no one else is wearing sweats.
“You know, research shows that the risk of injury lessens dramatically if you warm up before exercising.”
Isak’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, as if he could tell that they were once again about to take another turn into Even’s insecurities.
He grins up at him, bent low in some sort of side lunge stretch… thing. The shorts he’s wearing over his running tights ride up, straining against his thighs. Even through the shiny material of the tights, Even can see the outline of his burgeoning thigh muscles.
The knot in Even’s chest dissolves slightly.
“Oh, so you’re some kind of running expert now?” he quips back, and Isak’s grin grows wider as he straightens, pushing his shorts back down, hands gliding down his thighs, his ass. He shakes out first his right leg, and then his left.
“Yup. The running master.”
Even grins back. Cocks an eyebrow at him.
The usual mixture of guilt and gratitude makes its waves in his gut.
Out of the two of them, Isak is definitely the running master. Even though the whole point of doing this, together, was that they’d both be equally shitty at it.
He can’t start thinking of how he’ll never make it up to him. Can’t let himself.
The group shifts around them as they line up to start. Tightens. Even’s shoulder knocks against Isak’s, and Isak turns to him again, raising his eyebrows in challenge.
“Winner gets to pick the movie.”
He barely has time to laugh out a you’re on before a flag is waved, and they’re off.
~*~
He starts out strong, latches onto the guys in shorts at the head of the pack and leaves Isak in his wake. The breeze that made him shiver when he was standing still is now crisp and cool against his face, his neck, whispering through his hair. He breathes in deeply, filling his lungs to the point of bursting. It feels like every pore in his body is funnelling oxygen straight into his bloodstream. His feet are light, easy, flying over the pathway like they were made for running. Like this is the natural state of being, and walking, or even standing still, is a modern abomination.
He feels like a fucking gazelle.
He could to this forever.
~*~
He can not do this forever.
Even is literally dying.
It comes out of nowhere, from one second to the next.
The air lodges in his throat, choking him, the bare minimum trickling down to his lungs. Every step is painful, the unyielding pavement sending shocks through his feet, up his legs, his thighs. His sweats are heavy, cold and soaked through. His hoodie is a heavy yoke on his shoulders and his pants are threatening to slide down his legs at any second. From his hair, plastered against his forehead, drips salty sweat, burning in the corners of his eyes.
He’s going to die here. He’s sure of it.
It’s the height of irony.
He can picture the headlines: Man, 23, dies while exercising, not having accomplished anything worthwhile in his entire life.
The distance between him and the guys in shorts grows with every step. A steady stream of runners pass him, as he fights to keep himself upright.
The thought hits him that if he were to be pursued by a raging murderer right now, he’d be fucked. He couldn’t outrun a child.
He’s just passed the halfway mark when Isak jogs past, giving him a wink and a jaunty salute, looking like this is the easiest thing he’s ever done. The only sign that he’s putting in any effort at all is the red tinge of his cheeks, the bright gleam in his eyes.
As he pulls away, Even’s eyes fix on his calves, muscles pulsing with every step.
~*~
The moment he crosses the finish line, Even stops. This is it. He’s done. He’s not taking another step – not in a long, long time. His throat is dry, his lungs have shrivelled up like raisins. Every cell in his legs is in pain. His stomach is cramping, and he thinks he might vomit.
He leans over, puts his hands on his knees and tries to breathe.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Isak’s voice reaches him, bright and enthusiastic, but his head is too heavy to lift and look for him.
How weird would it be if he were to just lay down on the grass, right here, and took a nap? Just closed his eyes and drifted off.
“Hang on,” he hears Isak say, ”I’ve just got to check on my friend,” and he manages to look up just enough that he can see Isak walking towards him, leaving behind one of the shorts guys looking slightly disappointed.
Isak doesn’t seem to notice.
He comes over to Even, and his hand on Even’s shoulder is warm and comforting.
Even’s breath starts to even out. His pulse slows down, just a little.
“You okay?” Isak asks, handing him the half full water bottle in his other hand. Judging from the concern in his voice, Even must look as bad as he feels.
Even nods, swallowing down the last of his nausea with Isak’s water.
“Yeah, I just need to… breathe,” he coughs, straightening.
Isak rolls his eyes at him.
His hand remains on Even’s shoulder, just for a moment longer. When he drops it to his side, the weight of it lingers.
“Told you you should have warmed up.”
Even gasps in response.
“Excuse me?! I thought we were doing this for my sake?”
Isak rolls his eyes again, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah, and if you die, it’ll all have been for nothing.”
Behind them, someone clears their throat, politely.
It’s one of the shorts guys – the one Isak was just talking to. He's holding a water bottle in his hands as well, pulling the stopper cork out and pushing it back in again, over and over.
He smiles at Isak, ignoring Even completely.
A few meters from them, Even can see his friend, watching with an obvious smile on his face.
“Hey, so, we’re going over to that café now? Like I was telling you about? If you wanted to come?”
“Uhm…” Isak shoots Even a look, and Even cocks an eyebrow at him.
He wouldn’t blame Isak for going with the guy. He’s not Even’s type, but he’s hot, like, objectively speaking. And he can’t even remember the last time Isak hooked up with someone, so really, he’d be stupid not to go when this guy is obviously flirting with him. But they did have plans to watch movies for the rest of the day after this. It’s become their thing, lately. A run, and then collapsing on the couch for the rest of the day, moving only to get more snacks. Which is probably exactly what Even would do anyway, if Isak weren’t there, but it’s nice to have company.
And they did have plans.
(He could call Mikael or someone. But still, it wouldn’t be the same.)
“Uhm…” Isak says again, and runs his hand over the back of his neck. His hair is at its curliest right there, and now, it’s even curlier than usual, darkened slightly with sweat. “I… actually need to study. Yeah.”
Shorts guy nods, slowly.
“Okay. Sure. But maybe next time?”
Isak grimaces in the same way that he always does when he’s trying, and not really succeeding, to fake a smile.
“Sure. Definitely. Maybe.”
A spark of smugness makes its way through Even, and he wonders if shorts guy can even tell that that’s a no.
From his responding smile and the way his friend claps him on the back as they walk away he’d guess not.
~*~
He’s reminded of shorts guy again later that afternoon.
They’ve moved on from movies to a new Netflix show. It's hilariously bad, so bad that it's almost good, but they’re four episodes in by now and Even is starting to lose focus. Just a little.
He's swiping his way through Tinder when Isak returns from the kitchen and places their third bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
“Find anyone interesting?” he asks, grabbing a fistful of popcorn and shoving it into his mouth.
Even can only sigh in response.
There's never anyone interesting.
He'd gotten Tinder a few months after breaking up with Sonja – when he was sure they were broken up for good this time, and when he'd started to dream about meeting the love of his life again.
When he'd finally stopped believing that she was it.
So far, it's been a complete waste.
Sure, he's gotten a couple of dates from it, but they've been few and far between, and none of them have really… clicked. It’s not that there’s been anything wrong with them, they’ve all been perfectly nice – except for that one girl – but so far, he hasn’t had a single date where he hasn’t spent the entire night thinking that he’d rather be home, in his sweats, just hanging out with Isak.
Maybe he's being unreasonable. Naive, to think that he could possibly relive the kind of connection he had with Sonja – overwhelming and all-encompassing. The kind of connection where not a moment goes by when you don’t miss them, desperately.
A kind of connection that probably doesn't happen after 15, except in the movies.
He responds with a sigh, and a shrug, and a fistful of popcorn.
Isak's eyebrows knot together, and Even feels his eyes linger on his face.
“Don't worry,” he says, finally, his voice a little softer. “You'll find someone.”
Even isn’t so sure about that. Isn’t so sure, anymore, that he won’t just end up alone, as all his friends pair up and move on with their lives.
It’s another one of those paths he can’t allow his thoughts go down.
He changes the subject instead.
“What about you?” He raises his eyebrows at Isak, tries for a cheeky smile. “Like that guy at the run this morning? He seemed really into you.”
It feels a little cheap, to even bring it up.
Something twists in his stomach as the words leave him.
He expects Isak to scoff, to roll his eyes at him, but Isak just squirms, shoving even more popcorn into his mouth. He fiddles with the remote control, eyes trained on the tv as episode five loads, percentage counting upwards.
“It’s not like I have time to date anyone right now,” he mumbles, finally, when the question has all but died between them. “With... school, and everything.”
The guilt and gratitude coils in Even’s gut, twisting, tightening.
It makes sense that Isak would rather be somewhere else right now. Drinking coffee with a cute guy as passionate about running as he’s starting to be, rather than at home with Even, who hasn’t moved from his corner of the couch more than once since they got home.
Makes sense that Isak would find him a burden, something that keeps him from spending his time as he wants.
There’s a reason that it’s become a joke among their friends – that wherever Even is, Isak is bound to be close by. And vice versa.
He never knows how to react, when they tease them about it.
Feels the guilt sloshing in his stomach, every time.
The warmth, rushing through his veins.
On the other end of the couch, Isak leans his head on his propped up hand and frowns at the TV.
The hot coil in Even’s gut tightens.
~*~
Mondays are the fucking worst – this Monday in particular. It's like the entire country has conspired to call in with the stupidest, most unreasonable complaints, all at once. They haven't had this many waiting calls since Even started working here, and of course every person he talks to insists on keeping him on the line for literal years.
He already knows that his numbers for this month are shot to hell.
The man on the other end of the line has an accent so thick that he can barely understand it – but there's no mistaking his anger. Even can almost feel his saliva through the headset, splattering over his face.
He's gone through the same argument four times now – and received the same answer each time. Yes, Even understands that that's extremely frustrating. Unfortunately, there's nothing he can do. No, there's no one else who can, either – it isn't something the company does. No, his boss won't be able to do anything either.
Three desks over, Eva stands up, raising her coffee mug at him in question.
A glance at the time on his screen tells Even that their break started two minutes ago. He suppresses a sigh.
He can't just end the call – but his break is from 9:15 to 9:30, and not a minute longer. If he misses it, he misses it.
Fucking Mondays.
He shrugs helplessly at Eva, getting a sympathetic head tilt in return, and prepares to give the same response a fifth time. Maybe tweaking the wording a little will help.
~*~
It doesn't.
When Even finally manages to convince the caller to hang up and logs out of his phone, he only has minutes left of his break.
Barely enough time to down a coffee.
Eva is sitting on the stiff blue couch in the break room, tapping away on her phone, drained mug on the table in front of her. She only looks up when Even flops down beside her, gliding down the couch until what he's doing can barely be called sitting.
“Rough morning?” she asks, with a sympathetic smile but with her thumbs still hovering over her phone.
On a day like this, break time is sacred.
Even moans in response.
“I'm wasting my life, apparently.”
Eva nods sagely, and returns to typing.
“Ah yes. Aren't we all.”
Even moans again, and slides even further down. Eva giggles at him, and he wonders, again, how she manages to not let it get to her.
He wishes he could be more like her. Not let it phase him so much, what the people at the other end of the line think of him.
Focus on doing a good job here, instead of thinking of what he could be doing instead. In another life.
Eva puts her phone down, turning slightly so that she’s facing him. Even leans his cheek on the backrest and pouts at her.
“You know it isn't true,” she says, emphatically. “They don't know what they're talking about. They don't know you.”
He tries to take it in. Tries to feel that she’s telling the truth.
“Did you have a good weekend?” she asks, obviously trying to distract him, help him let go of his last caller.
Even’s struck, again, by how lucky he is to have Eva as a co-worker.
“Yeah,” he replies. “It was fine. Isak dragged me to this parkrun thing on Saturday.”
Just mentioning Isak makes Eva grin wickedly. He really should have seen it coming.
“Oh, how is your husband?”
It's an old joke, by now, one that she started even before Isak and him moved in together – and she seems to have no plans to abandon it.
He's just grateful that it hasn't spread to the rest of their friends.
“Still just friends,” he says.
Eva sighs and pouts in mock resignation.
“I don't know why you keep denying it. It's obvious that there's something between you two.”
Even just laughs at her performance.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
Eva leans back on the couch, resting her cheek on the backrest as well.
“But you’d be so good together.”
Even shrugs. It’s Isak. The entire concept of them dating is just weird.
Eva regards him for a couple of seconds.
“So if not Isak, what are you looking for?” Her voice has gone softer, and Even can’t help but be a little touched by her interest. For all their connections – through Isak, through Sana, through work – they’re not especially close.
“I don't know,” he answers, honestly, because over the course of his Tinder dating that’s the one thing he’s come to realise. “Someone kind… and funny. And smart, I guess? You kind of want to be blown away by the person you're with, you know? Like, you want to feel like they're really a catch, like you can't really believe that they'd choose you, out of all people. But not so much that it makes you insecure, I guess.” He pauses a little, just to gather his thoughts. “… and someone supportive. Someone who's just there for you, when everything's shit, without needing to actually fix everything all the time.”
Eva smiles a little wistfully at him when he’s done. He thinks she’s about to say something, but just as she opens her mouth, her phone beeps, signalling the end of their break.
On his way back to his desk, Even fishes out his own phone.
There's an unread message from Isak, a meme, sent a few hours ago when he was probably on his way to class.
It isn't funny, but it still makes Even smile.
Mondays suck, he types, walking back to his desk.
Isak's response is almost immediate.
That they do.
And then, seconds later:
Any reason in particular?
Even pulls out his chair and drapes on his headphones with one hand, eyes stuck on Isak's message.
No, not really – just the general meaninglessness of life, and of his life in particular.
Rude caller, he types, pressing send just as the first call comes through his line.
When he checks his phone again, three calls later, Isak has sent a string of middle finger emojis.
Maybe it shouldn’t make him smile as much as it does.
~*~
Even's shoulders are up by his ears by the time he finally gets to leave work, almost fifteen minutes later than scheduled. He leans against the tram pole, letting the familiar rhythm of it lull him into a half sleep.
All he wants to do is go home, heat up a pizza, and curl up in a ball in front of the TV. Scroll through the internet for a few hours until it's time for bed.
Be silent.
The stairs up to their apartment feel insurmountable. He almost cries when it takes him a few minutes to find his keys.
All he wants to do is sleep.
When he finally manages to unlock the door and stumbles into the apartment, the first thought that hits him is that something is wrong.
Or, not wrong, exactly, but… off.
There's a fizzing sound, and a smell that's not usually there, and…
It takes him a moment, and then he realizes: someone's cooking.
The smell of onions sautéing fills the air. Beneath the sizzling he can hear the soft voice of a radio host, and then the first notes of an immediately familiar pop song, one he knows but could never place.
And over that: Isak humming.
He does it so rarely that it still catches Even off guard, every time.
Catches him off guard, and calms him down.
Every time.
But then again, being with Isak always calms him down.
It's one of the things that has surprised Even the most, since living with him. How easy it is to just… be with Isak. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Isak with his nose in a textbook or laptop propped up against his thighs, and Even on his phone. Some shitty reality show playing on the TV in the background.
He can feel the tension leave his shoulders on an exhale. The pulse behind his eyes softens. The smell reminds him of his parents’ kitchen. His and Isak's so rarely smells of anything but grease and salt.
Isak is hunched over a cutting board when Even enters, back towards the doorway. He's wearing that old grey t-shirt that he pulls on sometimes after working out, the neckline wide and stretched wider with wear. His hair is wet from the shower, dark and curling at the nape.
Even can follow the line of his spine, disappearing into his shirt. His neck, sloping into shoulder.
He borrowed that shirt, once. It was soft with a million washes, and smelled of Isak.
The memory ignites something in his stomach, a soft glow, deep down in his gut.
He leans against the doorway, just for a minute. Watches Isak meticulously halve, then quarter, a mountain of potatoes. Careful, exacting. Spread them out on a baking sheet.
Even can't help but snort when he pours olive oil in a measuring spoon.
Only Isak.
Isak, who looks up when he hears Even behind him, and says,
“Hey.”
There's an edge to it, a forced casualness in the way he says it, that's not usually there.
It's barely noticeable. Maybe no one but Even would.
“Hey,” Even replies, and then he just has to ask, because it's so unheard of that it would be weird not to: “You're cooking?”
Isak grimaces, makes a face that supposed to hide more than it reveals, and Even can identify pride in there, but also something else.
“Yeah…” Isak sounds a little hesitant, first, before it all comes out in a rush, words tripping over each other as they hurry to come first: “You were having a shitty day, so…”
The warmth in Even's gut blooms. He feels it spread over his face in a smile.
Isak smiles back.
“Do you want any help, or…?”
Isak rejects his offer with a shake of his head.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it. I’ll tell you when it’s done if you want to go and lie down on the couch or something.”
Even nods, turning the words over in his sluggish mind. Laying down would be nice. He can feel the tension in his shoulders spreading to his temples, an ache starting up in his lower back.
But at the same time – he doesn’t feel like leaving.
In the end, he pulls out a chair and settles down at the kitchen table, resting arms and head on top of it. Isak raises his eyebrows at him, but doesn’t comment. Just goes back to pushing the onions around in the pan. Slides the baking sheet, filled with potatoes, into the oven.
A new song starts on the radio.
Isak hums along.
Even feels like he could fall asleep right here. In the warmth spreading from the oven, the sounds of cooking and radio and Isak.
His mind is already drifting in and out of consciousness, and he can feel Isak’s fingers carding through his hair, soft voice telling him that the food’s ready.
When he startles awake, Isak is still at the stove. The same song is still pouring out of the radio.
Even shakes his head a little, trying to rid himself of the lingering sensation of Isak’s fingers against his scalp.
Where did that even come from?
By the counter, Isak does a little shimmy as the song on the radio picks up. Even can’t help but smile.
Maybe he should feel guilty about making Isak cook for him, but right now, he’s just too exhausted.
He trusts that he’ll feel guilty enough afterwards, anyway.
Isak bends down to check on the potatoes in the oven. When he crouches, his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of smooth skin just above his low-slung sweatpants, curving into his ass.
There’s something about the entire scene unfolding around him that just makes Even feel safe. At home, in a way that he never thought he would when he moved in with Isak instead of Sonja.
In a way that he can’t imagine feeling with anyone else.
The warmth in his gut spreads through his veins, filling him up. He lays his head back down on his arms, and feels his mind start to drift again.
He wishes they could just stay here, in this moment, forever. Him and Isak. In their kitchen bubble, filled with warmth and food and home.
He wishes he could go up to Isak, wrap his arms around him from behind, and bury his face in the crook of his neck. Breathe in the smell of him. Feel his curls against his cheek.
He wishes Isak would turn around in his arms, run his fingers through his hair, take his face between his hands, and kiss him. His forehead against his own. His breath against his lips. A hint of stubble against his jawline.
The realization shocks him wide awake.
Oh fuck.
He’s in love with Isak.