Archive of Our Own

When Isak gets home from his homework session with Sana—“I know your blood hasn’t left your dick since you started dating Even, but I’m going to need some to flow back to your brain long enough to complete the assignment that’s due Friday,” she had said, because she’s the worst—all he can think is: Beer. I need beer. I need ten beers, like, yesterday. All will be well, if I can just get my hands on that sweet, sweet alcohol—

“Ooh, Even, I’m so jealous of your skin today.”

Eskild’s voice, coming from the kitchen. And unless Eskild’s suffering from a very specific delusion, Even is there with him.

Which means Eskild is talking to Even unsupervised. Eskild, who knows about the time that Isak was so drunk he puked on a slice of pizza and then tried to eat it anyway (he was hungry, okay?). Eskild, who once caught Isak singing along—loudly, and off-key—to “Call Me Maybe.”

Isak immediately drops his backpack and power-walks down the hall to the kitchen at record speed.

But when he gets to the doorway, he stops short. Because—what?

Eskild is perched on the counter, talking a mile a minute about the importance of a vigorous exfoliation and moisturizing regime, and how sad is Isak’s life that he thinks he’s heard this rant before? Even is nodding idly and humming affirmatively every time Eskild stops talking to take a breath.

He’s also sitting in a chair. Tilting his face up. So that Noora can—is she putting makeup on him?

“Close your eyes,” she says to Even, and he complies without question, looking perfectly peaceful and happy with what’s going down as Noora proceeds to sweep what looks like a fine-tipped marker along Even’s eyelids.

“Nooooora,” Eskild says with a low whistle, hopping off the counter to peer at her work. “Cat eye game is strong.”

Noora smiles, using her free hand to guide Even’s face so she can get at his other eye. “I have many years of practice,” she says.

“That’s our girl,” Eskild says. “Fighting the patriarchy, one fierce cat eye at a time.”

Even grins, eyes still closed. “Who knew eyeliner could be so powerful?” he jokes—lamely, in Isak's opinion, but Eskild and Noora giggle because they're endlessly charmed by Even's wiles. They're in deep. Isak can't blame them.

Noora caps her eyeliner pen and starts fanning Even’s eyes and seriously, what the fuck is going on here?

“It is if you make it powerful,” she says. “It’s so annoying when guys tell me that I can’t be a feminist and wear makeup. It’s like, no, I’m a feminist because I wear it for me, not for you.”

“Amen, sister,” Eskild says, tossing his head back like he even has hair to toss, as Noora pulls some sort of fluffy brush from her bag and starts applying peachy blush to Even’s cheeks—Isak may be a stupid boy but he knows what blush is, okay? And—wow. It looks kind of…nice? Like how Even’s cheeks normally look, but…more.

And suddenly, all Isak can see is how good Even looks like this, can’t stop noticing the blue of his irises, the thickness of his lashes, the sumptuousness of his mouth. How the black of the liner makes his eyes pop and the shimmer accentuates the high arc of his cheekbones.

“How do you manage to get your lipstick so perfect?” Even asks Noora, breaking Isak out of his appreciative trance. “When I tried, it looked like a five-year-old attacked my mouth with finger-paints.”

Isak’s mind screeches to a grinding halt. Okay, what the fuck? What the hell does he mean, “when I tried”?

Even’s done this before?

And that’s when he realizes that he’s been awkwardly creeping in the doorframe for five whole minutes, and it would look exceedingly suspicious if they caught him now. They already consider him the weird one of the apartment, which is fucking rich, okay, but he hardly needs to add fuel to that fire.

“Hi, guys,” he says warily, stepping into the room with all the confidence of someone sharing space with a hungry tiger.

Even’s eyes light up when they fall on him, and Isak just…melts, for a second. Good God, that face could end global famine, bring peace to the Middle East. Get a grip, fuckface, Isak thinks, trying to shake himself out of it. It may or may not involve actually shaking his head like a wet dog.

“Hey,” Even says, flashing a toothy smile. He looks beautiful, and glowing, and happy. But he’s wearing makeup, for fuck’s sake, and suddenly, all Isak can think about is how fucking weird that is.

I didn’t think he was that kind of gay dude, he thinks, unbidden, before his conversation with Eskild comes back to him in a rush and he mentally slaps himself. First of all, Even is pan, and second of all…

No, he thinks, firmly. No. That’s not me, anymore. I won’t be that guy.

Noora turns and waves in greeting. “Don’t kiss him yet,” she says authoritatively, “you’ll ruin my work.” Even’s smile turns a little apologetic, and God, he looks so serene, and Isak's going to ruin it. He tries to smile back, but it feels weak—he knows it’s not reaching his eyes. He knows he looks as uncomfortable as he feels, and he hates it. 

“I’m gonna go finish my biology stuff,” he says, squirming. “See you in a bit?” he asks Even, who nods and gives him a suggestive raised eyebrow—the “you’re gonna get some later,” look that usually turns Isak to jelly in two seconds flat.

Isak flees.

###

The thing is, he knows he’s come a long way.

Just last weekend, a girl had come on to him at a party while Even was in the bathroom and he had finally mustered up the courage to turn her down with a simple, “I’m gay.” It wasn’t much, he knows, but it had felt momentous at the time, because it hadn’t even been that difficult. He had suddenly realized, with perfect clarity, that he didn’t care if she knew, so saying out loud what he had known in his heart for years wasn’t a big deal. She would know that he liked boys, sure, but the world would keep on spinning.

So why was something as innocuous as seeing Even in makeup making him want to jump out of his own skin?

###

Isak has gotten exactly zero work done when Even finds him in his room an hour later, makeup still in place and hoodie gone, a thin white t-shirt hanging from his bony shoulders. Sana’s going to flay Isak alive tomorrow, he knows, but it had only taken one failed attempt at solving a Punnett square for him to decide that his brain had nothing left to give right now.

“Hey,” Even says, climbing on the bed next to Isak and dropping a feather-light kiss on his cheek. “Whoops,” he says when he pulls back, using his thumb to scrub at the spot his lips had just grazed. “Got some lipstick on you.”

Isak’s gut churns a bit at that, and only then does he notice that Noora has added the tiniest bit of glitter to the outer corners of Even’s eyes, which sparkles in the dim light from Isak’s bedside lamp, and applied something glossy and pink to Even’s mouth.

“I missed you today,” Even says, baring his soul in that casual way of his that makes Isak’s heart go nuts. Isak feels a shy smile grow on his face, and he meets Even’s gaze to find that Even is smiling back, looking for all the world like Isak is the answer to all of life’s problems.

Part of Isak preens under the attention. But another part wants to curl in on itself, because how could someone like that want to give him the time of day? He still can’t believe it, even now.

“I missed you, too,” he says quietly. It’s the truth.

Even bumps their shoulders together. “Aren’t you going to tell me I look pretty?” he asks, laughing.

Isak freezes up for a moment, and then realizes that if he’s going to get through this, he’s going to have to find a way to act relatively normal. He gulps audibly, and says, “I…you do, actually.” He cringes at how weird he sounds, even to his own ears. 

Even’s laughter dies down a bit, and he turns to Isak with a considering expression. “Hmm,” he says, thoughtful. “Do you like it?”

Isak doesn’t have to look in a mirror to know that he’s blushing.

A mischievous smile blooms on Even’s face, and he pokes Isak in the side. “I think you like it. I think you like it a lot.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“You do!” Even crows, and in one swift move, he straddles Isak and settles himself in his lap, arms winding around his neck. “You think I’m gorgeous.”

He’s not wrong, Isak’s brain supplies unhelpfully.

He pushes that aside, instead hooking his hands in Even’s belt loops and looking down so he won’t blush harder under Even’s stare.

“You…I heard you say to Noora in there that you’d done it before?” he says, too loudly, before he can stop himself.

Even brow furrows in confusion for a moment, before realization dawns on his face. “Oh, you mean wear makeup?”

Isak nods.

“Yeah,” Even says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I got into it a little bit a couple of years ago.”

Well, there go any ideas of this being some kind of one-time joke, Isak thinks. 

“Oh,” he says, unsure.

Even shrugs again. “I was, uh…I was manic, at the time, but I had always wanted to see what it was like.” He pauses, chuckling a bit. “I actually took a bunch of makeup from Sonja and some from my mom, and I had no idea what I was doing or what most of it was, but I just went to town on myself.”

He waggles his eyebrows at his own innuendo, and Isak can’t help but snort.

“Wasn’t nearly as good at it as Noora,” Even continues. “I looked more like a clown.”

Isak’s still uncomfortable, but he manages to shoot Even a weak smile and run his palms up and down his thighs affectionately. “I’m sure you looked…nice,” he says, because Even has a way of being unfairly talented at everything he tries. “You’re so good at, you know, drawing and art and stuff.”

Even smiles again, glitter-smeared eyes crinkling at the corners. “I do okay,” he says. “But it’s a whole different skill. What some people can do with makeup is actually really incredible.” He laughs suddenly, shaking his head. “I remember, I actually went to a drag show and went up to one of the performers and asked for tips.”

Isak snorts again. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Even says. “She was so cool, didn’t even bat an eye. Just took me backstage and opened her kit and started telling me about all the stuff inside. I asked her if she could do my eyes like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.”

Isak isn’t quite sure what to say to that, but he’s learned enough about Even by now to understand that what he does during his mania is just an extension of himself, still a part of him, and if Even says he had wanted to try this for a while, then he had. He smiles to himself, perfectly able to imagine Even, free of inhibitions, letting himself be transformed into an Old Hollywood star by a stranger.

A familiar pang of something hits him in the chest. It’s not discomfort, exactly…he just feels a little sad, sometimes. And maybe a little bit jealous, too, because he has no idea what it’s like to feel that free.

Isak shakes it off and clears his throat. “Did she do it?” he asks, because he genuinely wants to know.

Even laughs again. “She did!” he says. “It was amazing. I think I may have a picture somewhere, I’ll show you later.”

Isak finds that he really, really wants to see it, and he’s once again struck by Even’s nonchalance, how few fucks he gives about things that would make Isak have a heart attack. How is Even so sure of himself, able to be so many things at once?

He’s quiet for a moment, and then asks, “What made you want to try it?”

Even sits back a little, thinking. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, after a beat. “I think I was doing a lot of thinking about women, and all the work they do to look good…or like, the way we expect them to look. And I don’t know, I think I became a little obsessed with experiencing it for myself.” 

“You wanted to understand what they go through?” Isak says, confused.

Even nods slowly. “Yeah, something like that. At least, it was at first.”

Isak shoots him a questioning look. 

“Well, it’s not as simple as that, is it?” Even says. “Men aren’t expected to do all that work, spend all that money to look a certain way. But some do, right? Some like to do it, and can find joy in it.” He looks away, which Isak knows he does to gather his thoughts if he’s talking about something he finds particularly important.

“And you also have women like Noora who do it just because it makes them feel strong, or happy,” he continues. “So it’s not just an oppression thing—it can be, but it can also be freedom, in a way. To express yourself, or like, get away from the bullshit way society limits us. Does that make sense?” He looks at Isak. “Oh man, I’m boring the shit out of you.”

Isak shakes his head, not exactly at ease but never for a moment wanting Even to think he’s not listening, or doesn’t care. “No,” he says, looking down. “No, you’re not. It’s really…interesting, actually.”

Even snorts. “You’re a terrible liar.”

"What?" Isak sputters indignantly. “Okay, first of all, I thought we had established that I’m the lying champion,” he says, because it never fails to make Even laugh.

It works. “Okay, okay, forgive me,” Even chuckles, threading a hand through the hair on the nape of Isak’s neck.

“And second of all,” Isak says, “I mean it. I’m glad you told me.” 

Even’s face softens. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

Isak feels his face warm again, and he lets out a shaky exhale. “Yeah,” he says, low. “I like learning new things about you.”

But instead of making Even happy, Isak’s words seem to make him apprehensive, all of a sudden. He swallows, smile dropping from his face and eyes glancing out the window.

“You may not always like the new things you learn about me, you know,” he says, a little sadly.

Isak considers this. For all the discomfort he may feel from time to time, for all the trouble he has expressing his emotions, for all that he worries about appearances and gossip and all that stupid bullshit—he knows that Even stresses about the toll his illness takes on those around him. He hasn’t quite figured out the right way to tell Even that he’s here, he’s in this, for keeps. 

But he’s working on it.

“You could say the same about me,” he says, because given the terrible things he’s done in the past, it’s more true than Even knows. “But I think we can handle it.” He places his hand on top of Even’s and squeezes.

Even looks down at their joined hands and smiles softly. “I think so, too,” he says, lifting his eyes up to meet Isak’s. 

They’re quiet for a few moments, taking some time to exist in the same space, to breathe together.

“So,” Even says, breaking the calm. “You wanna mess up my lipstick some more?”

And, oh yeah, Even’s on top of him. Even is the hottest person on God’s green earth. Even, for some godforsaken reason, wants to make out with him. Isak’s libido comes roaring to life, earlier discomfort forgotten and his blood rushing south so fast he feels dizzy.

“Uh huh,” he says dumbly.

And for the next hour, they’re too busy to talk.

###

He doesn’t think about the whole makeup thing at all after that.

### 

Okay, so he thinks about it a lot.

Not like, in a weird way, but something Even said has lodged itself in his brain and refused to leave—the thing about freedom from limitations, or society imposing its bullshit, or whatever. Isak’s memory isn’t that great, sue him. Even’s the eloquent one, everyone knows that.

But now, every time he’s hanging with Jonas and the boys, he finds himself wondering if he could do it. If he could show his face in front of them, if he was done up like Even was the other day. If he could put glitter on his eyes or gloss on his lips, and feel like it didn’t matter. That everything was okay, even when they stared or Magnus inevitably said something stupid.

If he could be brave, the way that Eskild once told him he wasn’t. 

In the rare moments that he’s one hundred percent honest with himself, the answer is clear. He couldn’t do it.

And it sucks.

###

Isak is embarrassed at how much he had to psych himself up to be where he is now, standing just outside the living room where Eskild and Noora are arguing loudly about Justin Bieber over cheese and crackers. And wine. God, so much wine.

He could always just…walk away. Pretend this never happened. Go do homework, or play Mario Kart. Look back on this five years from now and laugh at how stupid he’d been.

But no. He can do this, okay? He can.

Before he loses his nerve, he slowly, awkwardly edges into the room and clears this throat to make himself known.

Eskild whips his head around like he’s been waiting to give him a tongue-lashing—and okay, it’s possible that Isak left a wet towel on the bathroom floor after his shower earlier today, but is that the worst thing in the world?—but upon seeing how nervous and uncomfortable Isak looks, he seems to stop himself.

“What’s up, babe?” he asks instead, popping a cube of cheese into his mouth.

Isak fidgets. “I, um. I kind of…need your help with something.” 

Eskild shoots him a shit-eating grin. “Need more wisdom from your all-knowing guru?” Noora giggles—a sure sign that she’s consumed at least three glasses of red.

“Um,” Isak says intelligently. “Not exactly. And I actually need, uh, both of you. For this.”

That gets their attention, he can tell. If not his words, then the cagey, deer-in-headlights look he’s wearing right now. 

Noora, perhaps sensing that whatever he’s about to say is difficult for him, smiles encouragingly. “What is it, Isak?” she asks.

He sighs. I guess it’s now or never.

“Can you…” he starts. “Can you…pleasedomymakeupforme?”

Eskild tilts his head like a confused puppy. “What was that, now?”

“Ugh,” Isak groans, frustrated with himself, with them, with this whole stupid idea. “Can you put makeup. On my face. For me.” He sighs. “…please.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“You…” Noora says slowly. “You want us to…do your makeup. On your face.”

He buries his face in his hands. “Ugh, yes,” he says, the words muffled by his fingers. 

More silence.

She finally sits upright and deposits her empty wine glass on the coffee table. “No offense, Isak, but. Can I ask why?”

A fair question. The fucked up thing is, Isak doesn’t really have a great answer for her. He’d been thinking and thinking about his conversation with Even and what Eskild had told him all those months ago, to the point where it was driving him crazy and if he didn’t do something, get some sort of closure, he thought he might die. And he’s about ninety percent sure that Jonas and Mahdi wouldn’t be able to keep Magnus alive without him. Looking out for him is a three-person job.

“Listen,” Isak hedges. “I’m not entirely sure, myself. I just…this is something I need to do, okay? And I have less than no idea what I’m doing, and I just.” He stops, taking in Eskild and Noora’s confused faces. “Ugh. I don’t know. Never mind.” Abort, abort, bad idea, must leave now. He turns to make a hasty retreat.

“Oh, come back here, silly boy,” Eskild says, rolling his eyes. He’d been quiet until now, observing in what Isak fears is a knowing way. “Of course we can help you, right, Noora?”

She seems to shake the confusion off, and smiles. “Yeah, of course,” she says. “Let’s do it.”

Eskild gets off the couch with an excited bounce. “This’ll be fun!” he says, already making a beeline for the kitchen. “We’re going to make you look so pretty, babe.” He reaches over to pinch one of Isak’s cheeks on his way out of the room, and Isak slaps his hand away.

“Please don’t make me regret this!” Isak calls after him. And ugh, who’s he kidding?

He already does.

###

And that’s how he finds himself sitting on a kitchen chair, Noora’s giant makeup bag on the table, while she and Eskild snipe back and forth about color palettes and matte finishes and other stuff Isak knows nothing about. 

“Look at those cheekbones, ugh,” Eskild says, manhandling Isak’s face to the side. “Been jealous of those since Day One. They’re just begging for contour.”

Isak has no clue what that means, but he thinks he should be flattered? Mostly he’s just trying to keep the blood out of his face—he’s pretty sure Noora’s going to put her own blush there, anyway. 

“I don’t know, Eskild, maybe we should go simple,” she replies, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “We don’t want to scare him away.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “I’m right here, guys.” 

“Quiet, you,” Eskild hushes him. “The grown-ups are working.” He takes Isak by the chin and starts jerking his head around to study his face from multiple angles. “Hmm, maybe you’re right, Noora. Keep it soft. He’s got such beautiful skin, we shouldn’t cover it up.”

Okay, Isak’s definitely blushing now. He’s never really thought about any of his features as being particularly nice. His face is okay, it’s fine, it does the job, he supposes. But he’s not what anyone would consider beautiful. Not like Even, anyway. Isak’s lips are too thin, the gaps between his teeth too wide, his irises too murky. Nothing compared to Even’s plush mouth, his thick hair, his clear, striking eyes.

Bit by bit, Eskild and Noora proceed to tackle each area of his face—sticking pencils and terrifying wands in his eyes (“Hold still, you big baby,” Eskild had admonished as Noora attempted to apply mascara), sweeping powders across his cheeks, dragging color along his lips. 

After what feels like forever—how do some people do this every day?—they finally seem satisfied with their handiwork—so much so, they actually high-five with such force that wine sloshes onto Eskild’s shirt.

“Ugh, I love it,” Eskild says, when he’s done lamenting his freshly-stained button-down. “I love it. You were so right, Noora, soft was the way to go.”

Isak gut roils, and he taps his foot to release some of his nervous energy.

Noora smiles at him. “Want to see?” she asks. He can only nod and let her follow him down the hall to the bathroom. 

He flips on the light, peers in the mirror, and—wow.

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.

The first things he sees are his eyes. They’re dusted in a light, champagne gold shimmer, and his lids catch the light in mesmerizing fashion every time he turns his face. There’s soft, brown kohl smudged along his eyelashes, and the lashes themselves are so long, and so dark, and so curly. Have they always been that curly? His cheeks are flushed and rosy, and he notices a pale shimmer—a lot like what’s on his eyes—dusted across his cheekbones, on his cupid’s bow, down the bridge of his nose.

Instead of whatever glossy stuff she had used on Even, Noora has coated Isak’s lips in an understated petal pink color, and…wow. They look soft. Plush.

He thought it would be more…over the top? Outlandish. Something to match the brashness of Noora, the attitude of Eskild.

Instead they made him look…he doesn’t even know what to call it. Before he can find the right words, his roommates are clambering in the doorway, trying to get a peek at his reaction.

“Do you like it?” Noora asks, excited.

Eskild sighs dreamily. “You look like an angel, my God,” he says. “We’re incredible, Noora.”

She nods. “We really are.”

Isak finally manages to find his voice. “Um, yeah,” he says, coughing awkwardly. “Wow, guys. It’s really…nice. Thank you.”

They both smile at him fondly.

“I don’t know why you wanted it,” Noora says. “But I hope this helps. For whatever it is you’re doing.”

Isak, still looking in the mirror, smiles a bit. “Yeah, Noora,” he says, almost to himself. “It helps.”

“What’s going on, guys?” comes a different voice from down the hall.

Even’s voice. Oh God. Oh fuck.

He had been out doing errands for his mom, but he said he would stop by later. Isak had completely lost track of time.

Even though he knows that Even is the least judgmental person on Earth, even though he knows that Even was wearing makeup only a few days ago, Isak feels a pang of fear. What if he doesn’t like it? What if this really is weird, after all? 

Even’s long footsteps sound from the hallway, coming closer, until he finally appears behind Eskild and Noora.

“Why are you all in the bathroom?” he asks, bemused. “Wait, is Isak okay?”

Trust Even to be responsible enough to react to their weird roommate hijinks by worrying about a potential emergency. 

Eskild smirks. “Isak is great, Even,” he says, shooting Noora a meaningful look. “Anyway, Noora and I are going to the store for more wine. Text us if you need anything from the outside world.”

And then they’re just gone, and Even can finally get a good look at Isak’s face.

Isak can pinpoint the exact moment that Even notices what’s different about him, because his brows shoot up and his body goes still, and his eyes are darting around like he doesn’t know where to look first.

And then, a slow, wide smile grows on his face, and it’s blinding. It’s joyful. It’s positively elated.

He steps into the bathroom, reaching up to brush a wayward lock of hair out of Isak’s face.

“Wow,” he says, awed. “You look…”

“Stupid,” Isak offers. Even shakes his head.

“Beautiful.”

Isak blushes hard and looks down, because God. Looking at Even is difficult enough at the best of times—how can he deal with him when he’s looking at Isak like that, like he’s everything, saying things that Isak can’t possibly believe?

“You’re always beautiful, though,” Even adds, and Isak rolls his eyes, because come on, man. Even laughs. “Take a compliment!” he says, shoving Isak’s shoulder playfully.

Isak fights a smile and loses. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

Even reels him in and plants a soft kiss on Isak’s forehead, deliberately, like he’s going out of his way not to mess up Isak’s lipstick.

“So how do you feel?” Even asks, and it would be a strange, oddly observant question from anyone else. But this is Even, who can already read Isak like no one else ever has. Not his parents, not Jonas, not Eva. No one.

Isak shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I don’t feel…bad, or anything. They did a good job.”

Even’s eyes sweep up and down his face one more time. “They did,” he affirms. 

“I don’t know,” Isak repeats. “I just…I wanted to know how it would feel.”

“Hm,” Even hums thoughtfully. “How what would feel?” 

His arms loop absent-mindedly around Isak’s waist, a simple comfort that isn't much, really, but somehow feels like it means everything. And suddenly, without warning, the dam breaks.

“To not worry,” he whispers, his words caught in his throat. “All the time.” He looks down, knowing that if he meets Even’s gaze, he’ll clam up. “It’s just…I try not to worry, you know? I try not to, but I worry so much about everyone. About other people. And I’m just…tired.” He sighs. “I’m so tired, Even.”

He doesn’t look up, but he feels Even’s grip on his hips tighten ever so slightly.

“And you,” Isak continues. “You’re just so open, and you don’t care about what other people think, and I just wanted to see—”

“Isak,” Even cuts in. “Isak, you’re wrong. I do care about what people think. I care about what you think of me, and I worry that my parents think I’m a fuckup, and I worry about the things I do when I’m not in control of myself and what people tell you about me when I leave the room.”

Isak lets out a breath and finally glances up at Even, who looks concerned, and a little embarrassed. He feels terrible, because he knows that Even worries about this stuff, even if he hides it well. Isak must sound like a petulant child.

“You’re right,” he says, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

But Even just shakes his head and lifts Isak’s chin with his finger so their gazes can meet again. “Don’t be sorry,” he says, voice laden with worry, and affection. “Be happy. Does this—” He gestures to Isak’s face, “—make you happy?”

Isak shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Probably not.”

“Then why do it at all?” Even asks.

And that’s the question, isn’t it? He’d never given this a single thought before. It's not like it was with Even, who had been thinking about wearing makeup for a while, had spent time learning about it, had let the urge grow inside him until it broke free. 

“I think,” he starts, not even knowing where he’s going with this or where it will end. “I think it’s because…this is something I know I would be afraid of other people seeing. And I’m just…I’m sick of it. Of worrying. I want to be real.” His conversation with Eva flashes through his mind. “I want my life to be real.”

Even has been listening attentively as Isak found the words, but now, understanding dawns on his face. He peers down at Isak, softness coloring his features.

“Everyone cares about what other people think sometimes, Isak,” he says, smiling a little. “We’re all just doing our best.”

Isak sighs. “I know.”

“But here’s what I know,” Even says firmly. “I know that you’re a terrible rapper—”

“Hey!”

“—and I know that you suck at holding your breath underwater—”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“—and I also know that you’re the funniest, the sweetest, the most interesting, and the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.” He reaches up to hold Isak’s face in both hands. “You’re beautiful, Isak, do you hear me? Inside, outside, with or without lipstick. And that’s pretty real to me.”

And, oh.

Isak’s eyes are swimming, and he feels one hot tear slide down his cheek, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care, because somehow, some way, he gets to have this. He doesn’t know how it happened, how after everything he’s done the universe had still found him worthy of it.

After all that time with a mother who couldn’t see him, a father who chose not to, a best friend who didn’t see him the way Isak wanted, he finally gets someone who sees him.

He gets to have this.

And you know what? Isak thinks. Fuck everybody else.

He tries valiantly to blink the remaining tears away—think of the mascara, Isak!—and when he looks back up at Even, everything is clear in a way it hasn’t been in so, so long.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice thick. It’s the first time he’s said it to Even, to anyone, but he finds he doesn’t regret it. Not for a moment.

Even’s breath stutters, and for all that he gives off an aura of coolness and composure most of the time, he looks positively ruined now, like he can’t quite believe his ears.

“I…” he starts, his face slowly breaking into an awed smile. “I love you, too.”

And then they’re hugging, and Isak can hide his pesky emotions in the crook of Even’s neck.

“You’re going to find your way,” Even murmurs into his hair. “And whatever you need, I’m here.”

###

“Hmm…this! This is the one,” Even says, peering down at his phone. They’re tangled together in Isak’s sheets, a light sheen of sweat cooling on their bare skin, sated grins on their faces. Isak had almost given himself a fist bump, it had been that good.

“Yeah?” Isak asks, leaning over to see.

Even nods with finality. “Definitely. God, look at you.”

At the tickle of Even’s fingers skirting down his hip, Isak barks out a laugh. “Dude, seriously?” he asks, incredulous, but not pushing Even away. “We just finished, like, ten minutes ago.”

Even shrugs, unconcerned. “I’m a human being, Isak.”

“Ugh,” Isak groans, rolling his eyes. “Just get on with it.”

At that, Even looks at him critically. “You’re sure about this?”

Isak pauses for a moment, thinking about what this would mean. It’s a lot. It’s definitely a lot—but not too much. And with Even with him, he thinks he might be able to face it.

“Yeah,” he says, before he can second-guess it. “Do it.”

Even nods, presses a kiss to the side of Isak’s head, and taps his phone once.

“Done,” he says, tossing the phone on the floor. “Now come here.”

Even rolls them over so he’s on top, pinning Isak’s wrists to the bed with no real force. Isak keeps them there, anyway.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this going to be a thing for you?” he asks, smirking. “Are you only going to want me when I’m wearing mascara now?”

He means it as a joke, expecting Even to play along. But Even’s face grows serious at his words, and he reaches up to brush his thumb across Isak’s bitten mouth, lipstick long worn off from the heat of them.

“I’ll always want you,” he says, voice a little gruff. “Whoever, and whatever, you choose to be.”

And then they’re gone, falling into each other again.

###

Later that night, when Isak is struggling to wipe his face clean with a cotton ball and the makeup remover he borrowed from Noora, he checks Instagram.

He's greeted by his own face.

The picture Even chose is an artsy one, because he’s a hipster like that, and he refused to let Isak mug a goofy face for the camera. On the screen, Isak’s eyes are cast downward, the orange light from the setting sun hitting his golden lids and glowing cheeks, his curled, dark lashes painting shadows on his skin, his lips stained a fetching pink. The skin of his shoulders is washed out and pale against white sheets, and there’s the ghost of a smile on his mouth. 

The caption is just a heart.

He scrolls down a little, and sees that his friends have commented.

Jonas Noah Vasquez (@jonas9000): looking good, bro

Magnus Fossbakken (@reggismeggis): isak looks kinda hot. wait, does that mean i’m gay?? call me

Mahdi Disi (@mahahahadi): mags is an idiot. FIFA tonight?

Isak throws the cotton ball in the trash, and looks at his clean face in the mirror.

He smiles.