Chapter Text
Sometimes, when his mind refuses to delve into the realm of sleep, Isak wonders if things such as parallel universes exist.
Like a universe where his mamma was never hospitalised, or a universe where his father left the two of them behind to fend for themselves. Maybe even one where his parents are happy and healthy and loving, like Jonas’s parents.
Isak feels a pang of guilt gnawing away at his heart. He’s been avoiding Jonas lately. And Magnus. And Mahdi. He can’t help it, whenever he sees them, chatting and laughing in the cafeteria, he just feels this strange sensation of self-loathing, sticky and thick, coating his skin and suffocating his lungs. A voice in his head (with a drunken slur that sounds all too familiar, but Isak refuses to acknowledge who it belongs to) whispering, they hate you, they hate you, no one actually likes you, no one actually wants to be around you. And if Isak allows any of his friends to get close, he worries that he might just burden them with that feeling too.
So he wears a false persona, and laughs a little louder than usual, speaks a little less than usual, lies about his whereabouts a little more than usual. And no one suspects a thing.
Okay, so maybe Jonas has his doubts. He would squint his eyes at Isak, feeling like the latter is hiding something from him, his hard look boring a hole into the side of Isak’s face. Isak amusedly thinks that Jonas is attempting to stare a confession out of him. Which would totally work, by the way, if he didn’t already know (from experience) that Jonas’s furrowed, knotted eyebrows have this annoying ability of “shaming” the truth out of Isak.
(He still remembers accidentally breaking off one of the wheels on Jonas’s skateboard during their last year of primary school and trying to blame this one kid Julian for it, but a single merciless eyebrow raise from Jonas had Isak on his knees, clutching Jonas’s hands tightly and crying for forgiveness. Jonas had laughed it off, saying that Isak’s reaction was absolutely priceless and that he actually wasn’t mad about it at all, so Isak had basically embarrassed himself for nothing. For a while, Isak entertained the idea of shaving those evil, secret-nabbing caterpillars off of his face. But of course, Jonas managed to “shame” that thought out of Isak too.)
But mainly, when Isak’s unable to sleep, he thinks about the mysterious boy from the balcony.
As he thinks of their last meeting, a fond smile creeps its way across his face.
“If you ever feel like talking to someone, just use the almighty sword of Bech Næsheim to tap on my door and I’ll come right out, okay?”
“Even if it’s at three in the morning?”
“Especially if it’s at three in the morning.”
Tracing the foil with a cautious finger, Isak decides that perhaps it’s time he stopped wondering about parallel universes or what-could-have-been’s. It’s time he actually did something for once.
Yet he still hesitates (for a good twenty minutes, he thinks), arm stretched out and aluminium sword in his grip, his other hand grasping weakly at the handrail. The tip of the sword is probably a good three millimetres away from Even’s door, and if Isak gets on his tiptoes, he thinks that he’d be able to reach it easily, but he just can’t seem to do it.
What if Even was just being polite? And he didn’t actually want Isak to bother him, but he couldn’t bear to hurt his feelings?
Retracting the sword, Isak slumps against his wall, suddenly feeling pretty lousy and gross inside. Why did he even bother? Why did he ever think that anyone was actually willing to spend their time with him?
Tap tap tap tap.
Startled, Isak stares intensely at the foil in his hands, completely dumbfounded. If he’s holding the sword, then where did that tapping come from–
The door before him opens suddenly, Even’s million-dollar-smile immediately in his line of sight and oh god, Isak nearly squeaks in surprise, if not for the hand he slaps unceremoniously over his mouth to stifle whatever embarrassing noise he would’ve made.
Good thing he did, because holy shit, Even is shirtless (shirtless!) and if he wasn’t holding onto his lips so fucking tightly, he thinks his jaw would be hanging wide open, maybe even touching the coarse gravel on the highway below.
“God morgen!” he brightly exclaims, as if he didn’t just send Isak into a thirst-induced heart attack, “Sorry, I just thought you needed some help summoning me? Anyway, what’s up?”
Isak blinks, processing Even’s words properly.
“Wait, so you saw me? As in, you saw me stupidly stand here for twenty minutes worrying about whether you’d hate me if I woke you up? Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing, I’m so sorry, I’m gonna- I’m gonna go die in a hole right now, bye,” Isak rambles frantically as he darts his eyes towards the ground, or anywhere, really, anywhere except for the broad expanse of deliciously smooth skin in front of him. Okay, maybe he does sneak a peek or two. But the moment the positively sinful thought of playing connect-the-freckles-on-Even’s-chest with his tongue pops into his head, Isak instantly turns away, equally disturbed and intrigued.
“It wasn’t embarrassing, it was adorable,” Even argues, reaching over to brush his fingers against Isak’s shoulder, beckoning him to turn back. But how could he, knowing that his neck, ears and face are all probably the same horrifying shade of ugly, rotten tomato?
“You know I’ll never hate you, right? I don’t think I ever could hate you. Plus, I’m… I’m usually awake at this time, too. So you wouldn’t be bothering me in the slightest, really.”
Curiosity piqued, Isak slowly turns around.
“Why are you usually awake at this time?” he asks, and Even smiles ruefully in response.
“I never sleep, ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death.”
At Isak’s blank expression, Even raises an eyebrow questioningly.
“You haven’t heard of Nas? Gosh, I forget how young you actually are.”
Indignant, Isak puffs his chest, determined to impress the older boy.
“What! Of- Of course I’ve heard of Nas! And I’m not that young, I’m thirteen!”
“Sure, sure. And I’m fifteen, so yeah, you are still pretty young.”
“No, really! I love all of their poems.”
Even snickers to himself, resting his chin against his palm as his lips curl into a lazy smirk, “Oh really now?”
“Yeah, really! I’m like, the master of poetry. I would know.”
Isak feels like he’s making a complete fool of himself, but with the way Even’s looking at him, he doesn’t really feel like stopping anytime soon.
“But for real, though,” Even speaks, after silence envelopes the two of them, “My sleep cycle’s fucked. Some days I sleep ‘till eight in the evening, some days I don’t sleep at all.”
Isak hums in sympathy, his eyes softly shining. Granted, his own sleep cycle is nowhere near as bad as Even’s, but he knows the feeling. An overwhelming wave of helplessness that simply engulfs you whole, prying your eyelids open and leaving you to uncomfortably fidget amongst your too-warm sheets until sunrise. He’s had his fair share of sleepless nights.
“I think it’s because I’m bipolar. My mum says bipolar people tend to have more delicate body clocks, so,” Even mumbles, suddenly looking far too fragile and far too small, probably feeling vulnerable and bracing himself for the backlash. And Isak simply won’t have that.
“Hey. I think it’s really cool that you trust me enough to tell me that,” he firmly states, and he can’t help but break into a smile when he sees a flash of hope glimmering in Even’s wide, wide eyes, “And it doesn’t change a thing. You’re still the man of my dreams, no matter what.”
Um. Okay. Did he just say that? Did he just-
“I’m the man of your dreams, huh?” Even’s grinning so widely, Isak can hardly see his eyes, but in the faint moonlight, he notices a tell-tale shimmering amongst his eyelashes. He’s too mesmerised to even deny his embarrassing confession.
He does, however, manage a strangled yelp when he feels Even’s warm fingers caressing his hand.
“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss,” Even whispers, before pressing a gentle, chaste kiss against Isak’s bony knuckles, earning an inaudible gasp from the younger.
Isak tightens his hold on Even’s hand, despite refusing to look him in the eyes. He knows he’d instantaneously melt into a puddle if he does, he just knows it.
“This- This is… embarrassing,” he stutters, feeling warmth radiating from his burning cheeks. Mustering his courage, he glances at Even, only to discover that the older boy’s face wasn’t any less red.
“Yeah,” Even nervously chuckles, “Yeah, I guess it is.”