Work Text:
There’s a fresh coat of paint on his bedroom wall (Desert Haze), Even can still smell it. He lies on his bed and stares, trying to see the difference, maybe see the shadows of what he’d done. After ripping his pictures and cuttings and print-offs down; after trying to explain it to Isak with words wasn’t working; after he couldn’t find a piece of paper big enough - the wall had become his canvas.
“Look,” he’d said, and there were large squares like freeze frames and there were scribbles like stage cues and it was their movie. Not The Boy Who Couldn’t Breathe Underwater , because Isak had proved that wasn’t true and Even was only interested in the truth, here. He wanted true, true, true , with Isak, he wanted to be wholly himself, no lies and no restraints and no pretend. “Just, look, see? There’s a spinning wheel, here, and it tracks through the spokes, like this, and in the background you can hear your voice saying, minute for minute while the wheel ticks, and ticks ,like seconds, you know?”
He’d gone over it, and over, scribbled parts out and stuck up paper to add on. He’d gone over it, like biting at a nail, or picking at a scab. Over and over until day became night became day again.
“I like these,” Isak had said, later, harmlessly, trying to smooth out the crumpled drawings. But Even had been too raw to hear it, had snapped at him,
“You like me, too, and I’m broken,”
and Isak hadn’t said anything else.
Good , Even had thought, shut up, everyone just needs to shut up .
Even goes on looking at the wall. It’s not etched there, any more, his story, their story, but he figures it’s etched on his skin and into his brain and through his heart. He figures he carries it with him everywhere anyway.
He’ll keep that, at least, whether he gets to keep Isak or not.
*
Isak wants to know how it happened. He doesn’t say, I can’t believe you noticed me , or, I can't believe you thought I was noticable , but it’s there. In the way he stutters, and the way he scoffs, and the way he becomes that boy he was before, or the boy he thought he should be. In the way he holds back his questions about Even, after he’s just started questioning the whole world.
“Well, what do you want to know?” Even asks, Isak sprawled between his legs, Isak’s back pressed to his chest, Isak’s head leant on his shoulder. If I could just pull myself in two , he thought, if I could just put you inside .
He doesn’t think that’s the stuff Isak’s ready to hear.
“I don’t know. I mean, where did you see me?”
“In the canteen,” Even tells him, pushing Isak’s hair back, pressing his mouth to Isak’s temple. “I think you were sitting with Jonas. I don’t remember.”
“Romantic.”
“No. I don’t remember who you were with. I remember you.”
“Sure. What was I wearing?”
“The red snapback, and a black coat, with a green jacket thing underneath,” Even tells him without thinking, shooting Isak a look when he turns his body around enough that he can see. He looks winded.
“Serious?”
“Nei!” Even teases, and he’s laughing, and he’s trying to keep Isak at arm’s length where his hands are trying to dig into his skin. “How the hell am I supposed to remember what you were wearing! I’m not that pathetic.”
“Uh, you joined kosegruppa just to meet me,” Isak says, giving up the fight. “I beg to differ.”
“You joined kosegruppa because you were really bad at hiding your drugs.”
“Mahdi’s drugs. I only had them because he was too scared.”
“Oh, well, then, you should get a medal. You had to endure kosegruppa for being a hero ? It’s an injustice.”
Isak’s exasperation turns into fondness and it grips at Even’s throat. Not too much, not aching, but just enough that he feels he will submit to it. Like he has all this time. “Maybe you were my reward.”
Isak gets to his knees and gets in close and Even can smell him, smell them , pulling Isak in with a hand either side of his face.
“Now that’s a lesson we should tell young people,” he says softly, his nose pressed to the bow of Isak’s top lip. “Break the law and find true love.”
Isak’s huff of laughter is like a hook, and Even goes, and goes, he’s caught.
*
Even’s done some work here and there. He’d run errands for the dad of one of his old school friends. He’d worked retail at a small media store until all they were selling were vinyl records and ironic t-shirts and his job became obsolete. He’d done dishwashing, and cleaning, and this one weird job that involved playing music to a neighbour's plants while they were out of town.
(Run-D.M.C hadn’t been on their approved music list, but he swears those plants grew over night after a little It’s Tricky .)
Sure, Even has trouble keeping jobs. But mostly he has trouble keeping interest.
“Let’s just quit school now,” he’d always tell Mikael, gripping at his shoulders or jumping on his back, or squeezing his arms around his neck for him to listen. “What do we need it for, anyway? Mathematics ?”
“Or Media Studies,” Mikael would always argue, pushing him off. “Don’t you want to make movies?”
“Tarantino never went to film school! Neither did Sergio Leone, or, or Alfred Fucking Hitchcock! We don’t need school.”
“Tell that to your parents.”
“You think I haven’t?”
“I think you’re crazy,” Mikael would say, and Even would feel it like a knife to his gut but he’d laugh it off anyway. He’d tell him,
“I’m crazy about you,” and Mikael would start singing Madonna and it would be easy to pretend he hadn’t said it, and pretend he didn’t mean it, and pretend he didn’t see the mania seeping in.
He would, eventually, and he’d be okay about it, but it wasn’t the same after that.
Nothing ever stayed the same.
*
Even’s never had a network, like Isak. He’d always just had a few friends, and Sonja, and they were good people, and fiercely loyal, but not a community. Eskild likes to fuss, and Jonas likes to defend, and Magnus likes to swoop in when things are getting heavy just so he can lighten the mood. They’re like a whole constellation, each star connected to the other.
“Isak told me you know a lot about Islam,” Sana says at a pre-game one night,sitting by Even on the sofa and watching him draw. He’s not going out with them, curled up in his trackpants and Isak’s hoodie and feeling restless, feeling tired. He ignores the are you okay? looks Isak keeps throwing.
“Yes,” Even says with a small smile, “Well, no, I learnt a lot about Islam. I’m still learning. I’m not sure that’s the same as knowing .”
“I think it’s definitely a start,” Sana tells him with a nod. She has glittery eye shadow, and soft pink lip gloss and Even commits it to memory, for now, wonders if it would be okay to sketch her later. She might like it as a gift.
“Right, like how Isak told me you learnt a lot about homosexuality?”
“He likes to talk, doesn’t he?”
Even laughs. “Apparently. Something he only just discovered.”
“Oh no, I think he used to talk a lot. Just not so much about the things that mattered.”
“I think you’re right.”
“You know, you can talk to me, about Islam. Or Isak. Or … anything,” she adds, and the gentle look she gives him says he knows what she means. He likes that about Sana. She never gives much away, but when she does it always counts. It’s always felt. “That would be okay.”
“Thank you,” he says, and when he looks over at Isak he’s watching again. I’m fine , he mouths, with a smile, looking back to Sana. “I’d like that.”
*
The whole thing was ugly from the start, Even understands that. Not ugly for them , not on the inside, not with the endless conversation and the bubbling laughter and that crackling heat, burning anticipation. But it was ugly. Ugly how they treated Sonja, and Emma, ugly how Isak was outed, ugly how Even chose to cover up and pull away and try to hide from the one person who made him feel so exposed.
It was ugly, and there will always be days where it’s ugly, and Even hates knowing that.
He hates to tarnish someone so goddamn beautiful.
“Stop it, Isak,” Even shouts, brandishing a sudsy spoon from where he’d been washing it in the sink. It’s almost comical, he supposes, but he doesn’t feel like laughing. He feels like screaming. “You’re doing it again.”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“Yes, you are. You told me to tell you if you were doing something to bother me and I’m telling you right now I - ”
“I just said - ”
“Well don’t!” Even shouts, and this time the volume tips too high. It echoes around them like an unheard cry for help.
“The other week you spent a whole day rearranging every closet in my house in order of type, colour and size, Even,” Isak says, letting some of the anger dull. “I just want to understand.”
“You’re not meant to! You think I understand me all the time? I don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Fuck sorry. Don’t say sorry.”
Even gives up on the dishes, throwing the spoon back into the water. He dries his hands and takes a breath and tries to be as objective as he can when Isak’s looking at him like that. He wants to save Even, or he wants to be saved, or something else that they’re well beyond now, something else impossible.
“Sometimes I just want to drink, and smoke, and fuck, and forget, and I know it’s not good for my head all the time, but shit, Isak, nothing is .”
Except maybe you , he thinks, but that’s not fair. That’s so unfair.
“Okay.”
“I know you said - I know you want to do this day by day, but you know what that means don’t you?” Isak just looks at him. “It means that you’re allowed to walk away.”
“Even .”
“You are. You didn’t promise me forever. You can’t. So if you have to - ”
“Fuck you, nei ,” Isak says fiercely, getting close enough that Even can see the tears start threatening to fall. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Yes, I do. I’m not telling you to leave. I’m telling you I love you and I won’t stop loving you if you leave. That’s just how it is.”
Isak tumbles through the last few steps to duck his head into Even’s throat. “I want this,” he says so quietly, Even’s hand coming to curl through his hair instinctively. “You must know I want this.”
“Of course I do.”
“I’m never going to get it right.”
“Hey.” Even pulls his head back to look him in the eye. “There is no right . It’s not a test. You can’t fail.”
“Some days it feels like I am,” Isak admits, and it’s sad, and it’s shit, but it’s the truth.
They’ll always, always be true.
“Yeah. Me too.”
*
Even’s read a lot about sex, and sexuality. He’s read a lot about gender and identity and fluidity and spectrums and how it’s okay to still be questioning, to always be questioning; yourself and others and everything. He’s not really sure where he fits. He’s not sure that it matters, right now.
Isak knows. Which doesn’t surprise Even. I’m gay , he said one day, as if it was the first time he was saying it out loud. As if he was testing it out. I’m gay.
Isak knows, but he still has trouble with everyone else knowing. He has trouble kissing Even in public sometimes, or holding his hand, or letting Even’s arm rest over his shoulder. He still has trouble with affection that isn’t just for them; not because he’s embarrassed, or ashamed, not because he’s gay .
But because he stopped questioning it. So now everyone else is.
“We should,” Isak’s saying between kisses, pressed up against a wall in the hallway, the distant sounds of their friends in the next room. “Bedroom.”
“Are you sure?” Even teases, voice rough and broken, mouth catching at the shell of Isak’s ear. “We could do it right here? I could get your legs around me. It’d be an amazing show.”
“Fuck you,” Isak snaps, but he’s flushed and he’s glassy eyed and he’d probably me more malleable to the idea if there wasn’t anyone else around. Even will have to save that thought for later.
Isak hits the mattress with a soft oof , his shirt already gone, his jeans already half way down his thighs. He’s beautiful; all long lines of pale skin and dotting moles and want . His mouth’s open, a hint of tongue and he breathes and he breathes and he breathes.
Even presses their mouths together so he can breathe Isak, too.
“Even, please,” Isak begs as Even tries to get them ready, “ Please ,” he says again, and curses, and curses.
“I gotta do all the work,” Even jokes, but he’s pulling Isak to him, hot and fumbling and so needy and always forgetting how many times they’ve already done this, always feeling like an amatuer when Isak’s naked in his arms. He pushes and thrusts and breaks open; Isak’s hair in his hands and Isak’s flesh in his mouth, and that feeling he’s always chasing. The closing scene, the curtain call, the coming home.
Even doesn’t know where he fits, out there. Out the door and beyond the apartment and into the crowds of other people who are also still unsure.
But he knows where he fits in this room, and on this bed, and with this boy.
He knows where he fits in this minute.
*
Sometimes it’s so dark Even doesn’t need to close his eyes. But he does, like a shield, like closing his eyes will shut everything out. Like he’ll be able to hit the Restart Button and forget what he did yesterday. Forget who he humiliated, or hurt, forget how much closer he is to losing everything.
“Sleep,” his mum would tell him, because she knew.
Sleep was good for him, sleep was coping, sleep was being outside of his body so that he couldn’t get to it.
“Sleep,” she’d whisper again, and brush hair from his face, and watch over him until he was safe from his thoughts.
“Sleep.”
*
Even wakes up on his birthday to find a YouTube link in his inbox. It’s from Eva’s e-mail, so he trusts it, so he clicks on it still bleary eyed and confused.
“Hi,” Isak’s saying into the camera, and Even smiles, sitting up, bringing his phone as close as he possibly can to see. “I heard it was your birthday. And I didn’t know what to get you. So I thought, and I thought, and I thought, and I decided. I’d make you that film.”
Even watches as their story unfolds before his eyes. But it’s not him and Isak - it’s Eskild and Noora and Linn. It’s Jonas and Mahdi and Magnus. It’s Eva and Sana and Vilde.
It’s all their friends, telling it. Immortalising it.
“You’re not alone,” Isak says at the very end, and he’s sitting on their bench, and he pans across to where all their friends are also pressed together there too. Even wipes a tear from his face.
“I love you.”