Work Text:
ISAK, July
If the clock above the fridge is correct, Even’s been in Oslo for exactly eight minutes.
His flight was scheduled to land at 16.35 and all going well, he’s probably collecting his luggage now, checking back pockets for his passport because if it’s not in his hands he’s sure he’s lost it. His parents will be waiting in the arrivals area, camera ready and dog waiting patiently at home.
Isak’s not with them, lying face down on the cool floor of the kollektiv, every window in the flat sprung wide open on its hinges. It’s summer again, the early days of July, and everything is blue skies and endless orange, a sweltering heat that has the whole of Oslo sweating in its wake.
Isak should be well used to this after his summer in Barcelona. In reality, he only ever caught the very early mornings and the cooler evenings, spending most of his time in air-conditioned hallways and meeting rooms, safe from the summer air. But it’s unusual for Norway, a sure sign of impending climate change, and it should be worrying but it’s far too hot for that.
Isak’s shirtless, nothing but briefs and a single sock on because it’s too much of an effort taking it off. A breeze is floating in from outside, heavenly through his hair, gliding over his shoulders and down the long line of his spine. Eskild keeps complaining that he looks borderline pornographic stretched out on the floor like that, but he’s no better himself. Their air-conditioning is broken so he’s making regular strolls to the kitchen to stand in front of the open fridge, running ice cubes down his chest. Isak would be lucky to find porn with this much worldbuilding, so he pays him no mind.
He steals another glance at the clock in the kitchen. 16.49.
He sighs loudly.
Isak’s not exactly waiting for a text from Even – knows he’ll see him tonight at dinner with Even’s parents – but it would be nice just to have some confirmation that he landed safely. He also knows that it’s awfully ironic that he’s the one waiting on a text after leaving Even hanging for all of last Autumn, but they’re official boyfriends now so this is like, his prerogative.
(Mostly, he just misses Even; haven’t seen each other since May when Isak visited him in London over a bank holiday. They barely left Even’s bed but they’d managed to squeeze in Sunday lunch at Brick Lane markets, as well as a daytrip out to Bath. It had rained the entire time.
He almost misses the rain, if only to breathe a little easier while the air conditioning’s broken.
Almost.)
Ultimately, Isak is a summer child. There’s nothing quite like the lazy, hazy days of June to September to loosen him up, time split between the lively city and Eva’s cabin by the lake. The days are long and Isak blossoms like the flowers on the trees, as yellow as the blinding sun.
He’s a little dimmer right now, at least until Even texts him confirming he’s alive. He checks his phone just in case, but there’s nothing except a snapchat of Jonas skateboarding down at Gamlebyen and a text from his dad. He replies to Jonas with a lazy thumbs-up, a simple ‘Say hi to Lea’ for the latter.
“Any news on loverboy?” Eskild calls out from the kitchen, voice fighting over the loud hum of the fridge.
Isak merely grunts in response, pressing his cheek against the wooden floor. It’ll probably leave crease marks, but Even’s never going contact him again so it doesn’t matter. He’ll just be ugly and alone for the rest of his life.
“I can hear you overthinking from here, baby gay,” Eskild says, voice rising as he enters the lounge. “What’s going on in there?”
Isak just grunts again, eyes still closed. There’s no need for words, anyway: after living with Isak for four years, Eskild is practically fluent in his moods.
“He only landed ten minutes ago. You don’t genuinely think he’s ignoring you?”
“He could be,” Isak says snootily, even though he knows he’s not, not really.
“Or he could just be getting through customs. Or still have his British chip in. Or have enough faith in your relationship that he doesn’t feel the need to assure you of his love every five minutes.”
Isak peeks open an eye, glaring at Eskild. “Enough logic. Let me sulk.”
“You sulk enough for a small village. Let him live.”
“I am,” Isak whines, because he is. If he were that insecure, he could just text Even himself, but seeing as they were texting up until the moment Even had to switch his phone to flight mode for take-off, he doesn’t want to come off as clingy. Not that Even would mind, and usually Isak doesn’t either, but being needy when you’re living in different countries is one thing; a whole other when you’re a few tram-stops away. “I just want to see him.”
Just like that, Eskild softens, his eyes going to goo like Isak morphed into a fluffy kitten before his very own eyes. “I know you do, honey. And you will. He’ll be back here like he never left, taking out the rubbish and getting rid of spiders like a good husband.”
“He’s not my husband,” Isak mumbles, but his eyes are back to being closed, lips twitching up at the thought. Marriage is definitely not on the cards for Isak, at least not for a long while, but if they’ve survived eight months of long-distance, and two months of just distance before that, they’re already off to a promising start.
“You tell yourself that, baby gay,” Eskild replies, reaching down to ruffle his hair. Isak considers ducking out of pride, but he’s a total pussycat for anyone touching his hair. Especially Even.
Speaking of Even.
“And he doesn’t get rid of spiders, he takes them outside because he doesn’t want to kill them,” Isak calls, listening out for Eskild’s laugh as he migrates back to the kitchen.
Isak doesn’t have any prejudices against spiders, even has a few living rent-free in the dusty corners of his ceiling, but Eskild and Noora hate them with a passion. Noora has a harsher approach, and when Even had witnessed it for the first time, early on in their relationship around Christmas, he’d been so horrified he’d basically held a funeral for one, tucked into a matchbox they found beneath the sink. They’d taken it outside and Isak lit the box on fire, sending the spider to Valhalla, and they’d laughed so hard someone literally opened their window in the freezing cold to yell at them to shut up.
The memory is sweet and Isak loses himself in it, melting deeper into the floor, lulled by the muffled sounds of life outside the window. Cars are tooting, birds are trilling and shadows are shifting across the living room, alternating golden and grey. The opera singer downstairs is beginning her evening scales, accompanied by Eskild chopping shit up for a smoothie and Linn watching something in her bedroom. This is the sound of home.
He checks his phone again, finding nothing. It’s summer, he thinks, relax. He takes a deep breath and, within minutes, Isak is out like a light.
/
When he wakes, the room is blue. There are fingers sifting slowly through his hair, long and familiar, and what can only be somebody’s thighs beneath his head. Isak grins into them, rubbing his cheek on rough denim. He smells grapefruit, tangy and delicious, and he knows Even’s home.
Slowly, he opens his eyes, turning over on Even’s lap, legs thrown over the side as they’re too long for the couch. Even’s leaning an elbow on the armrest, looking down at him with the fondest expression imaginable. He’s just as lovely as he was in May and considerably less tired looking, probably due to exams and the big move being over and done with. He’d even presented a short film for his class and industry professionals, and Isak hadn’t been able to be there for it but he’d never been so proud.
By now, it’s dark outside and Even hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights, most likely a kindness to allow Isak a little more sleep. It means the only light available is coming in from the kitchen, where he can hear Eskild and Noora chatting animatedly about their days. The light paints the right side of Even’s face yellow, the other a midnight blue, and Isak thinks inexplicably of Van Gogh, of a swirling, starry night.
“You’re here,” he says quietly, raising a hand to trace the length of Even’s eyebrow. At the last second, Even catches his hand, bringing it to his lips to plant a soft kiss against the palm.
“Hey baby,” he smiles and fuck, Isak’s missed him so much. It seems impossible that he’s survived six months of this, six months without Even by his side, always a shitty-connection phone call away. Sure, they visited each other several times, but these were trips haunted by the knowledge that they were living on borrowed time, counting the seconds they had left with one another. That Even’s back now, for good, is indescribable; Isak can barely believe it.
Suddenly, it seems stupid that Even is here and Isak isn’t kissing him. Using Even’s neck for leverage, he surges up, folding his arms across Even’s shoulders to keep himself upright. The kiss could be many things but it ends up slow and chaste, just the touch of their lips, the warmth of their skin against the other. Isak feels so, so safe, wrapped up in the arms of the boy he loves, and he knows Even feels it too.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers fiercely, lost in the flutter of Even’s hair. He shouldn’t be crying but suddenly, he’s close, even though this is the happiest he’s been in weeks. Yet Even’s back and Isak’s on the verge of tears because he has poorly-hidden abandonment issues, grew up never quite receiving the love he needed or deserved. Even knows this, and it’s possibly the reason why his arms tighten around him, just a fraction.
“Missed you too, Isak,” Even whispers right back, loud over the quiet of the night. The traffic has died down but the birds are still out; the opera singer replaced by the clatter of kitchens closing up, the giddy shouts of their upstairs neighbours’ readying for a night on the town.
“Shit,” Isak swears, pulling back until they’re face to face. “I was meant to come to dinner at your parents’.”
Even shrugs, unperturbed. “It’s fine, they thought it was very respectful of you to give us some family-time.”
Isak nods solemnly. “I’m a very respectful person.”
“You mean you didn’t just fall asleep on the floor and forget to come?”
Isak groans, but Even’s smile is infectious. “I got tired waiting for you,” he teases, tipping forward until they’re noses are nuzzling together.
“You’d never,” Even whispers, gaze melting into his.
“I’d never,” Isak confirms.
When they kiss, Even tells him it’s like coming home.
/
(Neither of them gets any sleep that night.)
/
The next few days are some of the most idyllic of Isak’s life. They barely leave his bedroom, too busy catching up on lost time, and when they do it’s to shower or to laze around the flat in their boxers, too hot to do much else. Even makes them breakfast and Isak makes them lunch and they go out each night for dinner, everything from kebabs to Italian to fancy seafood restaurants on the waterfront. Isak’s never been but Even navigates them through the treacherous waters of shellfish and sparkling white wine with distinguished ease. It’s different but it’s great, and when they walk home the stars are out and they’re reflected in the harbour, in the ocean of Even’s eyes.
The nights are scorching. Isak’s insatiable and Even is just as bad, and so many firsts are experienced in a matter of days. Their only contact with the outer world is the occasional banging on Isak’s walls when they’re being too loud and the texts pinging into their phones, quiet reminders that there’s life beyond the two of them. Just for a while though, it’s nice not to have to share one another. Six months isn’t long but its felt like a lifetime, and Isak’s bed already feels like theirs.
One morning, Even wakes him up with kisses and an envelope, crumpled where it had been stuffed at the bottom of Even’s bag. It’s addressed to Isak in Even’s messy scrawl and in it are two train tickets to Paris for a break of five days. They arrive at Gare de Lyon on the same day they had once decided on almost a whole year ago.
“Happy belated birthday, baby,” Even mumbles, falling back into the pillows. It’s ten something, and the sun is shining bright through Isak’s curtains, tinting the room like a sepia photograph. Within minutes, Even is asleep, but Isak just lies there, breathing in the morning, the quiet of the day.
If this is what he’s been waiting for the past 21 years, it was worth every second.
/
By the next Tuesday, they’re ready to see other people. Eskild greets them like they haven’t literally been in the next room, pretends to mop at his eyes as he tells them how he’s missed them, how much Isak has grown in their absence. Isak just lets it happen, too relaxed to do anything other than wedge open the kitchen window and loll his head out of it like a dog, feeling every wisp of fresh air breeze through his waves, curling in the humidity.
Eskild and Even’s chatter fades to the background, and it’s not until Even’s waving a fresh batch of eggs on muffin bread before him that he comes back to. They’re both shirtless, Isak significantly tanner than anyone else in the room, probably due to the number of hours he spends spread out on the floor, soaking in every inch of sunshine like a cat. A thin, gold chain catches on the light, nestled at the top of his spine and reaching all the way down to his sternum. It once belonged to a grandfather he never met, acquired on a holiday to Mykonos and given to him by his mother, decorated with a small turquoise evil eye. Even plays with it absently as they eat.
“Where on Earth did you find a boyfriend who can make his own hollandaise, baby gay?” Eskild asks, moaning dramatically at the first bite. Isak almost wants to roll his eyes but he’s been asking himself the same thing since November.
He’s about to answer when Even beats him to it. “Paris,” he says cheerfully, before dropping a brief kiss on Isak’s cheek, sticky and yellow.
Isak rubs at it lazily, doing very little but spreading it further across his face. He wants to be annoyed but judging by the way Eskild lights up at the display, he’s sure he only comes off as fond. After Magnus, Eskild’s their biggest fan, something Isak pretends to hate but actually really appreciates. Truth is, it’s sort of an unspoken thing, how easily Even fits into every corner of Isak’s life. One day, when Isak is a lot more mature than he is now, he’ll be able to properly express his gratitude for this, not just to Even but to his loved ones for making it so easy for them.
(Until then, however, Isak will continue to be a bitch.)
“What are you boys up to today?”
Even answers first. “It’s about time I saw my friends. I’ve very rudely ignored them since I got here and they’re pining away, or so I’m told. I should probably check in with my parents again tonight too, that cool, baby?”
Isak, mid-bite, only shrugs, suddenly very aware that muting the groupchat for the past few days was only a very temporary solution. The moment he logs on there will be mayhem and there’s very little he can do about it. Maybe he should do this in person.
Eskild raises an eyebrow. “No longer holing up in your love den?”
Isak rolls his eyes. “We have lives, Eskild.”
The look Eskild gives him heavily implies that he knows Even may, though he doubts Isak does. Isak chooses to ignore this.
(TBC)
/
Catching up with the boys is largely underwhelming. They greet him at Jonas’s door like he’s been away at sea, very quickly losing interest when it’s clear a) Even isn’t with him and b) Isak still has no intention of doling out information on his sex life. Jonas and Mahdi are mostly just relieved Isak will be less irritable now that he’s getting laid on the regular, but Magnus is genuinely put out about the lack of intimate details.
(“I tell you all about my sex life!”
“What sex life?” Mahdi asks automatically.
“No one’s asking!” says Isak.)
It takes a little more prodding before they settle down for a few rounds of Fifa, Jonas lighting up a bowl that gets passed around like Chinese whispers. Magnus makes a mess of it, like usual, but other than that it’s a pretty normal afternoon with the boys. Jonas’s sister drops by at some point, pausing to give Isak a hug because she’s basically his little sister too, and they order in pizza knowing Eva has the closing shift at her waitressing job and won’t want to cook anything up after.
After dinner, when they’re airing out the lounge before Eva inevitably comes in and tuts in despair, Isak’s phone buzzes with a message. It’s from Even, a short video of him being jumped by his dog before being jumped by his friends. It makes him smile: Kermit’s literally losing his shit, long, swishy tail getting in everyone’s faces as they all try to get their hands on Even. It ends with everyone on the floor in a group hug, dog included.
He doesn’t realise what he looks like until something flashes in the corner of his eye, Mahdi snapping a picture of him and sending it off just as quickly. His boys were introduced to Even’s back in February at Even’s 23rd birthday party. They all became fast friends, but it also means Elias or Mutta will be receiving a picture of Isak smiling down at his phone like an idiot right about now.
It’s only a few seconds later when his phone vibrates again. It’s another video: this time, Even’s zooming in and out of the picture of Isak on Elias’s phone whilst Adam sloppily sings ‘Boys’ by Charli XCX in the background. It’s topped off with a yellow heart and Isak sends one back, even though it’s embarrassing as hell.
Then, he tackles Mahdi to the floor.
“What the fuck, man?” Mahdi cries, bouncing off of the bean bag he was lying on. “I almost dropped my Cornetto!”
“It’s what you get,” Isak sniffs, before swooping in to bite a chunk right out of the cone. It’s mint chocolate-chip flavoured, not his favourite but not the worst, and the cold hurts his teeth a little. It’s worth it for the way Mahdi shrieks.
“The power of Christ compels you!” he hisses, flicking tepid beer in Isak’s face.
“Can we not?” Jonas muses, stretched out lazily across his bed. “These floors don’t clean themselves.”
Isak and Mahdi turn to him as one. Mahdi raises an eyebrow. “And you do?”
Jonas just shrugs, never taking his eyes off of the game. He’s winning, but it’s against Magnus so it doesn’t count. “My mum does, don’t be rude.”
They both concede to that, even though Mahdi mutters something about Jonas almost being 21 and still having his mother come over to clean his flat. Isak sits back, letting Mahdi climb back onto the bean bag. He shuffles until he’s up on the bed with Jonas, lying his head on his stomach as he peers around the room. Jonas runs his free hand through his hair, absent motions that pause whenever he’s concentrating. Outside the window, a plane is flying silently across an orange sky.
“You two good, though?” Jonas asks calmly, scratching just beneath his ear like he likes. Isak purrs like a cat, nodding.
“We’re great,” he says simply. He means it.
/
Isak hadn’t been too preoccupied with meeting Even at the airport, mostly because he tends to hog Even’s attention whenever he is in Oslo, and he did only see him two months ago. Even is enviably close to his parents, who think he’s just about the best thing to ever walk this earth. They share that quality with Isak
/
It’s nearing the end of July when they have their first real argument. Considering they’ve been together almost nine months, they’ve had a pretty good run. But neither of them enjoys conflict
/
Dialogue
/
It’s a quiet evening in mid-July when they make their way to Bjerke, to the facility just outside Oslo where his mum stays in assisted living. Even drives them, borrowing his dad’s Jeep for the night, and the streets are empty and tree-lined.
Isak’s tired, having spent most of his day cooped up in a windowless room that smelled of disinfectant. He drew the short straw this year and has himself a part-time job doing data-entry for a private clinic that specialises in paediatrics. It’s not all that bad: his co-workers are all older women who largely ignore him in favour of gossiping about whatever hot I.T. guy is constantly getting called into Accounts, and the pay is good for the level of brainpower that goes into it. But generally, it’s awfully dull, the kind of mind-numbing boredom that has him scrolling through stupid Buzzfeed quizzes for hours, finding out what U.S. state he should live in (Washington) and what holiday he is based on his cookie preferences (Halloween). He sends these results to various chats, usually with differing responses: the boys either tell him to get back to work or ask for a link; Eva compares results. Even’s usually the one who distracted him in the first place and seems to get offended whenever his and Isak’s results differ too wildly.
Even’s day wasn’t much better, at that awkward life stage where he’s finished university but isn’t applying for real jobs. Isak’s not too fazed about what he chooses to do, but he knows it affects Even more than he shows. The script he once brought Isak is on the backburner, both a relief and a worry while Even sorts out his new life in Norway. He hasn’t shown any interest in finding a job, but he knows Even’s parents mentioned it at dinner last week, casually but meaningful, as well as his options for postgraduate study.
“I’m not interested,” Even repeats now, fingers flexing slightly on the steering wheel. His right foot is drumming against the curved panel of the car in time to whatever Drake song is playing on the radio.
He doesn’t look upset but he’s certainly not relaxed, and Isak shifts a hand onto Even’s thigh in comfort. Even smiles down at the motion, lifting his free hand off of the wheel to cover Isak’s, threading their fingers together.
“Is the thought of more study that bad?” Isak asks curiously.
Even scrunches his nose, never taking his eyes off the road. “It’s not bad, it’s just stagnant. I did three years at Goldsmiths barely touching a camera, and screenwriting’s good and all but I don’t want to do another year of theory.”
Isak hums in thought. “Maybe you could search for something more practical? A course, or maybe even some work in tv filming?”
“Easier said than done, I’m afraid. Industries so small tend to operate on contacts. I did my whole degree in London; I don’t know anyone here.”
He knows Even means it as no more than a factual remark, but it still drops cold and limp at the pit of his stomach. Even wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him, might have had a job already if he’d stayed in London. Now, he’s lost and confused and it’s all Isak’s fault.
Isak draws back, fidgeting with his seat belt as he stares at the scenery rushing past. It’s light, the toasty gold of evening sun, flickering through tall pines and across their eyes. It catches on Even’s face, glowing pink to tangerine, blurred watercolours. It paints his lips like roses, and Isak can’t look away.
“It’s okay, though,” Even says, stealing his hand back. His thumb traces absent patterns, diamonds and swirls and pyramids.
“Is it?” Isak asks uncertainly.
Even shrugs. “Means more time with you.”
“You see me all the time.”
“Right,” Even says, as if this is something very obvious, “because I’m not working.”
“And that’s okay?”
The look Even shoots him is exasperated, but his words ring genuine. “Isak, one summer not working isn’t going to kill me. I’m 23, you’re 21, there’s no rush, I promise.”
TBC
/
Dinner with his mum goes better than expected.
Despite the lack of traffic, it’s almost nine when they reach the facility. The receptionist meets them at the door, thrilled to have visitors, and they’re ushered to his mother’s rooms with ridiculous fanfare. Even is looking around curiously, taking it in with his director’s eye, but Isak’s seen it all before. Places like this aren’t nearly as depressing as he once imagined, helped by the fresh flowers and classic paintings every few steps, but it’s still pale walls and grey carpet and locked windows.
/
The walk back to the car is quiet, and Even’s palm is cool against his. It doesn’t take long before they reach it, but Even stops them at the last second, pulling at their linked hands, the other already reaching for the door handle.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he says, and Isak dutifully follows.
There isn’t much to see, but the facility grounds are lush and extensive. The grass grows darker the further they stray from the light, faded from apartment windows, but they keep walking, following a worn path through low copses of trees, black against the night sky. In any other context, Isak supposes this could be frightening. It’s dark after all, nothing but moonlight guiding them and the quiet crack of pebbles and twigs they accidentally step on. Luckily, the path is straight, and it brings them to a small clearing, nothing but too-long grass and a symphony of cicadas.
The moon is full and high, stitched into a tapestry of glittering white stars, so beautiful Isak’s heart hurts at the sight. They drift to its centre, lying down in the grass side-by-side. Isak folds his arms behind his head and Even mirrors him.
For a place so secluded, it’s surprisingly noisy. The cicadas are deafening, so loud it feels like they’re buzzing beneath his skin. Yet it’s relaxing. He sinks further into the ground and loses himself to them, to the scent of damp grass and the pale wash of moonlight.
Even looks almost ethereal like this, his hair bleached blonder, freckles and moles stark against ivory. He turns his head to get a better look at him, starts when Even’s already looking right back.
“How fucking loud are these cicadas,” he muses, and Isak hides his chuckle in his bicep. Even grins, pleased at the reaction. His smile is all canines: sharp like a razor and glowing like pearls.
“I like them,” Isak says, almost lost amongst the singing. Even hears him though, his eyes softening at the words.
“I like them, too,” Even replies. “They remind me of summer.” Then, softly, “They remind me of you.”
Isak raises his eyebrows at that. “Why?”
Even can’t really shrug laid out like this, but he stills tries. “I’m always happier in the summer, and I’m always happier when I’m with you.”
Isak lets out a shaky laugh. He’s always amazed at the poetry Even seems to speak without thought, how his words are often synched and always beautiful. It’s a sentiment so simple, but one Isak could never express so fluently.
“Are you happy here? Back in Oslo?”
Though he’s not really sure he wants an answer, the questions haunted him since they drove here. Even hasn’t necessarily grown out of Oslo, but Oslo’s grown without him. Here, his London contacts are useless, and the life of the artist has never been an easy one. He’s not sure what Even wants to do, and even if he isn’t too bothered by this fact, Isak can’t help but worry for him. It’s engrained in him by now, nerves that shake his bloodstream, crowding his thoughts until there’s nothing left but white noise. The cicadas give a good effort at drowning it out, but anxiety is never quite that simple.
Rationally, he knows Even would tell him if he were unhappy, but the masochistic, nonsensical part of his brain wants to doubt him regardless. To laugh in his face, bitter and empty, at the Isak that allowed this to happen; who cracked open his heart and let someone else build a home there.
Even takes a long time to answer, the seconds passing torturously slow. Isak almost begs him to put him out of his misery but decides against it: it’s his fault for asking.
At last, Even speaks.
“Of course I am, Isak.”
His sigh of relief is so loud he’s sure even the cicadas can hear it. Even’s voice is soft, his stare sure and defiant. Isak wants to drown in it; satisfies himself by nudging Even’s elbow with his. Even nudges back.
“You’ll tell me if you’re ever not, right?”
The words tumble out surprisingly urgent, and Even’s eyes turn thoughtful. “Ever not what?”
“Ever not happy.”
At that, Even laughs, shallow and humourless. “I’m bipolar, Isak. I’m often not happy. Sometimes, I’m really fucking sad.”
“But you will, right? You’ll tell me?”
Even looks away, fixing his gaze somewhere between Sirius and Betelgeuse. Isak watches him, suddenly aware of a chill in the air, of a dampness seeping into his skin from the ground up.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you.”
/
He doesn’t.
/
They don’t get to Paris that summer.
Isak wouldn’t exactly call Even’s behaviour leading up to the trip odd, simply because he’s never learnt to read the signs, and in some ways he’s the same but in others he’s different.
(TBC)
/
So Isak waits, and he waits, and he waits.
EVEN, August
Even returns with the turn of August.
It starts off slow, a subtle shift in the air
(TBC)
/
On Tuesday, he’s awoken by a t-shirt getting hurled in his face, dank with the smell of sweat and generic men’s deodorant. It’s jarring, enough that even in the haze of a sleep he still recoils deep into the creases of his pillow. Soon enough, Isak rushes over, spilling a litany of “sorry, sorry, sorry” as he picks it up and pulls it over his head.
“Don’t,” Even croaks, face still hidden, “smells awful.”
“Shit, does it?”
Isak takes a cursory sniff, his nose scrunching adorably. It gets thrown into the eastern corner of the room, their unofficial laundry pile, and then all Even can hear is frantic rustling as presumably, Isak searches for something somewhat clean to wear. He’s not actually that bad about laundry – Even’s worse – but he’s been distracted recently, for obvious reasons. In the depths of his low Even finds it difficult to get out of bed, let alone shower or change his sweatpants, and Isak’s been hopelessly supportive, perhaps too supporting considering the laundry pile is now more of a laundry mountain, and the graveyard of dusty, half-drunk cups of water beside the bed that grows like flowers. Other than opening their windows every morning, as wide as they can go, Isak lets him be, a silent, steady company Even’s always craved.
(Their windows. He wonders when it began to feel like he belonged here.)
“How about this one?”
There’s another top being pushed under his nose, Isak’s anxious face behind it, and obediently, Even takes a delicate sniff. It’s clean.
“Smells like you,” he says sleepily, ready to cuddle it against him for the rest of the day.
“Is that… is that good?” Isak asks uncertainly.
Even hums in agreement.
“Cool,” Isak says, before delicately picking it out of Even’s grasp. Even looks up, offended, but Isak just places a sweet kiss on his cheek, his hair still wet from the shower. It leaves droplets on Even’s face, fresh with the scent of lemongrass (so, Noora’s artisanal shampoo). It’s the cleanest he’s felt in days. “Thanks, baby.”
“Where are you going?” Even asks quietly, cuddling back into the bed as Isak sets about looking for his phone (it’s in his hand).
“Dad asked if I can look after Lea today, so I need to go pick her up,” he explains, riffling through jeans pockets. “Is that okay? She’s somehow caught a cold so we’re probably just going to sit around watching movies. I’ll make sure she doesn’t come and bother you.”
Any other day, Even would insist that Lea could never bother him. He doesn’t have much experience looking after nine-year-olds but she’s marvellous: smart and funny and loves Isak to pieces. God knows why, but she seems to like him a lot too, always insisting that she hold Even’s hand when they go out together. It’s sweet, especially when Isak gets put out that she doesn’t ask to hold his hand whenever Even’s around, so generally, they get on like a house on fire.
Right now, though, the thought of chatty little girls makes a tense knot tie in his throat, the stress of not being presentable or entertaining or interested enough. He’s still so fucking tired, and he doesn’t really want her to see him like this, spotty and drained and hidden under a duvet in thirty-degree weather. She deserves better.
“Thanks,” is all he says, voice thin, and Isak nods. Having finally realised his phone was in his hand all along, he plants a final kiss on Even’s forehead, promising he’s not being pedantic but to call him if he needs anything. With a final uncertain look, he’s gone, closing the door gently on his way out, and then Even’s alone again. Naturally.
/
He wakes up again some time later and his throat is so dry it hurts. He reaches for whatever glass of water is closest, sour but quenching all the same, and when he’s done, he pulls himself up and looks around the room. It’s afternoon judging by the sun playing on their mirror. The reflection casts tiny little rainbows across every wall, spinning like kaleidoscopes, and he watches, mesmerised, for several minutes. It’s quietly lovely, and it gives him the strength to pull himself out of bed, walking over to the splayed windows and peering out.
Kollektivet is on a quiet street in a busy suburb, cars rushing past at both ends, and there’s nothing really interesting to look at but it’s peaceful. The sky is blue above him and the geraniums growing off of the opposite balcony are scarlet and bountiful. It makes him want to grow his own, fuchsia and forget-me-nots and orange tulips. When he’s ready, he’ll pitch it to Noora.
He stays like this for a little while, watching a cat on the floor above stretch out on hot tiles, and the breeze is pleasant through his hair and the sun warm on his face. He can understand why Isak likes it so much, even though he’ll never have the patience to sit in it for longer than a few minutes.
Eventually, voices from the lounge wake him from his reverie. They’re soft, interrupted by bursts of laughter and what can only be very auto-tuned singing. He hears Isak’s among them and longs to be near him, if only to hide his face in the warmth of his neck and kiss the summer off his skin. With a quick look at his reflection – grey-faced and tired, but not nearly as bad as he expected – he steps into the corridor and down to where everyone plus Lea is watching something outrageously colourful.
Eskild’s the first to spot him, grinning full-beam through a mouthful of Haagen-Dazs. “There he is!”
It’s loud, but Even still smiles back, even if it’s significantly dimmer. Linn is in a similar boat, throwing a tired glance at Eskild before meeting Even’s eyes. Her smile is small but genuine.
(They haven’t spoken much this summer, something he would usually be aware of, and he promises himself that when he’s feeling better they’ll catch up. Even if they do nothing but sit in silence, he wants her to know that he’s there for her, especially when it feels like neither of them will ever escape this black hole.)
As expected, Isak is splayed across the floorboards, travelling with the sunshine. Even steps over him, and the fingers that wrap momentarily around his ankle are welcome.
He sits between Noora and Lea, the latter immediately shifting over to say hello. Her hair’s grown since he last saw her, long, golden ripples that bounce off of her shoulders, but other than that, she’s the same: eerily similar to Isak, down to the clear green eyes and thin, cupid’s-bow lips. She doesn’t say much, just a quick “missed you” before she’s snuggling into his side, sniffling slightly. It’s a bit gross, but he’s no better.
On the screen, small glittery things are singing seventies disco songs, and it’s suddenly very obvious why Isak only seems to know children’s animated movies.
“We’re watching Trolls,” Lea says helpfully, and sure enough, they do look like the troll dolls he’s sure he owned as a child.
“Cool,” he says lowly.
/
The cabin trip is Eva’s idea, a long-held tradition of her, Jonas and Isak’s, so when it’s suggested it’s easy to pretend that it’s not about him. To an extent, it probably isn’t, but Even’s not oblivious; Isak very likely orchestrated this, his quiet way of making things okay. Eva’s cabin some hours north of Oslo isn’t quite Paris, but right now, it’s probably the most he can handle.
So, when Chris Berg shows up at their door early one Wednesday morning with what looks like her mother’s sports van in tow, Even stuffs a slightly burnt piece of toast in his mouth and prepares himself for a very long few days.
It’s not that he doesn’t like Isak’s friends, because he does, but they’re also frightfully loud most of the time. In fairness, so is he, but when he’s just emerging from a depressive state he tends to be sensitive to just about anything, let alone a bunch of rowdy students. It’s probably the reason why he sticks so close to Isak, who unless provoked is more of a listener, though Yousef will be there with Sana, and his boys will be dropping in closer to the weekend. By now, they’re well-attuned to his shifting moods.
The morning gets off to a good start even though Isak is grumpy and clingy, seemingly regretting the plans he organised in favour of staying in bed. When Even admits that it would be nice to have a break from this room after barely having left it in almost two weeks, Isak immediately wilts, pressing a soft kiss to the centre of his forehead before lugging himself to the shower. Even takes this time to prepare a sub-par breakfast and to take their bags down to Chris, who is blasting something obnoxiously loud for the hour whilst simultaneously plaiting Noora’s hair. It’s possibly the first time he’s ever seen Noora look anything other than aggravatingly perfect, wispy white blonde sticking up in multiple directions as Chris wraps her hair into uneven little buns that sit at the top of her head. Noora remains stoic throughout, letting Even lightly squeeze one as he passes by to fit their bags in the boot. The tiny slap she aims at his thigh is painless and surprisingly grounding. If Noora can let herself be, then so can Even.
Isak comes down a few minutes later, followed by a weepy Eskild already whinging about missing his favourite children. He crows in delight at Noora’s space buns, lifting her off her feet with the force of his hug. Despite trying to get away, Isak’s too sleep-slow to go very far and soon enough is melting into one of Eskild’s hugs himself, regardless that they’ll be back in a matter of days.
“I’d forgotten how pleasant you are when you’re unconscious,” Eskild remarks, and Isak barely pouts.
It takes a few moments to click that when Eskild is still standing there with his arms outstretched, he’s meaning them for Even. Though he’s not sure when he got upgraded from ‘Isak’s boyfriend’ to one of Eskild’s numerous wards, it still fills him with a curl of delight, slippery like quicksilver. The hug he gives Eskild is gratifyingly sturdy, the kind that leaves no room for doubt, and it almost brings him to tears again. By the time they’re leaving Oslo, having picked up Vilde and Magnus on their way, Even can breathe easier, an almost physical weight crawling off of his chest.
It only lifts the further they go.
/
Eva’s cabin turns out to be on a pretty lake at the mouth of a fjord, meaning the water is glacial regardless of the thick summer air. He discovers this when Isak and Jonas immediately run in, barely minutes after they’ve badly parked on a downwards slope, so whoever goes on the next food run will have to reverse their way up the narrow, unpaved driveway. Something tells him it will probably be him.
The boys hoot when they reach the water, stripping their shirts as they run, and soon enough Isak is coming back, sun shimmery on his wet skin. The hug he envelops Even in is as frigid as snow. Even gasps, feeling cold water seep through the thin material of his shirt, placated by the warmth of Isak’s skin. It’s shocking, and he pushes Isak off barely a second later, but his joy is infectious enough that Even doesn’t mind.
In the end, it turns out that the cabin trip is exactly what he needed, and for all his fears, the company is ideal. An early-riser, the mornings are no different than they are at the kollektiv, Even and Noora navigating around each other as they quietly assemble breakfast. The only difference is the soundtrack: whereas in Oslo they’re accompanied by a symphony of tooting cars, here the mornings are an homage to nature.
(It’s been a very long time since Even woke to the chirping of robins, sweet like springtime, and their song rings deep within him. He doesn’t know how Isak, spread sleepily across his chest, doesn’t hear the nightingales rise in the cage of his ribs, sleeps through this moment like he can’t feel its significance. Even almost wants to wake him up, to let him know that at last he’s coming to peace with the world outside their window.)
The others trickle in at a dozier pace and by late morning they’re spread across the kitchen and lounge. Isak plasters himself to his back as Even sets about cooking him breakfast, scalding against the cool, alpine breeze floating in through every open door and window. It’s a sharp contrast to last summer, when Even fought through city and seaside as he traipsed across Europe. Everything is so still here, though the sun is just as hot.
/
Days pass lazily and there is very little to complain about. It’s surprising how peacefully mankind can coexist when everyone respects their turn at dishes, and the only scuffles are over couples getting a little too frisky in common areas and the night when they have an Uno tournament. Someone suggests they gamble and Isak cleans the board, even though Even never knew there was such thing as strategy in Uno.
If Isak’s a sore loser, he’s an even worse winner, and he’s promptly given the job of cleaning up to sour his victory. Even joins him, because where Isak goes he goes, and when the kitchen door shuts behind them he allows himself to breathe. They’re all alone.
Isak has his back to him, fishing half-heartedly through dirty dishes to get to the bottom of the sink. His nose wrinkles in disgust as he touches something most likely slimy and Even, leaning against the doorframe, smiles at the sight. From the lounge, something funky thuds dully through the walls, almost definitely Jonas’ selection. It reminds Even of London, of parties on rooftops and the music they’d play at gigs while waiting for bands to come onstage. He pushes himself off the door and moves in, pressing into Isak’s back until they bump off the kitchen bench. He wraps his arms around him, nosing at the downy hairs at the base of Isak’s neck.
“Oh, my love, can’t you see yourself by my side?” he sings softly, feeling the rise and fall of Isak’s chest as if it’s his own. Isak hums along, obviously familiar with Jonas’ taste. “No surprise when you’re on his shoulder like every night...”
Isak leans his head back until it falls on Even’s shoulder, eyes soft and clear. “Oh, my love, can’t you see that you’re on my mind?” he sings back, and when he turns to cup Even’s face, his hands are wet and soapy. “Don’t suppose we could convince your lover to change his mind?”
The kiss is slow and Even savours it, tasting every inch of Isak, from the Tuborg he was drinking earlier to the spearmint gum he chews throughout the day. He traces the crowns of his teeth, the ridges at the roof of his mouth and the slick slide of his tongue. They let the sink water turn tepid and all Even can smell is green apple, the chemical kind of dishwashing liquid. He wonders if he’ll develop some sort of Pavlovian attraction to it now.
When they separate, it’s lingering, Isak’s arms still locked around his neck. They Eskimo kiss because that’s their thing and it always will be, and when the dust is settled Isak breathes life into his lungs.
“How are you?” The answer isn’t ‘fine’ and Isak knows that.
“I’m getting there,” Even says honestly because he is, one step at a time.
“Take all the time you need,” Isak answers.
Even loves him so, so much, so he tells him. Over and over again, for every dish they wash and cup they dry. Isak says it too, once for every star in the sky, until there’s nothing left but the two of them, shining just as brightly.
/
The next afternoon sees the arrival of the boys, appearing with a racket at the clearing where they’re spending the afternoon. There’s a girls versus boys football game happening, Isak, Jonas and Mahdi against Chris, Sana and Vilde. The boys’ shirts have been stripped for makeshift goalposts, as well as Even’s, poached from him by a giggling Isak midway through the game. It’s close, but the girls are in the lead.
Currently, he’s lying in the sun, sunglasses perched over his nose as he bakes in the golden heat. He’s flicking one-handed through an ancient ‘National Geographic’, picked at random off of the bookshelves in the basement. Magnus is beside him, talking absolute nonsense that Even is half-listening to in favour of peeking over at Isak, sweat-drenched and glorious. Even has no clue what he gets up to at football practise, but whatever it is he deeply endorses it. Isak’s abdomen is smooth and subtly chiselled, just like the statues of Greek youths he’d study in Classics. As promised, he’s wearing his football shorts, short and apricot and flimsy, and they are precisely what Even hoped for when he’d dreamt them up last August. So much so that Isak will wear them later tonight, this time with nothing underneath.
He hears the boys before he sees them, and soon enough they’re barrelling into the field, announcing their arrival like police sirens. The game pauses as hugs are exchanged, Mutta and Elias joining with Adam as referee. Even waits for the to rest to come to him and, soon enough, lukewarm Powerade is being poured onto his stomach, tinting his skin cobalt.
“Seriously?” He groans, already feeling it grow sticky against him. Not the good kind of sticky, either.
“It’s what you get for being so pasty. Need to get some colour on you, bro,” Mikael quips, settling down on his other side. Unfortunately, he’s right, and other than Noora who actively avoids getting any sun, Even is the palest person here. Some of it can be blamed on Even barely leaving Isak’s room for the past two weeks, but he, Jonas and Mikael are positively golden in comparison.
(TBC)
/
On their final night, Even’s ready for a swim.
It’s past midnight and Isak’s out cold, crumpled on top of the sheets in nothing but his underwear. He’s snoring softly, the breathy kind that blows his fringe out of his face so it bobs like a palm tree. The night is blue, blue like the galaxy and blue like the sea.
“Isak,” Even whispers, pushing gently at his back. “Isak, wake up.”
If Isak can hear him, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he only rolls deeper into the mattress, seeking the warmth of the covers. The days are getting cooler as summer edges into autumn, the nights even more so, and Even is tempted to help him, to tuck him in till he’s safe and warm.
Instead, he pushes Isak’s hair back where it’s flattened across his forehead. Isak’s eyelashes flutter at the movement, one of his hands creeping up to clutch at Even loosely.
“Even?” He mumbles sleepily, eyes still closed. The cartilage of his nose folds as he nuzzles deeper into his pillow. Even stills as he watches.
“Isak, sweetheart, wake up,” he tries again, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles across Isak’s cheek. Isak twitches at the sensation but, soon enough he’s awake, eyeing him sleepily. It’s only a few seconds before his gaze turns worried.
“Baby?” Isak asks, voice hoarse with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
He’s scrambling up now, rubbing absently at his arms finally succumbing to the chill. He rises until he’s at level with Even, searching his eyes for the problem. His hands grip at Even’s jaw, flexing slightly with tension.
(And there Even’s gone again, concerning the ones he loves.)
“Nothing,” Even says soothingly, replacing Isak’s hands with his own. “I just want to go swimming.”
It’s a testament to Isak’s trust in him that he doesn’t even question it. Instead, he sits back on his haunches, running tired hands over his face, rubbing at the sleep collecting in the corners of his eyes. “Okay,” he says slowly.
He takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says again, this time more decisively.
No one would care that they’re going swimming at this time of night – would potentially want to join in – and that’s precisely why they sneak out, tiptoeing across creaky floorboards and muffling giggles behind closed fists. Outside, the air is cool, almost unpleasant on their bare skin, and because they’re both idiots neither of them is wearing shoes. This leads to a lot of pained hissing as they trek through jagged pebbles, Even almost stubbing his toe on invisible rocks. It’s a brief walk to the lakeside, but when every step is agony it feels like Everest, and finally they’re running and Even is free.
Unsurprisingly, the lake is freezing. Even knows this, but it still brings him to a stop. He gets as far as his shins before he’s shivering, the shock jarring, so cold it burns. He wants to scream, feels icy air in his lungs like a blizzard but he can’t, frozen in place.
Somewhere ahead, Isak is underwater, nothing but a pale mirage dancing beneath an inky surface. The water turns black like this, a far cry from its mirror-like state, yet something is shimmering with every wave, the pale green of glow-in-the-dark stars.
“Even!” Isak emerges with a cry. He throws his head back like a mermaid, his long hair sending droplets flying everywhere. They splatter against Even’s stomach in a cold shower. “Look at this!”
‘This’ turns out to be algae, or plankton Isak explains, glittering green and blue with every movement they make. The glow lasts for mere seconds but it’s beautiful, like old Disney movie animation. He feels like he’s in Fantasia, the 1940s one with the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’, seasonal fairies weaving magic, lighting the Spring flowers with sparkles. He’d been mesmerised with it as a child, possibly his earliest segue into film, and it’s delightful to be reminded of it now, 23 and freezing his balls off in a lake at midnight with the man of his dreams.
“What are you doing?” Isak laughs, spinning in lazy circles to see the plankton light up around him. “Get in!”
“I can’t,” Even says through shuddering teeth. “It’s too fucking cold!”
Even in the dark, he can tell Isak’s rolling his eyes. “We’re Norwegian, Even, there’s no such thing as ‘too fucking cold’.”
He knows what Isak’s about to do just before he does it, bringing his arms up to shield his stomach a second too late. “Don’t you dare—”
The splash is vile, polar against his skin leaving Even wheezing. Isak himself looks shocked at the force of it, but even more amused. At this point, being above water is even colder than being under it, and he fixes Isak with a dark look.
“You are such a dick,” he breathes, before launching himself at him.
Isak shrieks at the impact, hilariously girly, the sound lost as they submerge. Even’s wrong: it’s even fucking colder underwater, and his eyes spring open in shock. At least the lake is clean, so the sensation is no more prickling on his eyes than it is on any other limb, but it still feels like he’s being sucked into a black hole.
Isak is looking back at him, blowing him a kiss that gets lost in the light dancing around them. Even catches it. The action actually helps; he can feel himself acclimatising to the cold, his movements no longer leaving his muscles screaming in protest. Slowly, Isak’s hand find his neck, a wicked glint in his eyes, and he’s propelling up into Even’s space. His lips find Even’s, chilly but soft, and then they’re kissing. It’s chaste, closed-mouthed kisses as they rise to the surface, bubbling up like fizz. With Isak’s chest pressed against his, he almost feels warmer.
Above water, the night is painted indigo and they are lily white. He folds his arms across Isak’s shoulders, hugging him tight till he can feel their hearts beating, loud like fireworks. They’re slowing to a steady rhythm, beating slightly out of sync but Even doesn’t mind. Isak’s necklace is trapped between them, bright in pale moonlight, tensing as Isak pulls back to press another kiss against his lips.
“Can we get out now, please,” Isak murmurs, littering kisses wherever he can reach. He’s shivering, the cold having caught up with him, and Even draws him in closer.
He thinks of water, of symbolism in film; of baptism, transformation and release. Of being drawn to the ocean and emerging new, borne of seafoam, rebuilt by the ebb and flow of a current rising up through his fingertips. Of new beginnings, Aquarius and Gemini and everything in between. If Even is the sea then Isak is the stars, or is it the other way around?
He laughs, loud in the quiet of the night. “Yeah, we can.”
He is Venus. He is born again.
/
It takes far too long to extract themselves from the lake, guided by starlight as they sprint back to the cabin. It’s difficult not to wake anyone with the way they pad through the corridor, leaving a trail of droplets behind them for whoever’s up first tomorrow. Soon enough, they’re in their bedroom, the furthest east so they catch the morning sun, stripping off sopping shorts and slipping into the ensuite. They’re staying in the master bedroom, kindly bestowed on them by Eva for times exactly like this.
The shower is scalding on their skin, leaving it tingling from the sudden change in temperature. They end up sharing Even’s body wash, Isak circling it into his skin until they both smell of grapefruit. Even washes Isak’s hair, using whatever’s already at the bottom of the shower. It’s fruity, scented like raspberries and peaches, foaming pale pink in Isak’s matted curls. Isak repays him the favour, making a stupid joke about fruit salad that has them sniggering into each other’s shoulders.
Back in bed, Even can’t get enough, kissing Isak and running hands through his damp hair. It’s silky soft, almost reaching his shoulders, and Even wants to bury himself in its texture, sink into its smell.
Isak flips them over, parting Even’s legs until he fits between them, hitching up his thigh so it rests on Isak’s hip. “Can I?” He asks, soft and adoring, and Even just nods.
It’s slow, one finger then two then three. Isak is patient, taking his time and Even’s never felt so relaxed, presses back into it like they’ve got all night. He doesn’t usually bottom, enjoys it just fine but not as much as Isak, but there’s something to be said for giving up control, for handing over the script and letting someone else have their way. By the time Isak enters him he’s done a 180, the ice of his skin replaced by the fire in his veins, and everything is hot, hot, hot. Neither of them lasts long, Isak coming first as he pumps at Even’s dick. Their release feels well-earned, like they worked for it together.
Isak does a piss-poor job at cleaning them up, strung out from his orgasm, and Even, significantly tidier than Isak will ever be, already knows the stickiness drying above his bellybutton will get to him eventually, meaning soon he’ll have to get up himself and do it again, properly this time. Until then, he lets himself relax back into the pillows, curling an arm beneath Isak’s neck as he runs his fingers through drying waves.
Isak’s humming, tracing shapes into Evens’s collarbone and, knowing him, there’s an equal chance that it’s something poetic like constellations as it is dicks. It takes a while for Even to place the song, probably because Isak is slightly off-key, but when he does he smiles in surprise. As far as he knows, Isak’s not a Bruce Springsteen fan, but Even is, owns a t-shirt rescued from an opshop in Camden. Isak’s stolen it on occasion.
He’s barely pronouncing any words, more singing the sounds into Even’s skin like a lullaby. Some he does get right though, the most important. “Only you can cool my desire,” Isak sings in English, his voice gruff but smooth, and Even is weak at the knees. “Oh, I’m on fire.”
Even joins in for the howling, and if there is such thing as having a kink for being sung Bruce Springsteen songs post-orgasm, he has it. Isak howls with him, softly as to not wake anyone up, and it’s ridiculous but they’re adorable.
“Did you ever watch Balto?” Isak asks a few minutes later, out of the blue, and laughter bubbles up before he can stop himself.
“Isak, be honest with me, have you ever watched anything other than cartoons?”
The hand tracing dicks on Even’s chest slaps at him lightly. “Shut up. He was a great dog.”
“Yeah, he was.”
“Even?”
“Hm?”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
/
Return to Oslo. Even talks to Mikael
/
Now that he’s out of university, Even is finally realising just how much he took free access to film equipment for granted. It was easy to be excited about directing when he had every tool at his fingertips, but it’s a little more complicated when his entire crew consists of him and his DSLR. He knows people make films on a budget all the time, and with a story like his he really needs no more than two actors and good lighting, but he doesn’t even have those. Mikael chaining himself to this sinking ship is a solid addition, but he’s fresh out of film school too. Between the two of them, they’re little more than amateur.
He’s lost in thought, tapping his pen so furiously against the counter that he’s not expecting it when the plastic cracks, ink flooding his parents’ marble island top. Thankfully, it doesn’t stick, but the stains on his fingers look like he’s been stabbed.
“Shit,” he mutters, jumping back to avoid it reaching his clothes.
His mother, with the hearing of a bat and the nose of a bloodhound, immediately peeks out from where she’s vacuuming down the corridor. In his absence, she’d had to make do with replacement children, and now has a growing army of obnoxious hanging plants littered all across their home. They have names, and Even just about brains himself on the one outside his shower most mornings.
“Ev? What did you do?” She calls out. Despite the edge of suspicion, she still sounds delighted that he’s home in the first place. (He really should stay here more often.)
“Nothing, mum,” he calls back, digging around for the paper towels beneath the sink. It’s a messy job and they don’t absorb much, meaning most of the ink ends up on his hands and the cuffs of his shirt. It doesn’t help that he has Kermit dancing at his feet, trying desperately to be of any assistance. Even doesn’t want to pull him back and dirty his fur – then his mum will really lose it, Kermit being the favourite child – but he might have to if he doesn’t bloody move.
He’s just about to, navy fingers reaching for golden scruff, when the doorbell rings. They both still, turning towards the sound, before Kermit shoots off in its direction, barking loudly. He’s not aggressive, just excited, but Even takes a moment to rub a tired hand over his eyes at the change of pace.
Rationally, he knows his parents aren’t upset by how much time he spends over at Isak’s. They’re used to it by now, Even being 23 and having lived in another country for the past three years, and plus, they love Isak. It just makes him feel like a bad son, sometimes, when he’s come home for a quick meal and a change of clothes before he’s leaving again, back to broken air conditioning and sheets that smell like citrus and spice.
(It’s just so noisy here, even just the three of them. His mum needs the television set onto whatever mindless quiz show for her evening relaxation, his dad plays old Swedish music whenever he’s cooking and Kermit’s tail is so fluffy that it’s constant thump against the floorboards echoes like a drum machine. By comparison, Noora’s sad girl folk music and Isak’s quiet breathing whisper like a monastery.)
Between the barking and the vacuum, it’s tempting to pretend he can’t hear the door. Yet he’s not getting anywhere with this film, so he tosses the towels in the bin and makes his way to the door. Kermit’s stopped barking now, nose glued to the cracks of the door as his tail brushes at Even’s knees. He darts out once the door opens, joining another dog, a copper border collie he’s only ever seen in photographs. Lykke’s remarkably dainty next to Jonas’s ripped jeans and shapeless skater garb, but he supposes that’s Eva’s influence.
“Hey, man,” Jonas greets him, bending down to scratch at Kermit’s fur. Kemit laps it up, torn between the excitement of Jonas’s petting and the presence of another dog. He looks back at Even as if he can barely believe his luck. “Cool dog.”
“Thanks,” Even says, extending a palm out to Lykke. The ink has bled navy into his skin, almost alien, and she gives it an unimpressed sniff before turning away. “This must be Lykke?”
“That’s my girl. And this is Kermit, right? Like the frog?”
“Like the frog,” Even confirms. Jonas finally looks up, eyes widening as they land on his face.
“You okay, bro? You’ve got an Apocalypto thing going on,” Jonas grins. “That or you’ve been fighting biros.”
Even sighs. Nice movie reference, though. “More of the latter, I’m afraid,” he steps back. “Come in, I’ll just go wash this off.”
Jonas follows him in, dogs behind. He looks around curiously as Even rinses out the ink, toeing off his shoes and humming at the lilies growing above the mirror. It takes several attempts before the blue washes out, and Jonas is helpful, handing over a towel and pointing out places Even’s missed.
(His mum even drops in at once stage, rousing another round of raucous barking as Even makes introductions.
“This is Jonas, Isak’s best friend,” Even explains, lathering up another dollop of soap. This one is slightly more effective, the ink less bruise-like.
“Are all of Isak’s friends this handsome?” Liv asks. Jonas blushes and Even flicks water in her direction.
“Mum!” He groans when she walks off, her cackle loud down the hall.)
Ink is a bitch to get out and, eventually, he admits defeat. It’s not nearly as bad as before, but due to his head-in-hands Ben Affleck moment earlier, Isak will undoubtedly freak out that he’s got a black eye. Or technically, a handprint over both eyes.
“Any better?” He asks, resigned.
Jonas tilts his head. “Honestly?”
“No.”
“Then you look great. Come on, let’s go.”
He doesn’t actually know where they’re going, or what Jonas is even doing here, but he follows along dutifully. He likes him just fine, possibly has more in common with him than he does with Isak, but the friendship isn’t as easy as it with Eskild, or even Magnus. It’s probably because Jonas and Isak are more than just best friends; they call each other brothers, and he’s pretty sure he once heard Eva refer to Isak as her boyfriend’s boyfriend. It doesn’t make him jealous or anything (if he knows anything, it’s that he and Isak are good together) but it is a quiet pressure. He wonders if this is the very belated “hurt him and you’re dead” talk, but somehow, that doesn’t strike him as Jonas’s style.
They make small talk down the road, jogging over tram lines until they reach a long park where they can let the dogs off-leash. They run ahead, the boys falling into step as Even asks half-interested questions about skateboarding. Finally, they arrive at a bench looking out onto tall trees, buildings lost behind them. Jonas sits down, and Even follows suit.
/
Even beginning to take his script seriously
/
September is in the air.
It’s still warm, considerably so, but the nights are undeniably chillier. The sun sets earlier and soon the trees will yellow, losing their summer coats as the days grow colder and greyer. There’s still some time before Isak has to return to class, precious last days of August that are flying by with daunting speed.
Sunday afternoon finds them together at the kollektiv, Even having successfully untangled himself from Isak’s death grip after almost twenty minutes of (not really) trying. Usually he’s the bigger cuddler, will latch onto Isak like an anchor, face nestled into the crook of his neck as he winds their legs together. He loves the feel of their thighs pressed close; how Isak is so soft and so warm where Even is all sharp edges and angles. Isak will run a hand through his hair and he’ll melt into it, into the warmth of the embrace and shuddering heartbeats, loud like bells.
It’s past midday and Even’s stomach has been grumbling for hours. As usual, there’s nothing on Isak’s shelf except butter and energy drinks, and the butter’s covered in crumbs so barely worth considering. It means a quick trip to the grocery store a few blocks away will be necessary, something Even can’t really be bothered doing but will because despite the fact that Isak is studying to become a medical professional, it’s a miracle he’s survived to the ripe age of 21 without developing scurvy.
He considers inviting him, but a cursory peek into his bedroom reveals an Isak fast asleep beneath the lumpy duvet, a glorious mop of gold just surfacing from in between washed-out pillows.