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Telling Even about the Jonas ordeal doesn’t really go the way Isak expects.
He starts with a shrug and a simple “I think I may have had a thing for him,” and before he knows it, he finds himself telling Even everything in the middle of making dinner—which is good, because he has a task to occupy his hands, an excuse not to look Even in the eye, and a distraction from his flaming cheeks and wavering voice.
When he’s done laying it all out, the whole sordid tale, he holds his breath. The pasta is straining over the sink and the vegetables are chopped and the cheese is grated and the beers are chilling, and Isak can do nothing but grip the counter and stare at the unattractive, discolored blotch on its surface that no amount of scrubbing has been able to get out.
There’s nothing left to do but wait for Even to laugh, or yell, or leave.
But, remarkably, Even doesn’t do any of that.
Instead, Isak hears socked feet slowly shuffle towards him, until Even’s warmth is pressed against Isak’s back and his hands are ghosting along his hips and his forehead is pressed sweetly against the nape of Isak’s neck.
Normally, Isak wouldn’t be able to stop himself from melting. But now…
“You’re so tense,” Even says softly. There’s a slightly amused lilt to his voice, but it’s not unkind.
Isak exhales slowly, and he tries to relax back into the inviting heat of Even’s body.
“You’re not mad?” he offers, and he hates how weak he sounds. Hates it.
Even lets out a small huff and Isak shivers at the warm breath on his skin.
“How could I be mad?” Even whispers. His grip on Isak’s waist tightens, just a little.
Because I was stupid. Because I was selfish. Because I hurt people.
Because I didn’t tell you.
“I was an idiot,” is what Isak settles on. Doesn’t come remotely close to expressing the crippling guilt that still claws at his chest on his worst days, but it’s all he can muster right now.
“No,” Even says, fingers curling in the hem of Isak’s shirt, and Isak can feel him shaking his head.
Isak swallows, a tiny tendril of hope growing inside him, despite his fear.
“No?” he asks quietly.
Even exhales harshly through his nose, and when he presses a dry, feather-light kiss to the juncture of Isak’s neck and shoulder, his lips are trembling.
“You weren’t an idiot,” he says, voice thick, with a vehemence that seems a little out of place. “We all…” he starts, taking a fortifying breath. “…we all fuck up, sometimes.”
Not like this, Isak thinks. Not like this.
He sighs. “It was pretty bad,” he murmurs, and it shouldn’t feel like an admission—of course it was bad—but it feels like one, all the same.
Even lets out a small huff of laughter, and it feels inexplicably self-deprecating for a conversation about Isak’s unfortunate past.
“We all fuck up bad, sometimes,” he amends, and Isak can tell there’s something there, an untold story crackling in the air, and he itches to push, to ask, to know.
But he made a promise to himself, back when he used to still talk to Sonja sometimes and would catch occasional glimpses of the life Even shared with her, that he would never be in the business of pushing Even before he’s ready. That isn’t how this thing between them is going to work.
So he does exactly what he thinks Even would do in his situation—he tries to diffuse the moment.
“Could have been worse, I guess,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. He stands up a little straighter so he can lean his head back and press it against Even’s, a small comfort he’s not sure he’s earned.
“I could have really fucked it up,” he continues, trying for a lighthearted tone. “What if I actually tried to kiss him or something? Fuck, can you imagine?”
He never would have had the balls to do it, in those days, but at the thought of Jonas gaping at him, wide-eyed and shocked in that goofy way of his, Isak can’t help but snort.
He waits for Even to relax, to chuckle, to go get the beers out of the fridge.
But then everything falls apart, because Even is making a wounded noise and abruptly pulling away, leaving Isak off-kilter and bereft.
“Wha—?” Isak spins around, confused and feeling uncomfortably cold in the absence of Even’s warmth.
Even is already all the way across their apartment—not a huge feat in their tiny studio—standing by the window and staring down at the cars on the street.
At the wrenching sight of Even’s hunched back and strangely blank expression, Isak tentatively makes his way over to him, all the Jonas stuff completely forgotten.
“Even?” he asks, as gently as he can manage. His fingers flex, eager to reach out and touch, but he keeps them at his side for now.
Silence hangs between them for a moment, and Isak is about to break the stillness and come closer when Even suddenly barks out a laugh, harsh and ugly.
“I can imagine,” he says, turning to Isak with a glassy-eyed sneer that feels wrong, somehow, like it’s coming from someone else.
“You can imagine what?”
And then Isak remembers what he said.
What if I actually tried to kiss him or something?
Just like that, the contempt falls from Even’s face like it was never there, and then he’s just…crumpling onto the windowsill and curling in on himself and putting his face in his hands and holy fuck he’s crying, he’s sobbing, and Isak’s seen him low, he’s seen him lower than low, but never anything like this, never this—
Panic sears through Isak like fire, and without a thought he’s closing the distance between them and gathering Even in his arms like a child, hugging him so tight he worries he’s hurting him, hands fisting Even’s shirt hard enough that his knuckles go white.
“Even,” he whispers against Even’s soft hair, trying to be steady for him. Like always, Isak’s not sure if he’s succeeding, is filled with that niggling doubt that he’s only making things worse.
But he powers through it, anyway.
“Even, please,” he says a little louder, and he feels his own eyes sting at how wildly Even is clutching him back, at the raw, animal sounds he’s making. “Talk to me.”
Tell me if you’re mad, tell me if I’ve ruined this for good.
It’s a long time before Even says anything, his hitching sobs gradually tapering off, his frantic breath slowing, some of the tension easing from his frame.
Finally, he lets out a shuddering exhale and slowly raises his head to meet Isak’s concerned gaze.
“I can’t,” Even says hoarsely.
And he doesn’t know how, but in this moment Isak realizes, with perfect clarity, that this has nothing to do with Jonas.
Isak’s mind flashes with images of a bright-eyed boy called Mikael mugging for the camera, of Sana avoiding him, of countless unanswered questions that make his gut churn, of the desperate voice in his head that won’t stop whispering what happened what happened what happened.
Please, Even.
“Are you sure?” he asks softly, brow furrowing. “It might—”
“Isak,” Even cuts in, every feature on his face pleading with him to understand. “I can’t. Not…not yet.” And looks down and away, like he’s expecting Isak to get angry, like he’s expecting the worst.
Isak’s heart trips.
You can do this.
You can do this, for him.
He takes in Even’s blotchy cheeks, his chapped lips, his long eyelashes, wet with tears. His moon-shaped face, sad and pained and still the most beautiful thing Isak’s ever seen.
You’re a fucking idiot, but you can be what he needs now.
“Okay,” Isak says, and he presses his lips to Even’s clammy forehead, hoping Even knows how long he’s willing to wait, how far he’s willing to go, how hard he’s willing to work to make him happy.
Even buries his damp face into Isak’s neck, hugs him close.
“I will,” Even says, hushed and broken, a solemn vow. “I promise, I will.”