Chapter Text
It was inevitable: Battlestar Galactica always reminded him of unrequited love.
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ISAK
“In case you’re wondering, Gaius Baltar is still a little bitch.”
I regret sending the text almost immediately. I’m just a little drunk is all, and a little stoned, and my judgement is not what it should be.
Not that the buzz is solely to blame. My decision making, in general, has been kind of off lately. I see it in the reckless way I’ve been posting Instagram story after Instagram story, spurred on by any inane idea that pops into my head. And in the way I’ve been spamming all of the group chats I’m part of, and in the long, stream-of-consciousness texts I’ve been sending to Jonas. I have become a tiny, lonely man, screaming into the void, desperately hoping someone will answer me. The usual veneer of cool composure I hide myself behind has crumbled.
The drinking, in and of itself, was not my wisest decision. It’s a Wednesday night, and even though I don’t need to physically show up to my job tomorrow, I do need to check in. To at least put in a bare minimum of effort and broadcast some semblance of productivity over Slack. I’m not blackout, but I know I’m in for a rough morning.
It was somewhere around the fourth beer that I decided rewatching Battlestar Galactica would be a good idea. It clearly was not, given the regrettable text I’ve just sent.
It’s just that the weather’s officially turned. We’ve had our first real, hot days of summer this week. The air is soft and sultry and heavy with possibility. Since I was a kid, I’ve always been moved by this time of year, when you can finally slip outside without the burden of a coat or hat or the danger of frostbite. You could stay out all night in just your t-shirt. Anything could happen.
Except this year, we’re all bloody stuck inside. There are no late night parties by the water, no hot, nameless strangers I can stick my tongue into, no friends turning up with unexpected joints to share.
I just wanted to get lost in something. That’s why I love sci-fi. The best of it transports you to another place and time, to a world where the normal rules don’t apply and anything can happen. It’s a bit like summer, really.
The problem with this stage of the quarantine is that I’ve long since mined all of the good content available to me. In the absence of something new, I’ve been thinking about revisiting the old. And so, inevitably, I’ve arrived back at Battlestar Galactica.
It’s one of the best, really. One of the shows I was most riveted by, completely lost in the possibilities of. The only problem is the way I feel about the show is inextricably linked to the feelings I have about Even.
We watched it together, during that year I was almost completely consumed by him. I don’t even know where my feelings about the show as its own piece of art end and that deep longing I felt for him begins.
We used to hang out a lot. We’d lie in each other’s beds, watch movies and TV shows, and enjoy a comfortable companionship I’ve rarely felt with anyone else. We’d let the movie play, then hit pause, slip outside for a joint and look up at the stars, and get lost in conversations about outer space or art or music.
I’m embarrassed to think about the careful showers I always used to take before meeting up with him. Of my desire to be clean and ready, just in case. It almost never worked out the way I wanted it to, but just being around him at all was almost enough.
I wasn’t completely delusional. It did happen sometimes. But never the way I wanted it to. Never sober. Never on those movie nights, when we’d lie close enough together that I could feel the body heat coming off of him and almost taste him in my mouth.
But if we were both drunk enough, if the party had been good and I’d found myself in his orbit at the right time of night, he’d take me home. And those nights would make it all feel like it was almost worth it. I’d get lost in him, in the way we came together, and I swear he would too. He’d let me fall asleep in his bed, and he’d spend the night holding me, and then we’d wake up the next morning and act as if nothing had changed. We’d still just be friends, and then he’d invite me over a few days later and my desperate hope would be reawakened all over again.
He ended it all with a text, right before Christmas. I don’t remember what he wrote exactly. Something to the effect of “I don’t think we should do this anymore. You’re too good of a friend and I don’t want to screw that up.”
Funny thing, really, because we stopped being friends after he sent that text as well.
I don’t remember what I replied. I know I cried all day before I finally managed to write something back. He’d asked if I wanted to meet up to talk about it, but I declined. I didn’t want to meet up with him. I had no interest in subjecting myself to the embarrassment of hearing the reasons why he didn’t want me.
I stopped asking him to hang out after that. I realized I’d been the one doing that most of the time, between the two of us, and I just didn’t want to anymore. And he didn’t reach out to me. So we just stopped.
I met Karl a few months after. I’m ashamed to say that I felt like I’d won, the first time I brought Karl to a party and Even was there, alone. Jonas told me Even looked rattled that night, seeing me with someone else on my arm. I’m not sure if that’s true. I was doing my best to ignore him.
And then Even left. He moved to London for the summer and stayed for a semester abroad. And when he came back, he had Anna, and I still had Karl, and that was that.
Only it wasn’t. Not really. Because six years later, I still can’t forget about him. Four years with Karl, sweet, simple, fit Karl, who for a time loved me enough to make me love myself, and it’s Even’s memory that still burns brightest in my mind.
I still see him sometimes. We’re still friends, in a way. We see each other at parties and catch up on how our lives are going. I let myself hug him, even, and indulge for the briefest moment in the sweet tenderness for him I’ve never quite been able to shake. But we don’t keep up beyond that. We don’t meet up for beers or go to movies or hang out one on one. And we certainly don’t text.
Except for tonight, apparently.
It only took a few minutes of the first episode to get me thinking about him. Just a few minutes of watching smarmy, self-interested Gaius Baltar grapple with Head Six haunting him, and I was itching to pick up the phone. We spent a lot of time ripping on Gaius together, when we first watched the show.
I’ve been making the old jokes again to myself tonight as I watch. Or maybe I’ve been making them to my very own Head Even. I don’t know. I’m pretty drunk.
So I ended up texting him. And I’m feeling pretty stupid about the whole thing. I don’t normally let myself indulge in these feelings. I should have let go of them years ago. Score one point for booze, I guess.
“In case you’re wondering, Gaius Baltar is still a little bitch.”
I can almost imagine Even’s reply. He’d try and keep a straight face and tell me that I shouldn’t call him that. That ’little bitch’ is sexist, and patriarchal, and probably a little bit homophobic. But he’d secretly agree, because Gaius is the worst.
I’m not expecting him to reply. It’s almost 11, and we don’t text. The last messages I have from him are from almost a year ago, organizing rides up to Adam’s parents’ cabin for the weekend. Funny to think that there was a time when Even was the person I texted most.
I’m surprised to hear my phone buzzing, not a few moments after hitting send.
“Isak, are you watching Battlestar Galactica without me?”
I can’t help the giddy laugh that escapes me when I read it. It’s an old joke. We made a pact that we’d watch every episode together, and we used to tease each other about having cheated. Not that either of us ever did.
“I would never,” I reply, like a fool. (I am a fool.) “I believe that is a punishable offence.”
“You owe me a six-pack.” His reply comes, almost immediately. “And don’t call him a little bitch. It’s sexist.”
I’m not sure what’s happening right now. Even just double texted me. I feel like I’m twenty again, desperate and elated all at once.
“No way I owe you a six-pack. There’s def a statute of limitations on that shit.”
“What episode are you on?”
“Just midway through the second, actually.”
“I see you couldn’t live with the guilt of betraying me for long.”
I don’t know what to reply to that. Because there are a lot of reasons why I texted Even tonight, but that’s definitely not one of them. I hesitate. I don’t want the conversation to die, but I’m at a loss as to how to keep it going.
Even does it for me, though. And I feel shivers down my spine when I read what he’s said.
“If you’re up for restarting that episode, we could maybe watch it together?”