Archive of Our Own

The first time Even catches himself looking at another boy, he’s seventeen.

That is, looking as in really looking. Not just noticing someone walk by, not as a classmate or a friend, but as an interest. A question.

It’s the middle of July, they’re at the cabin, and this is the first summer that he’s started to sneak out at night, away, being somewhere else than with his family.

Not that there’s a lot of options, but at least there’s the cliffs near the sea. They’re something that is his and his alone. Plus, there’s a small shop by the parking lot in the middle of the village that’s open until nine, and it happens that other teenagers congregate there, if they’re visiting.

The regular cabin owners Even already knows. Noone his age – there never has been. Only younger kids, thirty-somethings, older people.

From eighteen and up to late twenties, nobody wants to come here with their parents for a quiet, uneventful holiday. Until they start getting kids of their own, and return to the familiar, the calm.

This Tuesday night, he’s climbed out his window after dinner, not deeming it necessary to let anyone know that he’s not in his room, out by himself. The questions and the unspoken worry in their eyes isn’t useful to anyone, to be honest – least of all themselves.

He’s wandering through the field sloping down from their cabin towards the old farmhouse overlooking the fjord. The village to his right, the water ahead, mountains rising high on both sides. It’s still light outside, the sun hours from setting behind the ridges. A small bounce in his step, he passes the farmhouse and heads for the tiny harbour to see if the café down there is still open. The hope of coming across any beer or the like is admittedly faint; perhaps an ice cream will have to suffice for now. As long as he gets to decide for himself, follow his instincts, feel a ever so small rush of freedom sweeping through him, anything will do.

The lights inside the café are still on, a few tables and chairs scattered outside the entrance. Small power boats, white sails, and the occasional yacht lie clucking along the pier, making the scenery complete.

He enters the café to find Märta behind the counter. In front of her is a mop of bushy, brown hair that he hasn’t seen before, and a broken pubertal boy’s voice asking for two scoops in a cone. Gangly, yet strong, legs stick out of his shorts. Before Even has seen his face, he feels some kind of curiosity about what’s further up inside the boy’s clothing.

As the boy turns around, ice cream cone in hand, Even sees his face for the first time. And it’s not exactly everything he dreamed of, but it’s open and nice. Eyebrows as bushy as his hair, gray kind eyes, and a smile as he looks up at Even.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Even answers, not finding anything else to say in the moment. The boy passes by, brushing Even’s arm with his t-shirt, and exits with his cone, walking along the wharf and disappearing round the corner.

Even buys himself his own cone and sits down outside, thoughtful.

The boy was probably a year younger than him, maybe two. Still in middle school. Too young. But there was something about those legs, the knobbliness and the rough hairs and muscles, that ignited some kind of interest in him.

Funny.

Even stands up. Walks along the wharf in the opposite direction to find his own spot, beyond the harbor and down by the little cave under the cliffs. By the time he’s made it there, his mind has strayed to other things. The film he’s promised Elias that they’ll shoot when he returns from his holiday, the Skype call with Sonja yesterday evening, the fishing trip with his uncle tomorrow. He sits there until the sun is almost down, and the mosquitos start to bite.

It’s a week until Even sees him again. He’s with his parents in the neighboring village to shop at the supermarket, and the boy is sitting outside on the pavement, listening to something in his earphones, tapping along with his foot to an unheard rhythm, bushy hair bobbing.

A moment’s idea: Even decides to let his parents do the shopping in peace, and steers his steps over to pavement instead. As he lets his shadow fall over his legs, the boy looks up.

“Oh. Hi,” he smiles.

Even grins in response, and sits down. “What are you listening to?”

“System of a Down.” The boy hands Even his left earplug, “You heard of them?”

“Sure,” Even lies, and accepts the plug. “They’re awesome.”

The music is frankly quite unbearable – definitely not Even’s taste – but this is the most exciting thing that has happened to him for the past week or two. So he plays along, nodding his head with the loud guitars.

“I’m Jonas, by the way,” the boy says, glancing over at him.

“Even,” Even responds, and smiles. “Do you rent something around here, or what? I haven’t seen you before.”

“No, we bought a cabin last autumn. Up by the football field. So, it’s my first summer here.”

“Figured,” Even nods. The boy’s accent is familiar, and he catches the opportunity to continue the conversation. “Are you from Oslo?”

Jonas nods, taking the earbud out of his right ear. “Grefsen. You too?”

Even removes his earbud as well. “Løkka.”

“Hipster.” Jonas wrinkles his nose, then laughs. Even laughs with him. It’s easy, nice, and perhaps he's not attracted to this boy, but it might be a realistic option, and that excites him in a new, tingling way.

“So, what school are you in?”

“Grefsen, still. One year left. Then I don’t know. Guess I’ll end up in the same school as my friends. Nissen, maybe.”

Even shoves his arm. “Ha! You should aim for something better. Bakka, for example.” He points at his own chest, and raises an eyebrow to try and haul him in a little further.

Jonas lifts the corner of his mouth into an amused smile. “Like I said. Too many hipsters.”

Even starts laughing before Jonas does, this time, and he leans forward and a little to the side with the movement, so that his left leg knocks against Jonas’ right. It could be written off as accidental, if it wasn’t on purpose. The touch doesn’t slam him to the ground, or give him any electric feels. But it’s still exhilarating, new, searching.

Jonas doesn’t let on that he’s noticed anything. He’s not removing his leg, but he’s not moving any closer, either. “I guess we’ll just see if our grades are good enough, and it’ll work out either way,” he says and shrugs his shoulders. Like their legs touching is insignificant to him, like he hasn’t even noticed.

Even draws his leg back, then. Slow, careful not to draw attention to its proximity in the first place, as a woman’s voice calls from the exit of the supermarket.

“Jonas! We’re ready!”

Jonas stands up, stretching out his hand in greeting, and says, “See you around then, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Even smiles, trying to make it come off as indifferent as possible. “See you around.” When Jonas is out of sight, Even picks up his phone. Pulling up the browser, he types System of a Down into the search bar. Just to have something to do while he waits.

Five days later, he sees Jonas again. This time, he’s not alone.

It’s in the kiosk by the parking lot, on a still, hot afternoon where nothing moves, least of all the stale air inside. Even’s over by the magazines shelf, peering down among the volumes in hope that something new and worth reading would have magically appeared there overnight, when the doorbell tingles and he hears Jonas’ voice.

“This is the only place that might have them, I think,” Jonas says, which means he must have some sort of company tagging along. Friend? Girlfriend? Something else? Before Even’s had time to turn around and see, another, unfamiliar voice speaks up.

“Okay,” a hoarse boy’s voice replies, sounding a little wary. Jonas and the other boy have migrated behind the candy shelf by now; only tufts of brown messy curls visible of Jonas, and a head full of golden, more shiny curls beside him. The friend has got a few inches on Jonas, but the shelf is still tall enough that Even can’t see his face.

“I can’t find them anywhere,” the friend sighs. “Let’s just go. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“It’s the least I can do for you,” Jonas replies. “After all that’s happened the last few weeks? If there’s anything you need right now, it’s salt sild. I’ll go ask.”

His friend protests, but without heat, and turns around to distance himself from Jonas who’s walking up to the register. The blonde, golden head approaches the corner of the candy shelf, and a tall, lanky boy emerges from behind it, looking up as he sees Even standing there.

And okay. If what Even felt when he saw Jonas for the first time was some kind of curiosity, it’s out the window this instant. He’s thinner than Jonas, with his jawline set in a determined non-smile. The golden curls fall down over his forehead, and almost down to his long lashes framing a pair of sad-looking green eyes. He is cute, no doubt, but most of all he’s beautiful. And maybe it’s Even’s artsy, dramatic trait showing, but he looks like a painting. Even shouldn’t find the obvious unhappiness on his face so attractive, but it’s impossible to look away.

He stops in his tracks as he spots Even. His mouth falls open, and he folds in on himself just enough for Even to notice.

“Eh…” He looks down, and then to his right, probably trying to catch Jonas’ eye.

“Nah, they don’t have them,” Jonas says as he emerges. “Let’s just – oh, hi! Even!” His face breaks into a wide smile as he puts a hand around his friend’s shoulders.

Even notices the ease with which he does it. Like it's commonplace between the two of them.

“This is my best friend. Isak. He just came today. But you already met, I see.”

He tries to catch Isak’s eye. “Yeah.”

“Not really,” Isak replies and looks down to the floor.

Even could, in all honesty, stay here all day to be able to look at Isak’s face. To ask him all sorts of things. He wants to know all there is to know.

But it’s impossible to deny that Isak’s whole appearance screams discomfort. Like he’d want nothing more than to teleport out of here, anywhere, right now.

Even tries to meet his eyes again, but Isak keeps his gaze fastened to the floor, obvious in his efforts not to look back. As much as Even doesn’t want to leave, there’s a creeping feeling that he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t see. It might be that Jonas knows what the deal is here, but it seems clear that Isak doesn’t want anyone else in on this.

His arms and legs start to feel a little to long for his body, like he doesn’t know where to put them anymore. The silence is thick, and after a short while he can’t stand it anymore.

So, even though his whole body struggles against it, he excuses himself with a “Nice to meet you again. Jonas. Isak,” and slips out the door.

The next day, he wakes up at half past six. Way too early for a holiday. His mind jumps to the last conscious thought that crossed his mind yesterday evening. An image of golden curls, slumped shoulders and the name Isak. He’s not sure why, but it’s like he carved out a little space in his head dedicated to this boy the second he saw him, unwilling and unable to let him move out of there.

He’s only fifteen. Don’t be ridiculous.

He realizes then that he forgot to call Sonja yesterday.

He picks up his phone, but there’s no missed call. Only a text message that says Miss you <3.

You too, he types out, and presses send, pocketing his phone without waiting for a reply.

Over the next couple of days, he takes several unprompted walks up to the football field. He walks laps, takes a detour around the houses, down and up the narrow gravelled road between them. But no Jonas, and no Isak is to be found, though.

After a week has gone by, he still hasn’t seen a trace of either of them.

He knows: he's obsessing. As soon as he’s not occupied with thinking about something else, his mind strays to the sad-looking boy that somehow, in his mind, resembles a work of art. An angelic painting straight out of Nasjonalmuseet, if you will.

Even in his dreams, traces of Isak are seeping in. Golden locks and green eyes and a squared, stubborn jaw. He wakes in the middle of the night, turning, blushing, not being able to calm down from just lying there, and he knows.

It’s been five days since he called Sonja, when his mother comes into his room, asking for permission to sit on his bed.

“Sit with me,” she asks, but it’s obvious to both of them that he fails. Far too jittery to settle, he stands by his desk, drumming his fingers against the top. Listens as she explains, kindly, how Sonja called earlier. That they both agreed that it’s for the best if he were to go home for a while. Not that he has to, but to see Maryam and maybe adjust his dosage. Have a few therapy sessions, to be on the safe side, before coming back.

Even wants to object, but can’t find it in himself to outright lie to his mother.

“I noticed, love, that you’re not sleeping,” she continues, and he nods, tapping his foot against the floor. Another proof that she’s right.

Despite his faint hope that he’ll see Isak again if he stays, he knows. There’s no use in fighting. He’s not that far gone that he doesn’t know what might happen if he’s allowed to let this fixation bloom. It’s not that bad – yet.

He gives in. “Okay.”

“I’ll drive you down tomorrow. Just a few days,” she says, and rises from the bed to put a hand on top of his.

He does return to the cabin ten days later, with a refilled medicine dispenser and three nights of solid nine-hour sleeps behind him. This time, though, he’ll stay away.

His mother didn’t want to leave him alone in the apartment, and Sonja is still with her aunt in Skåne, so he meekly comes along. Careful not to mention to his mother what made him wind up in the first place.

The first afternoon, mere hours after arriving, he runs into Jonas.

“Hey, man,” Jonas says as they spot each other outside that fateful café in the harbour. “Good to see you again. Where have you been?”

Even bites his lip, wary. “Had to go home to fix some stuff.” He shrugs, aiming for casual. “Back now, though. How have you been?”

“Good,” Jonas says. “Been hanging out with Isak, mostly.”

The mention of the name is enough to send tingles down Even’s spine, and he has to brace himself not to smile.

And he can’t keep himself from asking.

“Where is he, though?” He cranes his neck as if Jonas would hide Isak behind his back.

“Went home yesterday,” Jonas says and shrugs his shoulders. “Family stuff.”

Yesterday. What a cruel joke from the universe. On the other hand, maybe it’s just as well.

He sees Jonas another couple of times, before school starts again. The initial curiosity about Jonas is nowhere to be found now – he’s nice to hang out with, sure, but it’s all there is to it.

There are so many things Even wants to ask him, though – all of them related to Isak.

Do they go to the same school? Live close to each other? Is Isak the friend that he would follow into Nissen, if necessary? Are they the same age?

But Jonas doesn’t bring Isak up, and Even doesn’t ask. Like Mark in Love Actually says, it’s a self-preservation thing, you see.

In the middle of August, they part, trading half-hearted assurances to hang out next year. Jonas doesn’t ask for his address in Oslo, nor his phone number. Neither does Even.

A silent agreement that some things might be best left forgotten.

During the fall, he toys with the idea of taking the tram up to Grefsen. Only for a walk, or a chance to run into Isak by accident. He wouldn’t lurk around the schoolyard or anything. Would just let his steps steer him around in the area, to see if the universe has decided to to humor him this time, and let him meet Isak again.

He never acts on it. Being on track with his meds again, and busy crafting his application portfolio for Westerdals next year, he makes the decision that his time is better spent at home. Besides, what would he do if he actually saw him? Isak is only fifteen. Thin, if tall, and hopelessly young. Too young.

It’s just not worth it.

The following summer, Even doesn’t go to the cabin, the prospect of going to France with Sonja’s family much more exciting. The summer after that, he goes interrailing with the boys, having outgrown family vacations at nineteen.

Occasionally – in the streets, at school and at parties – there are hairy calves and shoulders that are broader than Sonja’s that he lingers on. Just looking – but with his horizons widened, somehow knowing that there’s more to this world than he thought before.

Sometimes, golden hair and green, sad eyes remind him, and he wonders what Isak looks like now. If Even would recognize him. If Isak would recognize him. If he goes to Nissen now; if he’s still in Oslo. If he’s still sad. If somebody else has made him happy. He lets himself dwell there. On the single minute-long memory from the kiosk he has to cling to, before he, with purpose, pushes it deep down.

Until the next time it crawls back up.

Four years after his encounter with Jonas, Even is back at the cabin – lonely, dejected, and bored out of his mind.

Despite working at KB all year, he’s had so much schoolwork outside of his schedule at Westerdals that he didn’t scrape together the money to tag along on the road trip across the US. Planned with his friend group since last summer, six weeks of endless adventure, and he’s stuck here.

Somehow, he’d suspected that he wouldn’t afford it from the start, but he always had a backup plan. Sonja. Her family’s house in southern France was big enough that they could slide in from the side, despite other family members being there already.

Now, though, having broken up late May and moved out of their shared apartment, back into his parent’s house, he wouldn’t want to come along to France for anything in the world. He’d rather stay home in Oslo by himself, to be honest.

His parents wouldn’t have any of that, unfortunately. And, in all honesty, he understands why. Parts of him do appreciate the concern. It’s not like he wouldn’t be able to take care of himself for a month or two in the apartment, quite the opposite. But he also knows that his parents relied on Sonja to keep an eye on him; to alert them on the all too familiar signs.

Perhaps that was part of why things went the way they did between them.

None of the neighbours are home this time of the year – the neighbourhood wealthy enough that most people either have their own cabin, or can afford to go on holiday outside the city – so he would be completely alone.

Here, he’s alone as well. Without the options and opportunities that an summer-empty city can offer. Sneaking out at night doesn’t hold the same thrill to it at twenty-one – and there’s not much to discover here anymore. He’s investigated every last corner of this village since his childhood days.

Only three days into his month-long exile, he’s mentally climbing the walls. Considering hopping onto a bus taking him anywhere, despite not being fifteen anymore and knowing very well what that would do to his parents.

A deep sigh escapes him where he’s lying on his bed, staring into the ceiling, counting the all-too familiar knots in the light-brown pinewood boards.

As always, his mind strays to Isak. He would be lying if he said he didn’t think of him coming here. But chances are less than slim that he’d actually appear, after all this time. First of all, it’s Jonas' cabin, not Isak’s. And Isak must be nineteen by now. Did he, himself, come with his parents to the cabin at that age? Definitely not. He had already moved away from home by then, and in with Sonja.

Nineteen. Almost an adult. Like so many times before, he wonders what Isak would look like now. It’s hard to picture him, but the only thing Even remembers well are his eyes. The hair, of course. Everything else is blurry around the edges, like a thumbed photograph that he’s spent four years picking out of his pocket to look at and cherish.

The antsiness creeps in on him once more, and a bout of anxiety rushes through him at the thought of staying in here even a minute longer. He has to get out of here, find something – or, if he’s lucky, someone – to divert his attention from his own loneliness for a few hours.

No need to climb out windows anymore, he grabs his hoodie and heads out the door, letting his feet and his subconscious lead the way. And when his mind is free to do what it wants, as always he ends up at the kiosk. It seems to be closing up for the night. Inside, he can see Kjersti turning out the lights in the back. No luck. He keeps walking down to the harbour. The café is still open, but empty.

There’s not enough peace in him to sit down inside and have something to eat or drink, though. Maybe this is a night for walking, to tire himself out enough to fall asleep.

He starts off along the wharf, heading north, and walks until it’s too dark to make out the path along the rocks. Resigned, he turns back, and feels a little more settled as he returns to the harbour. Patting his pockets, he hopes – and yes. There it is. A pack of cigarettes, with two hidden joints, turned upside down so that they could almost pass for regular ones. His feet start, unbidden, for his old, private spot down by the cave, just south of the harbour.

As he climbs down the stony path leading to the cave, however, it’s clear that it’s no longer his. Voices travel up along the rocks, interspersed with soft laughter and the splashes of rocks being thrown into the water.

He considers turning around, going back up, not wanting to intrude. But, then again, wasn’t this what he went out for in the first place? There might be some alright people down there, someone to hang out with.

Perhaps something more if he’s lucky.

He continues down, his feet finding the familiar path in the rapidly setting dusk. Until he rounds the corner and is blinded by a small campfire, set on the rock in front of the cave. The two people behind it look up - the closest one familiar. There’s no mistaking that brown, curly mop of hair, or the eyebrows that go with it.

“Even!” Jonas eyes widen in surprise, on his way up from sitting to shake Even’s hand. “Long time no see, man!”

The other person’s face is half-hidden by a grey hoodie pulled up over his head, shadows falling across his face, but Even doesn’t have to see. He already knows who it is.

Chills run over his entire body, making him almost lose his breath, as Isak pulls the hood back from his face and looks up at him. Green eyes steady, unfaltering, and exactly the same as Even remembers them, down to the very last eyelash.

“Hi, Even,” he smiles, a little lopsided, looking almost amused. So immensely beautiful that Even can’t breathe, let alone think.

Isak’s eyes are the same, that’s true, but for the rest, everything has changed. Not that he’s unrecognizable in any way, but he has… grown.

Where his jawline was delicate before, it’s now more defined, set, sharp in the flames cast from the campfire. His chin still has that little dip in the middle, just like his lips, and his cheeks are covered in the faintest hint of stubble, like he hasn’t shaved for a day or two. The hair is shorter now, and combed to the side from a parting on the left side, showing more of his face. His neck is slightly thicker – not too much, just more muscular, and his hoodie is open down the front, showing off half a collarbone sticking out from under his white t-shirt.

It becomes him. Everything becomes him.

Most important of all, there’s no trace left of the fear, the vulnerability, or the insecurity that seemed to incorporate Isak’s whole being the last time Even saw him. It’s like he’s grown into his skin, not only body, but also mind. Confident, strong.

Even is at a loss for words. What can you say when the fantasy you’ve nursed for a good four years finally materializes in front of your eyes?

And, most of all, looking like this?

Letting go of Jonas hand, unaware that he was still holding it, he shifts his weight between his feet. As if he could conjure up some appropriate words from the rock itself.

“Join us,” Jonas says, moving closer to Isak and gesturing to the ground beside himself. “If you want.”

Like there is a choice.

“Sure.” He exhales, and shoots Jonas a smile that he hopes comes across as relaxed. Folding his limbs in a not too elegant manner, he takes a seat in front of the fire, overlooking the dark, still fjord; Jonas acting as a buffer between himself and Isak.

“So, it’s been a long time,” Jonas says again, casual, light. “How’ve you been?”

How to answer that? “Good,” is what he settles for. “Busy. Working. Going to film school.”

He can hear Isak snort, faint but not too subtly not to notice, on Jonas’ other side.

“Sorry about Isak,” Jonas says to that. “He’s a biology nerd. Thinks everything is invalid unless you can prove it in a lab.” His words are without malice though, rather fond, as he elbows Isak in the side, making him laugh.

And that laugh. A little hoarse, deep, and at the same time, like a giggle. It’s endearing as much as it tingles every nerve in Even’s body. Knowing who made those sounds doesn’t help, either.

“Yeah,” Isak says, voice still holding a trace of laughter. “Can’t help it, sorry.”

“He’s always nagging me for going into social studies,” Jonas continues. “Just so you know that you’re not alone in this.”

Even does the math in his head and goes for a safe, neutral subject. One with multiple topics to keep the conversation going for a while, at least.

“So you’re gonna start university soon?”

“August,” Jonas replies. “I was thinking philosophy at first, but I took a clue from sensible nerd here and chose social studies instead. Better job opportunities.”

Isak doesn’t say anything, but oh, does Even want to know. He finally manages to turn his head to look at him, finding that Isak is already eyeing him back. “Molecular biology,” he says, keeping his stare fixed on Even, not flickering the least.

It’s hard to get a grasp on the whole situation. Intellectually, he’s known, of course, that he might run into Isak one way or the other. Oslo is not that big, only half a million people, and there’s always been this thin, but still existent, thread that is Jonas’ cabin connecting them. Yet, he hadn’t considered what to expect if he did meet him.

He’s pretty sure it wasn’t this.

If he’s true to himself, a part of him would have expected Isak to look and act exactly the same as four years ago. In his subconscious, there's been this fantasy where he’d wrap up that sad-looking boy in his arms, protect him from all evil and take care of him. And at its core, he dreamed of being thanked and admired in return. Something still, beautiful, tragic, in line with his favourite dramas.

Not this. This – fire. The heat in Isak’s eyes, his squared jaw. No more than a few words, and two looks alone, has Even knowing that this is more than he ever dreamed of.

And it scares him.

He remembers it all too well, how it went down the last time. No more interaction than this that time around, either. And still, how could he find it in himself to look away?

Jonas, oblivious to the years that have passed inside Even during the last ten seconds, breaks the tension by leaning forward towards the fire to shove in another stick amongst the flames. He’s blocking the stare, and it allows Even to exhale. He diverts his eyes to the water again, the moon now up to cast a shimmer on the black surface.

“Are you here with your family again, or…?” Jonas starts, the unspoken question for Isak to hear.

“Yeah,” Even says. Decides to put it out there for Isak to know. “I was gonna travel with my girlfriend, but we broke up a month ago. So. Here I am.”

Jonas nods, eyeing him and putting a sympathetic hand on his left shoulder. “Sucks, man,” he says. “Sorry about that. The breakup, I mean.”

He doesn’t have to add Sorry about having to come here all summer, but he might as well mean it.

“Thanks,” Even replies. He bites his lip, unsure how much to let on. “It was a long time coming, anyway.”

Picking up a small pebble lying beside him, he throws it into the water, listening for the plop. “How about you guys? Why are you here, anyway?”

“Straight to the point,” Isak says, and lets another laugh out; there’s a tug in Even’s stomach at the sound. “Well, altruistic socialist here is also suffering from post-breakup, so I’m his pity date of sorts.”

Even can’t tell if Isak’s joking, or if that is some kind of hint directed at him.

“It’s been six months, Isak,” Jonas huffs, and then he turns to Even. “I’m fine. We just didn’t have anything else to do this summer. Travelling is expensive, you know.”

Not all Grefsen kids have to earn their own money to go travelling in the summer, Even thinks, but he doesn’t voice it out loud.

“Yeah, maybe you want to spend the money on getting your own place, now that you’re out of school,” he says instead.

“I’ll stay at home for a year longer, I think. Saving up,” Jonas answers. Isak is quiet. There’s something there, something he stores away for later. Not to poke in for now.

“I’m back with my parents as well, after breaking up with my girlfriend,” Even shrugs. “But what can you do about it. Sucks even more when you’re twenty-one, though.”

“You’re twenty-one?” Isak replies, fast enough for Even to take notice. He nods, still staring into the fire, not trusting himself to look at Isak directly again, not yet.

“Isak’s turning nineteen tomorrow,” Jonas says. “You should come over.”

A sharp tingle shoots through his limbs at that.

“Were you planning something?” he asks, trying to sound politely interested.

“Nah, not really,” Jonas answers. “Just have some beer, maybe a barbecue? If we’re three, that’s almost a party. Right, Isak?”

Isak laughs again at that, as if he tries to sound like he couldn’t care less. It’s impossible, though, not to catch the trace of contentment in his voice as he says, “Yeah. That’s definitely a party. I’d like it if you came, Even.”

The way Isak pronounces his name does things to Even. It ignites something deep inside him, heating him up from his bones all the way out to his skin. The double entendre of that last sentence does nothing to slow his pulse down either.

Even can’t help but turn his head. And Isak’s eyes meet his with nothing but of fire; they’re dark and confident and Even forgets to breathe. The way it sets his insides ablaze is almost too much. Upholding the eye contact is impossible, so he looks down at the ground.

“Yeah,” he exhales. Trying not to come off as impolite, he lifts his gaze at Jonas. “I’ll be there. Where did you live again?”

Like he wouldn’t remember.

He excuses himself not long after that, on the brink of being too overwhelmed. Feeling the need to be alone, to breathe. Isak and Jonas stay seated by the fire as he stands up, trying to wring the stiffness from his limbs.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Jonas says, in a cheery voice.

Isak looks up at Even again. He smiles, in that meaning, lopsided way that he did when Even first saw him tonight, but doesn’t say anything this time.

“Tomorrow,” Even answers. With one last long look at Isak, he rounds the corner of the cliff and starts climbing back to solid ground.

He doesn’t sleep until much later. He wants to believe that this is nothing like the last time. That this – restlessness, this inability to settle down, would be expected from the emotional onslaught of tonight. There’s zopiclone in his toiletry bag, but going there would be the same as admitting that he needs it. He wants to manage without it.

And after three hours, he succeeds.

So well, in fact, that he doesn’t wake until ten the next day. His parents are already out of the house. Only a note on the kitchen table, in his mother’s handwriting.

Out for a walk. Dinner later? <3

It tugs at something inside him, the way she still writes these little notes like when he was little. Despite mobile phones and good enough coverage even higher up in the mountains. He reminds himself not to let his irritation over this whole summer set-up seep through when they come back.

And dinner. He might have to skip out on that.

They didn’t agree on when he’d come over to Jonas’, but late afternoon seems on the right side of polite. Five or so hours to go, the thought of waiting at home makes his skin crawl with impatience. Should he bring something with him to the party?

In the end, it gets too much. He bikes to the supermarket in the neighboring town to buy a six-pack, the strain in his legs from going up and down the rolling hills almost enough to settle him. Passing by the candy shelf near the exit of the store, he stops in his tracks. He shifts his weight back and forth a few times, before going for it, and throws a bag of salt sild into the basket. It’s not like Isak would remember that particular conversation anyway.

When he gets back a few hours later, he showers, colder than he usually would. As if it would be enough to clear his head, to absolve him of the never-ending thoughts.

Like; what does he really know about Isak?

He has a friend called Jonas. He lives in Oslo.

And, now, a few more pieces to add to the puzzle: he’s a biology nerd. He turns nineteen today.

Wonder what time he was born. Has he turned older already, or is he still waiting? Somehow, it feels significant. When Even was little, he didn’t feel like he’d actually turned older before that specific time he entered the world. Wonder if Isak’s ever had the same thought.

Isak might be thinking about the same things as he is, right now. He might be thinking about Even, curious to know more about him, feeling this very feeling.

Perhaps Isak’s just attracted to him, physically. Only curious to see if he can catch him, haul him in and then throw him back in when he’s succeeded. It’s hard not to think of it like that: when .

Not if.

Maybe he should stay at home. Have dinner with mom and dad. Stay away, before he ventures deeper. Keep to himself for the rest of the summer: strong, independent, sane.

As if.

Then: does Jonas know? The subtle, but still noticeable flirting yesterday tells him maybe. Still, he’s unsure how much he should let on in front of others, to avoid making Isak uncomfortable. Not that he seemed to be. But still.

Maybe Isak isn’t even sure what to make of Even. He realizes, then, that he did mention his ex-girlfriend not only once, but twice yesterday. When he easily could have used the word partner instead. What a way to put him off.

And he realizes: this is him trying to talk himself out of it, again. Who is he kidding? Four years of dreaming, waiting, trying to forget.

Yeah, right. Might as well chop an arm off.

Jonas’ cabin is in the second row below the football field. Here, the cabins aren’t old but not new either, and Jonas’ has a patio out back overlooking the bay. There’s a small patch of grass behind the house, sloping down towards some flat rocks, polished smooth from a thousand-year slow-moving ice sheet. The house in itself is nothing special – faded, brown timber trying to appear older than it is – but Even remembers. It’s one of the cabins he passed by multiple times during that fateful week four years ago.

It makes his stomach churn, tinted with shame over how he’s let himself be lured back here. Still, he keeps walking along the gravel road, a two-row wooden spectator stand lining the football field to his right. The fjord to his left, Jonas’ house straight ahead.

It hits him, then, that he doesn’t know what he’s in for. Will Jonas’ family be there? Isak’s? Jonas had mentioned that it would be the three of them, but it still sends a nervous tingle through him. Neighbours? Somebody that has known Even since he was little?

The house seems deserted as he arrives at the front door, though. Just like the last time. He swats the thought away, like an irritating fly, and knocks. What if he’s too early? They never agreed on a time.

Well, he’s at least invited enough to be allowed to walk around the back. So he does. When he rounds the corner, there’s Isak on the steps leading up to the porch. Alone. His hair is damp, combed to the side, and he wears a v-necked t-shirt; slim, yet muscular arms folded over his bent knees. He doesn’t turn his head as Even approaches. Only lifts his chin enough for Even to notice as he comes standing in front of Isak, blocking his view of the fields and the village.

“Jonas is in the shower,” Isak says, before Even’s had time to open his mouth.

“Okay,” Even responds, unsure how to interpret that, and of what else to say.

In the light of afternoon, last night’s tension just seems awkward. Even shifts his weight, unsure of what to do.

In the end, he sets his backpack down on the ground, fishes out two beer cans to hand Isak one.

The bag of salt sild stays in the bottom of the bag.

Isak accepts the beer without question, opens it and raises it in silence. Even knocks his own against it with a low, barely audible thud. It’s quite silly to try to clink two full aluminium cans together, a teenage mockery of a real toast.

After a long, deep gulp, Isak runs a hand through his hair and rolls his shoulders back. His muscles work under the thin, white fabric, and Even averts his eyes, looking up to the house hoping Jonas might come to the rescue.

“You’re taller now,” Isak says, then, and Even wonders if he heard right. Isak’s eyes are still fastened on the horizon as Even looks down at him. “This hairstyle suits you better, though.”

It feels stupid to say something like ‘oh, so you remember that we met before’ when it’s so obvious that Isak does. It’s impossible not to wonder, though – why? What made him memorable? Will Isak remember this, too?

Before he’s managed to blurt out something meaningless like ‘your hair looks better now, too,’ the door to the patio opens, revealing Jonas. His hair is towel-dried and a mess, and he’s raising his hand in salute, oblivious to whatever it is they have going on out here.

Suddenly, Even wishes he’d waited until evening to come here. Not that he could stand the wait, but he’s not sure what to do with himself now that he’s arrived.

Thankfully, the buffer that is Jonas, easy and carefree, puts on some music. Letting Kendrick Lamar blast through a portable speaker placed on one of the sun chairs behind them.

“You’ve evolved from System of a Down, then.” Even can’t help but grin, searching for some common ground.

Jonas laughs, shaking his head, curls bouncing. “Yeah, those were the days.”

Even knows Isak’s eyes are on him from below, where he’s still sitting on the steps. Jonas, standing behind Isak, can’t see it, but when Even looks down to meet Isak’s gaze, he swears he can see a dark shade drifting by behind his eyes. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing, but impossible to ignore.

Is he… jealous?

Just then, a phone starts ringing.

Isak breaks the stare, shoving his hand down his jeans pocket. He makes an eye-roll at the screen, but it’s a fond one. There’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he picks up after a split second.

“Hi, Sana,” he grins into his phone. “Missing me already?”

Even can’t make out what the person on the other end is saying, but Isak’s smile becomes even wider. He laughs, a sound that takes Even’s insides apart and pieces them together all at the same time.

“Yeah,” Isak says, and then he’s quiet for a short while, before he repeats it, letting his gaze flicker up to Even. “Hold on a second,” he says, then, and stands up to walk away from them, rounds the corner of the house and disappears.

And then it hits him. Even only knows one Sana, but she’s the right age, and she did go to Nissen. If Isak even went there, that is. Could it be?

Jonas must have noticed the way his eyes followed Isak as he left, because he clears his throat.

“Nice of you to bring beer,” he says in a neutral voice. Like he’s trying to steer the conversation onto a more harmless subject.

“Sure,” Even smiles, going for easy and relaxed. Small talk does seem more than appealing right now. With Jonas, at least. “So, did you end up at Nissen after all?”

“Yeah,” Jonas nods. “Even if it wasn’t as hip as Bakka,” he adds, and grins.

Even laughs, his shoulders dropping a few inches.

There’s another laugh drifting down from the edge of the building, but it’s not Isak’s – Even would recognize the sound anywhere by now – but a girl’s voice, followed by several others. Even and Jonas both look up to see a group of four girls their age round the opposite corner from where Isak went.

“Oh, hi,” one of the girls – dark brown hair and olive skin – says, clearly taken aback from seeing them. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to intrude. We’re looking for the path down to the village.” She smiles, and her friends look at each other, then at Even and Jonas, and smile some more.

“Oh, no problem,” Jonas says, grinning in a way that Even hasn’t seen him do before, and he straightens up. “You’re new here?”

“We’re borrowing Lise’s cousin’s cabin for the week,” another one of the girls says, pointing to the olive-skinned one. “But we just came today, and we’re kind of lost already.” She shrugs, swinging her long, blonde hair around, and doesn’t make a move to keep walking. “Is this your house?”

“Yeah,” Jonas nods. “I'm Jonas, and this is Even.”

“Hi,” Even smiles, a little out of place, still thinking about where Isak might be off to.

“Hi,” all four girls reply in unison, sounding almost like a choir, and they look at each other and giggle.

Jonas offers to show them the way down to the village, but before one of them has made a move to start walking, Even hears the clearing of a throat beside him.

“Oh, this is Isak, my best friend,” Jonas says, and that little appendix that Jonas always seems to add to Isak’s name doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s impossible for Even to ignore the unwanted bout of jealousy that shoots through him.

“Hi,” Isak says in a polite, but not too interested voice.

The blonde girl fastens her eyes on Even. Moves closer, and asks, “Are you from around here?”

“No,” Isak replies, before Even has time to answer. As Even turns to look at him, he sees that Isak’s jaw is squared, and his stare black and unwavering.

He turns to Even instead, gaze softer, but still steady and intense as he says, “Come with me to get the stuff from the kitchen.” And then he turns on his heels, climbing the steps to the patio without even looking back to see if Even will follow.

The blonde girl looks taken aback, frowning as she follows Isak with her eyes.

“Sorry,” Even says. He doesn’t know how to explain Isak’s behaviour, not even to himself. “Be right back.”

He skips up the steps, seeing Isak’s back disappear behind the open patio door, and realizes that he doesn’t know the indoor plan, nor where the kitchen is. Stepping inside, the patio door opens into a living room area, complete with two well-used, green sofas, and a pinewood table and chairs. Mismatched paintings on the walls, old comic books piled on a sideboard by the back wall.

A hallway leads to the back of the house. There’s nowhere else Isak could have gone, so Even starts walking, going through a door opening to the right into the kitchen. It’s just as empty, save for more pinewood furniture and a collection of copper pans lining the boarded walls.

No sign of Isak.

He heads down the hallway that takes a turn to the left, and has just about rounded the corner when someone grabs his wrist from behind an open door, pulling him inside quickly.

Inside this small bedroom, with a pinewood bunk bed and a window overlooking the birch trees on the side of the house, stands Isak. Silent, still holding on to Even's wrist with his right hand, and eyes on fire as he reaches out his left hand to close the door behind them.

Even barely has the time to swallow before Isak steps up towards him, pressing his back up against the closed door with his whole body – and presses his lips against Even’s mouth, hot and desperate and open-mouthed right away.

Whatever doubt Even might have nursed coming here is long gone, not even a prickle in the back of his head. In an instant, one of his hands is on Isak’s upper back, the other threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, mouth opening to let him in. Even if there’s a tug somewhere inside that tries to remind him of all the reasons why this is a bad idea, it’s wiped out from the overwhelming feeling of finally, finally having Isak this close.

It’s dream-like and overwhelmingly real all at once. Nothing abstract about the hot breath on his lips, the stubble grazing his cheeks, Isak’s chest pressed against his own. But, at the same time – how is this even real? How to grasp that a four-year long fantasy has come to life?

It’s impossible. And if Even’s honest, he can’t find it in himself to care. Not when Isak tousles a hand in his hair, pulling, tilting his head to the side to mouth at his neck, hot breath sending shivers all the way down to Even’s knees. It’s a good thing he’s backed up against the door or he might fall down from it.

He doesn’t know if Isak senses that his knees are getting weak, or if it’s something else. But, he draws even closer, pressing a thigh inbetween Even’s, his hip against Even’s middle, and it’s enough to almost make him pass out. Little stars are crowding in from the edges of his vision and –

There’s a voice on the other side of the door.

“Isak?” It’s like Jonas is less than half a metre away – which he, in all honesty, probably is. Even’s breath hitches as Isak releases his mouth from his neck and speaks in a steady, indifferent voice.

“Just changing pants. Spilled beer on them in the kitchen. Be right out,” he says, eyes on Even’s the whole time, dark, burning.

“Have you seen Even?”

Isak’s stare doesn’t waver, not even blinking as Even opens his mouth, not to speak, more to convey his utter loss for words.

“No,” Isak says.

And there’s no telling if Isak is ashamed of what they just did, if he’s hiding something from Jonas and everyone – or if he’s giving Even an easy way out. He can’t read Isak at all. It’s fascinating, but not a little scary.

“Okay,” Jonas says on the other side of the door. “Wonder where he went.”

“Probably outside,” Isak says, short, and ushers Even to the side to put his hand on the door handle. The door opens inwards, so when he pulls at it, it shields Even from view. Isak steps outside to join Jonas, leaving the door ajar, lest it’d be suspicious to close it all the way.

Leaning his head against the wall, careful not to give off a thud, Even tries to compose himself. For a moment, he stands there, confused and out of breath – and impossibly turned on from such a short kiss.

What the hell just happened.

After standing there for a couple of minutes, he’s somewhat regained the strength in his limbs and his hardness is beginning to subside. It’s probably for the best to join the others out back to avoid too many questions. As he steps outside, only Jonas and Isak remain, having taken up the task to start the grill.

Jonas lightens up as he sees him. “There you are.”

“Yeah, I remembered that I left my phone at home, so I went to get it. Lucky this village is so small,” Even lies, trying to make it sound casual. He almost hits himself over the head as he says it – why would he even enter through the house coming back?

Either Jonas doesn’t catch on, or chooses not to call him out on it, because he continues, easy as ever. “Which house is yours, by the way? I don’t think I ever found out.”

Grateful for the diversion, Even starts telling the story of how the family cabin has been inherited down for generations, and that he’s probably related to the farm owner further down the valley somehow. Isak makes quick work of the grill, intense focus on the task at hand, pointedly not looking at Even. He keeps himself busy, shuffling the coal around even though it’s not needed, until they can finally eat.

After dinner, Isak lightens up, little by little. Along with the beer consumed, it’s almost easy again as the three of them go through the safe topics of favourite films and music. Following that, they move on to discussing soccer – not that Even has much to say on the subject – but Isak talks more. More than he’s done all afternoon.

As Jonas and him get into a heated discussion on Barcelona versus Real and who deserved to win La Liga last year, Isak’s cheeks become redder in stages, a boyish, happy smile on his face. And that’s when Even gets it.

This is Isak without a shield. Isak with his guard down, talking about sports with his best friend, careless and free for a moment.

A bone-deep ache for what he never had runs through him at the sight, and Even can’t help but wonder: will he ever look at me like that?

You don’t even know him. But; at the same time, he has this odd feeling that he somehow does.

After about an hour, and another couple of beers, Jonas starts to hang his head and brood over his recent break-up – some girl named Eva.

“Is it supposed to feel like this, still?” Jonas says, hands on his forehead. “It’s been almost half a year.”

Isak nods, clearly having had this discussion a few times before. “It sucks,” he agrees. “And it’ll continue to suck for a while, until it doesn’t anymore. Hopefully.”

“Sounds so easy when you say it,” Jonas huffs. “I didn’t see you this pathetic over Julian, for example.”

Isak looks down at the boarded floor. “There’s a difference,” he says after a moment’s pause. “Some people are harder than others to forget.”

His eyes don’t leave the ground, but something in the way he says it still has chills running down Even’s spine. It sounds like he’s speaking from experience somehow, and Even’s heart sinks.

He has a hard time concentrating on the conversation after that, the beers he’s had doing little to dull his discomfort. Now and then, Isak steals a glance at him, and the look in his eyes is indecipherable. A mix of nervousness and determination that Even doesn’t know how to interpret.

After a while, it’s becomes too much. Keeping up with it all –  the thoughts, the unspoken questions is too much for his brain. Not to mention the lack of answers. The memory of the kissing doesn’t make it any easier, either. Especially since the both of them seem to do their best to pretend nothing ever happened. The only evidence is the slight burn on his lips from where Isak’s stubble left its mark. Even wonders if it shows, if his skin is red enough for Jonas to notice.

There’s a buzzing under his skin, behind his eyes. His thoughts are starting to sway and creep out of focus, ever so slightly – and Even knows that it’s his cue to leave.

Jonas shakes his hand after he’s announced that he has to get home, giving some half-assed lie about how he has to get up early to join his parents for a hike tomorrow. The moment he says it, though, he knows that it’s the best idea he’s had in a long time. Isak takes his hand, looks him deep in the eyes for a fraction of a second too long, and then he lets go.

Jonas invites him again the next night to hang out. Even says maybe.

Walking home, trying to feel his fingertips in the damp evening air, he remembers the licorice.

Untouched in the bottom of his backpack.

His parents are still awake, one on each sofa in the living room. His mother’s face is sincere and searching as she asks where he’s been, and Even insides churn as he answers.

“Some friends. A guy I met the last time we went here, and his best friend. From Oslo.”

“How nice!” His mother smiles; it’s a genuine smile spreading all across her face. “I’m so glad that you have some friends here, Even. Something for you to do.”

He nods, unable to find the right words, feeling a little sick from all the lies filling up his throat. The light nausea follows him into bed, and stays with him until he finally falls asleep.

The next morning finds Even climbing a steep hillside in the wake of his parents. The grass is stark green, the sky high and blue, and the wind bites his scratched cheeks a little, the sting to it earned.

A narrow stream runs between twisted birch trees and the wide-strewn heather. He bends down on his knees to dip his face into it, drinking, splashing his head and neck with his hands, as if to wash away the residual feeling of Isak’s hands.

The burn on his upper lip doesn’t fade, though.

As he trails after his parents on the steep path winding up along the stream, he tries to dig inside. To understand why a part of him wants to stay away. Sonja would have an opinion, he’s sure, if he was in some kind of position to ask her for love advice right now.

You think you need to spare him from yourself, don’t you?

She wouldn’t be all wrong – that much is true. He’s had that thought enough times before to know that it’s almost more of an instinct than a conscious choice.

And deep down, a part of his mind that he really, really despises, pictures the almost angelic picture that Isak made yesterday, merged with the sad-looking fifteen-year old boy inside the kiosk. He wants to shield him, wrap him up and protect him from anything harmful, but most of all – from Even himself.

It’s stupid, and immature, and condescending. It is so far from all there is to Isak, so far from the fact that he’s very capable of taking care of himself.

And after seeing him these past few days, Even knows there’s nothing childish to the heat coursing through him at the phantom feel of Isak’s lips on his. Of the grip of his strong hands around Even’s upper arms.

Involuntarily, his eyes close halfway at the memory, causing him to stumble on a stone on the path and almost fall over. He swears at himself as he regains his footing. For letting himself getting so consumed with a bare memory.

Who are you trying to protect, though? Him? Or yourself?

He bites his lip, and picks up the pace to catch up with his parents, now climbing way too far ahead.

Over the next few days, Even does his best to keep to himself. He tries to force the memories of Isak to fade, desperate not to let history repeat itself. Not at all surprising, it’s easier said than done. 

The light nausea lingers, diminishing his appetite. The smell of his father’s lasagna is not at all as appealing as it usually is. Instead of hunger, there’s a hollow, surging feeling in his chest, and a lump in his throat obstructing anything he tries to swallow.

He doesn’t sleep, despite his honest efforts. Every night, tossing and turning, he lies awake way past midnight. And every night, after a few hours, he wakes again to more restlessness, antsy and unable to settle.

It’s not the all too familiar buzz, not the tingling in his limbs he recognizes as winding up, though. No bursts of creativity, no onslaught of daring, brilliant ideas – quite the opposite, to be honest. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton, a dull ache behind his forehead the only substantial presence there.

And it’s not like he doesn’t long for sleep. He’s so tired, so exhausted, that he would give anything for a good night’s rest. Nothing resembles the decreased need for sleeping that accompanies a looming hypomania.

Plus, the invincibility shines with its absence. He's far from it, even. More like useless.

He knows, of course, where it’s coming from. This dull ache in his very bones; this hollow, but still searing longing that keeps him from getting anything done, paralyzing him.

And it’s nothing like the last time.

Five days after Isak’s birthday, he sees him and Jonas again. They’re down at the harbor, outside the ice cream place, backs turned against him, looking out over the water, as Even spots them and stops in his tracks.

The mere sight of Isak’s t-shirt-clad back, the narrow angle of his shoulders and his wavy, golden hair – Even can recall exactly how it felt between his fingers, soft yet coarse – is enough to make him outright nauseous with longing. The almost week-long, self-imposed abstinence has done nothing to diminish it. On the contrary, he hasn’t wanted Isak this much before.

Ever.

But what is there to do? Walk up to him, start talking, touch him? In front of Jonas? And how would Isak react?

He let you go, after all, the mean little voice in the back of Even’s head whispers. Denied you, that you were even there.

Hesitant, he shifts his weight between his feet, before he backs away and out of sight.

“Aren’t you gonna go see your new friends again?” his mum asks later that evening as he bids her goodnight, although it’s nine-thirty and the sun’s still up.

Even bites his lip. “Not tonight,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m – just tired.”

Knowing full well that there’s no such thing as just tired when it comes to him, his mum eyes him, careful. He rolls his eyes, looking up into the corner of the ceiling, while she waits.

“It’s not like I have to hang out with them because they’re my age,” he says at last.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t feel like it,” she says, voice patient and fond, always fond. “But you know what it is that I’m asking.”

He deflates, again feeling like he’s disappointed her somehow. Why can’t he just appreciate her patience, her effort, the unrequited love of it all? Will it always be like this? Him still acting like a teenager, trying to break free from what is only well-intentioned and heartfelt?

“Thank you, mum,” he sighs, looking at the floor, defeated, and then up into her eyes because he knows she won’t let it go until he does. And the white lie seems alright this time, despite what they’ve promised each other a multitude of times. “I’m okay, I promise. It’s just – this break-up... it’s for real this time. And I guess it’s taking its toll, knowing that. I need more alone time than usual, that’s all.”

There’s a sting of bad conscience – both for lying, but also because she’ll be so proud of him for this insight and for taking responsibility for his own well-being.

She reaches out a hand to stroke his cheek. “If you say so, baby.”

He nods, and avoids looking her in the eyes any longer by pulling her into a hug. It’s been years since he outgrew her, but the difference in height doesn’t fool anyone about who’s older and wiser.

Of course, he doesn’t go to sleep. He’s careful not to make too much sound and let on that he’s not resting at all, turning back and forth. He knows what his parents would think, but he’s sure his mind isn’t running away with him. Not this time. Not the way it used to do. 

This is not a grandiose fantasy. Not a phase. It’s a steady, endless longing, an absolute need.

Maybe talking to Isak would be a good thing, after all. To go over there tomorrow and try to get him alone. In all honesty, they’ve barely talked at all. Not about things that matter; what this is between them.

It’s eating at him from the inside and out, this uncertainty. Staying away has done nothing to make the thoughts of Isak fade. Rather the opposite. And after seeing Isak again today, the roar of want is almost deafening.

He should talk to him. Try to find out if there’s even a possibility that his feelings are near reciprocated.

Isak does seem attracted to him – that much, he’s sure of. But to Even, stupid as it may sound, this is more than attraction. Although he hardly knows Isak – apart from four years’ worth of fantasizing – he can’t bear being nothing more than a hook-up.

It would break his heart.

Turning the thoughts over and over again in his head, it soon enough seems inevitable that he has to try and find out. That he won’t be able to let this go, unless he’s at least tried.

If Isak even wants to talk, that is. This might be nothing more than it already is.

A sudden thud on his bedroom window interrupts his thoughts. He jumps up to look out the window, hoping it’s not a bird, breaking its neck against the glass.

But what he sees when he looks out the window almost makes his heart stop.

Because there, in front of the cedar trees, is Isak. Cheeks flushed, chest heaving, looking out of breath as if he’s been running. His lower body lies in shadow as Even opens the window, trying to be as quiet as possible.

“Isak?” he whispers. “What are you doing here?”

“Will you please let me inside?” Isak blurts out, fast, almost panicked. “I won’t do anything you don’t want, I promise, but can we please talk?”

What on Earth.

Even opens the window a bit more, stretching out his hand for Isak to grab onto and haul himself inside. His fingers are cold, but his palm is sweaty, and almost glues itself to Even’s hand.

“Your feet!” Even can’t help it as Isak climbs over the windowsill. “Why aren’t you wearing any shoes?”

It might be summer, but it’s still Norway and they’re by the sea. It’s way too cold to go out barefoot at eleven at night.

“I didn’t want to go out into the hall and disturb Jonas, so I just climbed out the window,” Isak explains, seeming impatient as his hands move up as if to grab onto Even. He hinders himself at the last second, though, letting his arms fall to his sides.

“Isak. What are you doing here?” Even has to ask. If he was more prone to believe in fate, he’d almost think that he’d summoned Isak here with his thoughts alone.

Isak licks his lips, and stares right at Even. There’s no trace of the cockiness from before, only honesty and something that looks like desperation in his eyes. “Please,” he says. “I just need to know if I have a chance with you. I can’t take it if I leave this place and never see you again.”

Even’s jaw drops almost all the way to the floor.

Apparently, Isak has no idea how to read him either, because he deflates as Even doesn’t say anything. Folding in on himself in a manner that’s so akin to how he acted by the candy shelf four years ago that Even’s heart almost breaks.

He can’t have this.

So he draws a deep breath, and reaches out with his right hand to grab Isak’s left. Isak looks up at him, surprised, eyes green and big and glowing in the light from the bedside lamp.

“Isak,” Even starts. “Did you know that I was lying in my bed just now, trying to gather up the courage to go talk to you?”

“What?” Isak says, mouth a little agape.

Even swallows. This is it, the window he was hoping for, what he was planning for only minutes ago. He can’t tell him everything, or he’ll run away screaming at Even’s creepiness and obsession – but he can start.

“I’m not sure how to say this – but I – I really like you, Isak. I think. Or I’m pretty sure I do.” He smiles, trying to sound more casual than he is. “And when you kissed me – I really wanted you to. And then you pulled away – and, I couldn’t tell if you wanted any more than a quick hook-up. And I don’t want that. To just hook up with you, I mean.”

It’s only part of the truth, but it’s the part he can give now. Maybe it can even be enough in this moment.

Because Isak steps forward and puts a hand on his cheek, and whispers, “You’re not just a hook-up, Even. I like you. In as, really really like you.” He licks his lips again, and locks his eyes with Even’s. “But I didn’t want to out you. I had no idea if you wanted anyone to know.”

Even heart almost stops with surprise, and then floods with affection as Isak adds, “I was outed against my will when I was seventeen, and I wouldn’t want that for anyone. Least of all you.”

The look in his eyes is so sincere, and yet so nervous and hopeful. And in this moment, that is all Even needs to know.

He raises his own hand and puts it around Isak’s neck, drawing him closer, close enough to let their lips meet for the second time this summer.

And it’s so much softer. This time, it’s not taking so much as giving, and Even allows himself to close his eyes and revel in the feeling of Isak’s lips against his. In how he can feel Isak’s pulse speed up on the side of his neck where Even’s hand is resting, softly.

The warmth and promise of it spreads through his limbs, making him want Isak closer, and he lets his hand come up to tread through the hair at the nape of Isak’s neck, holding on to make sure he doesn’t slip away this time. On accident, he grips a bit tighter than intended making him pull at Isak’s hair, just a little, but it’s enough to make Isak moan against his lips and open his mouth. Even tilts his head to reciprocate, letting his own mouth meet Isak’s in the same manner, and he can’t help but lick at Isak’s lips, coaxing another moan out of him. 

Isak’s hands have slid around him now, one resting on his upper back, the other one further down. And as Isak lets his own tongue meet Even’s, he tightens his grip, letting their lower bodies press closer together – making every ounce of heat and fervor from their first kiss return.

This time, though, Even doesn’t have to wonder what it means when Isak slides his hand underneath his shirt. When he grips tight onto the small of his back and and shifts his body so that his hip presses into Even’s middle. It makes him almost dizzy with want from how good it feels, and from knowing that this, this means something to the both of them.

Isak does it again: lets Even press himself against him, meeting him in the movement, and Even can’t even bring himself to be ashamed of the involuntary moan that spills out.

“Even.” Isak sighs into his ear, and the way he almost breathes it out goes straight to Even’s heart and dick at the same time, making him tug gently at Isak’s hair once more to see if it affects him just as much again. Isak moans at that, way louder than before, and it  reminds Even that his parents are also in the house.

“Come,” he says, takes Isak by the hand and walks him over the bed. “My parents are… can you be quiet?”

Isak nods, then locks his eyes on Even. All the black fire and heat from before is back. All the want and intensity of his stare is almost overwhelming, and he licks his lips, as if debating what to do next, before he leans forward to mouth at Even’s ear. 

“Can you, though?” he says, voice low in a way that makes Even lose his breath. He doesn’t even have time to answer before Isak reaches down between them with both hands to open the top button on Even’s pants, and then the next.

Just like last time, Even’s vision starts to swim as Isak puts his lips on his neck, letting teeth slide over the sensitive skin below Even’s ear, and he has to stop himself from moaning out loud.

As small black dots start to creep in through the edges of his vision, Isak’s hands slide out to his sides under his t-shirt, and then thumbs hook under the elastic of his briefs. The mere promise of it shoots fire down his legs and makes his stomach tighten. Isak must notice, because there’s the unmistakable sensation of a smile against his neck.

Slowly, Isak removes his thumbs to tug at the hem of Even’s t-shirt instead. Even lifts his arms above his head, letting Isak pull his shirt off and toss it to the floor.

Isak takes a small step back after that, and the intensity of his stare as he takes Even in is enough to weaken his knees. He looks just like Even feels: struggling to believe that this is happening at last – and mindlessly turned on. Even can’t stand not having his hands on him for another second, and steps forward, reaching out to pull at Isak’s shirt and take it off of him as well.

The feeling as their bare chests slide against each other is heaven – silky and hard at the same time. The skin is so hot under Even’s palms against Isak’s back, already a hint of sweat at the small of it. Isak’s hands mirror his movements, stroking up and down his back and his sides, before the thumbs return, pushing at Even’s pants and his underwear.

This time, both of them seem to be done with teasing, because Isak doesn’t stop there. Rather, he gets down on his knees to drag both Even’s pants and briefs all the way down.

As Even stands there, finally naked, Isak on his knees in front of him, looking up at him through his lashes with eyes burning, it seems like a dream. He has to resist pinching himself when Isak puts his hands on his hips and takes him into his mouth, making Even’s eyes roll back inside his head.

It’s far from the first time anyone does this to him, but he can hardly remember being this overwhelmed by it. The anticipation builds inside as the wetness and heat around him increases, and he has to put his hand over his mouth to keep quiet.

It sure seems to do something for Isak as well, because as Even’s hand flies up, Isak hums in appreciation, the vibration of it sending sharp stings up and down his legs, making them almost give out. 

Isak must sense it, because he pulls off. “Lie down on the bed, baby,” he whispers, voice hoarse, and the nickname combined with the roughness in his voice makes Even all the weaker in the knees. He complies without question, lying down on his back.

“Are you okay?” Isak asks, and Even realizes that this is probably far from the first time Isak does this. Unlike Even. He’s even had a boyfriend, judging from the conversation the other day. The mere thought of Isak being the one guiding him, taking the lead and giving him this first, makes something unspool further inside him, wanting even more. 

“Yes,” he breathes, “yes, I’m so okay.”

And Isak smiles at that, climbing over him as if he can’t help it, kisses him deep, tongue and heat, so that Even can taste himself and he moans at how Isak trusts him with that this is okay, that he wants it more than anything.

Soon, Isak kisses his way down the side of his neck, following the trail of freckles down Even’s chest with his tongue and lips. Isak’s steady hands stroke his sides, almost with reverence, and down his thighs as Even lets his legs fall apart and Isak wraps his mouth around him once more. 

The way Isak makes room for himself between his thighs is long overdue; it’s like he’s settled in where he’s always belonged and Even closes his eyes to rest inside the conviction of how right this is. There is nothing left in him but surrender, as Isak’s right hand travels down his inner thigh to softly, tentatively stroke him, then moving even further down to tease along his crack, and this is another first for Even.

There’s no place for second thoughts in his head about it, though – how could there be, when all about this feels so right?

“Is this okay?” Isak whispers, drawing back for a moment.

“Yes – yes,” Even pants, head void of any other words by now. Then Isak’s hand withdraws, reaching down to grab something from his jeans on the floor beside the bed.

A beat of silence, a click and then, wetness around his dick once more, and then – a slightly colder, but just as pleasurable touch further back. Only a light pressure, but it’s enough to cloud his head; the thrill and the knowledge that Isak has done this many times before makes him able to let go. After a little while, the foreign feeling of more, just the tip of a finger pushing inside, and then the whole of it.

The knowledge alone that this is Isak doing this to him, being the one to take this first from him as well, pushes him to a brink, heat beginning to pool deep down in his stomach. It’s so much – he can’t imagine how it would be to have something even bigger inside of him. It makes his head spin, his stomach muscles contracting from the fantasy. The movement jerks his hips up a little, and it’s not intended, but it makes his dick push a little further into Isak’s mouth. Suddenly, Even is afraid that he’d hurt him.

But Isak just moans around it, and mirrors Even’s movement by pushing his finger even further in – and that’s all it takes. There’s no stopping the white heat overwhelming him, waves surging through his entire being as he comes, and Isak just takes him, receives, and hums at it, like it’s somehow his pleasure as well.

When he’s done coming, melting boneless into the mattress, Isak pulls off him and out, crawling up his body to look him in the eyes. Even is out of breath, but he wants to show Isak that he’s not going to disappoint, that he wants to give him just as much. So he reaches out a hand just to put it around his dick. Isak’s moan is so loud that he has so clamp a hand over his own mouth, and Even can’t resist to keep stroking him when it so clear that it does so much for Isak. To his surprise, it doesn’t even take a minute before Isak comes, biting down on his own hand, eyes closed, half-draped over Even and so beautiful that Even’s heart almost stops at the sight.

I did this.

And as Isak falls down on top of him, limp and as breathless as Even – even though he’s sweaty and sticky all over, he can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

None of them say anything for a while. Isak just lies there on top of him, as his breathing evens out and he turns his head to burrow his nose into the side of Even’s neck, making a small, content sound. The movement is so intimate and somehow domestic that Even overflows with emotion. He wants to say something, to confirm to Isak how much it means that he’s here, that they are here, like this, but words fail him.

“Wow, Isak,” is all that comes out, and he can’t help but laugh at how silly it sounds. 

Isak huffs, but it’s an amused sound. “Yeah,” he says, and gives out a still, small laugh of his own.

The laughter dies down quickly, though, as Isak whispers the next words into his neck.

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this.”

“What?” Even says, nonplussed.

He can feel Isak biting his lip against his jawline, almost as if he caught himself saying too much. A few moments pass. When Isak still doesn’t say anything, Even turns his head and shuffles down a little so that they’re face to face. 

Isak’s eyes are still closed.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asks, voice hushed.

Isak opens his eyes and stares at him, almost offended. “Of course I do.”

“Yeah? Last week?” Even can’t help but tease him when he looks like that, incredulous and dark eyebrows knotted in the middle. But a part of him also wonders: does he remember? 

“Don’t be stupid,” Isak replies. “You know what I mean. In the kiosk. Four years ago.” 

A promise of relief trickles through his gut at Isak’s words. “Yeah, I know,” he says, and smiles. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since, he doesn’t say.

“Did you know that I saw you again, later?” Isak asks.

“No?” Even would have remembered that.  

Isak draws a deep breath. “You know your friend Elias?”

Everything stops. Sana. Has Isak been so close, just out of reach, all this time?

“Yeah,” he manages to press out.

“I went with her to Bakka at the end of our first year. She’d forgotten her keys at home.” Isak licks his lips. “And as Elias walked over to us across the schoolyard, I saw his group of friends that he’d been talking to. And you were there, standing among them.”

Even can’t remember that exact moment, but knowing that he could have turned around and seen Isak that day - it’s almost too much. The near miss makes his head spin.

“I guess it sounds really stupid, but I recognized you right away,” Isak continues. “I had no idea you even lived in Oslo. And I – there was just something – I wasn't able to forget you. But I was so closed off back then and so afraid that anyone would find out, that I didn’t dare ask Jonas about you. And then you just stood there – and I couldn’t stop looking. I was so afraid that I’d never see you again, and at the same time scared that you would turn around and see me, because I wouldn’t have known – what to do. But Elias kept talking and then we just… left.” Isak inhales, catching his breath. “That’s the last time I saw you.”

Even tries to imagine him, sixteen years old, standing at the edge of the schoolyard at Elvebakken, lost and nervous, with Even only a short distance away, unknowing, and his heart clenches in his chest.

And how brave isn’t Isak to tell him this, now. How he’s put himself on the line with this confession, when Even has given him next to nothing in return. How strong he must be.

Even bites his lip, and puts his clean left hand over Isak’s cheek. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you either.”

Isak’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. After a moment of silence it’s clear that he’s probably waiting for Even to continue. But how can he do that without giving away too much, without scaring him away?

“I – I thought about you so much – that I was afraid that it would be too much for you,” Even says, eventually. That much, he can admit. “I knew where to find you, maybe – because of Jonas – but I had no idea if you’d even want me to, and –”

“Did you?” Isak interrupts him. “Did you think about me like that?”

Even swallows, not afraid anymore that Isak doesn’t reciprocate, but that the true answer will indeed be too much. “Yeah,” he finally admits. The next thing he says without reservation, because it’s more than true. “I’m so fucking happy I broke up with Sonja before I met you this time. I couldn’t imagine seeing you again and not being allowed… this.” He gestures around them.

“Yeah?” Isak puts on a wicked smile. “You mean this sticky mess right here?” He draws away a little, pointing down between them, and Even laughs.

“It’s probably a sign from the universe that we should be glued together from now on,” he grins, and while Isak laughs, his face turns serious fast.

“Do you really mean that? Please don’t joke about those things,” he says with urgency. And it baffles Even: how Isak can be so confident and cocky one minute and this sincere, almost desperate in his need the next.

It’s like the first time he saw Isak. How he looked like somebody had broken him, had betrayed his trust – even though he was so young, with such an innocent face. Even doesn’t know what was behind all that, and he doesn’t want to ask; not now.

If Isak has his secrets, riddles that Even can unlock if he’s allowed to, in time, Even can maybe share his own. Little by little. One minute at a time.

“I’m not joking, Isak.” He tries to say it so that Isak knows that he means it, bringing his hand back around his neck, his thumb caressing along Isak’s cheek. “Will you stay?”

Isak looks at him, wonder on his face, like he can’t believe what he’s offered, even though it’s such a small thing. Eyes like green, mossy, deep wells, and Even thinks that he’ll never grow tired of looking into them.

“I’ll have to text Jonas, or he’ll worry in the morning, I think,” Isak says, eventually. “But I ran out without my phone or anything so… yeah. I don’t know.” 

“Use mine,” Even says. “If you want to. I have nothing to hide from Jonas.”

“Really?” Isak says. “Would that be okay?”

Even nods, and smiles. He should perhaps not joke about it, but looking at Isak and feeling his heart swell in his chest, there’s no resisting it. “As long as you shower with me first. You don’t need to stick yourself to me with your dried-up come to make sure I’ll stay, you know.” 

“Even!” Isak almost shouts out, and puts his hands over his eyes. “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard! Oh my god!”

This is another thing that Even adds to his expanding list of things catalogued under Isak in his head: how to make him look flustered, blushing, and irresistible.

He strokes Isak’s cheek, making him drop his hands and look up at Even again.

“It’s true, you know,” Even says, voice low, trying to fill his next words words with as much honesty as he’s able to. “I’m not letting you go this time.”

It’s met with a small smile, one that starts out lopsided at first, growing from one corner of Isak’s mouth. Then spreads to the other side before it overtakes his whole face. And however beautiful Isak has looked before – in this moment, he’s never been more breathtaking.

Seeing Isak like this, the ache and the never-ending, pointless longing from the last few days is wiped out. In its place comes not the restlessness and ominous buzzing under his skin that he fears so much. It’s warmth, and a sense of belonging.

Like coming home.