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The thing is—and Isak supposes it should come as no surprise, given the ludicrously romantic timing and circumstances of their first kiss—Even is an absolutely phenomenal boyfriend.
And it’s not just the comforting, casual touches and the unreasonably frequent cuddling and the life-altering, mind-blowing sex, either.
(Although that stuff is pretty damn good.)
(Like, seriously. He cannot over-emphasize how good it is.)
It’s the soothing backrubs, and making sure Isak eats breakfast before school, and surprising Isak with baked goods or coffee or little trinkets that remind Even of something Isak said the previous week. It’s knowing when Isak is one textbook paragraph away from studying himself to an early grave and coaxing him into taking a break with the promise of sleep or snacks or Netflix (and yes, sometimes sexual favors are on the table. Hell, sometimes they take place on the table).
It’s knowing when to press and when to hold back, when to offer quiet support and when to take the lead. Knowing when Isak needs to be alone because he got a shitty text from his shitty father, and when he needs to talk about it, or be spooned within an inch of his life, or fuck to forget.
The point is: Even is great. Even is perfect. So perfect, in fact, that the alarming and ever-growing disparity between them, in terms of boyfriend-ing, has become impossible to ignore. Try as he might to talk himself down, Isak can’t quite stop that ugly fear from gnawing at him—the fear that Even will wake up one day and suddenly realize, fuck, why in God’s name am I doing all this work for a smelly, socially awkward slob with no money and no skills and Dorito crumbs in his bed?
Honestly, it’s a fair question. One that Isak has started to ask himself, more and more.
But Even, despite his overly pretentious taste in cinema and his not-quite-pretentious-enough taste in music, is the best thing in Isak’s life. He can’t fuck this up.
He won’t fuck this up.
So he decides that if it’s the last thing he does, he’s going to boyfriend the ever-loving fuck out of Even. It’s going to be sweet, and thoughtful, and magical, all that shit. The dude’s not even going to know what to do with himself.
He’ll just swoon at all the work his mature, intelligent, classically handsome boyfriend did to sweep him off his feet, and he’ll spend the night showing Isak just how grateful he is about it.
Several times, if Isak has any say.
So Isak plans it all out: he’s going to cook dinner just for the two of them—all three courses—and he’s going to beg Eskild to buy some relatively decent middle-shelf wine for him, and he’s going to get a haircut and put on a clean dress shirt, and he’s not going to buy a bouquet because the limited lifespan of cut flowers always makes Even sad.
(Isak’ll take the little potted cacti that Eva gifted them off the windowsill and place them at a pleasing angle on their table, instead.)
He waits until Saturday, when Even has a full schedule—therapy first, then a group project meeting for his Norwegian class, and then lunch his parents’ house, where he’s also going to help his dad assemble some shelves.
First, Isak cleans the entire apartment until it’s spotless (minus the stubborn countertop stains that have likely been there since the mid-90s) and washes their sheets and duvet, until their entire studio apartment smells like “Mountain Breeze.” Whatever the fuck that is.
What? He’s planning on getting lucky tonight. Loudly and vigorously.
Second, he ducks out for a bit to get his hair trimmed—not too short, since Even is an avid hair puller and Isak is extremely, enthusiastically into it—and pick up some groceries from the slightly higher-end market a few blocks over. The one that plays classical music and offers samples of moldy cheeses.
When he steps up to the checkout, the manager takes one look at his hoodie and dirty sneakers and gives him a suspicious side-eye, like he’s some thieving miscreant out to swipe overpriced salted caramels. Isak just rolls his eyes and hands over his debit card with a huff.
If he breathes an internal sigh of relief when the payment goes through, this stuffy asshole doesn’t need to know about it.
The third and final phase is by far the most challenging: with help from a couple of YouTube tutorials and a particularly enlightening email thread with Mahdi—who knew that kid was a dynamo in the kitchen?—Isak sets out to make his first-ever multi-course meal.
It’s not exactly Michelin-star food he’s cooking, here, but by the time he’s done, Isak can’t help but puff his chest out a bit in pride. Sure, the cut of salmon he bought was the cheapest the market had to offer and it had smelled a little weird—but all fish smells weird, right? And the finished product looks pretty damn good, if he says so himself.
Isak has also thrown together an arugula salad (only managing to nearly chop his thumb off twice, which he’s counting as a win) and a divine-smelling—if a little sad-looking—chocolate cake. The cake recipe had come from Mahdi, who called it so easy that even your dumb ass can’t screw it up.
Altogether, it’s a pretty solid spread, and there’s no way Even’s not going to appreciate it. The thought makes him downright giddy, quite frankly.
Jesus, he’s gone soft.
Startling at the late hour, Isak does his best to quickly address the absolute disaster area that the kitchen has become, as every single bowl and utensil they own between them is now crusted in mysterious substances. Even’s a remarkably chill guy, but big messes tend to stress him out, make it more difficult for him to slow down and de-clutter his mind.
He takes a very thorough shower, pulls on the gray dress shirt he saves for vaguely special occasions, runs a bit of Even’s styling mousse through his hair, and lights the half-used candle Jonas had lent him. He’s eighty percent sure that it’s the kind that repels mosquitoes, but beggars can’t be choosers.
He’s just managed to put on some soft music—some low-key hipster Spotify playlist designed to be ignored—when he hears Even’s key turn the lock.
At first, Even is too busy toeing off his shoes and stowing his backpack to notice Isak standing in the middle of the room, awkwardly proffering a glass of red wine like a world-class idiot. But then he lifts his gaze and takes in his surroundings—Isak’s heart is actually pounding, what the fuck—and his eyes flit from the food to the burning candle to Isak and the wine, and his mouth drops open in surprise.
“What’s all this?” he asks, calm but clearly a little confused.
Isak clears his throat, a hot blush staining his cheeks.
“It’s for you,” he says—a little stupidly, because it’s not like he would dress up, prepare a candlelight dinner from scratch, and pour two glasses of moderately-priced wine for himself.
Even’s expression is too kind for him to be thinking along similar lines, but it’s pretty clear that Isak’s comment hasn’t shed any more light on the situation.
Isak coughs and sets the wine down on the table so he can shove his hands into his pockets. “I just wanted to…do something nice,” he says. “For you.”
Even takes a second to absorb that statement, and then he slowly steps further into the room, to where Isak is busy trying not to die.
“You did this…” he starts, looking around the room again. “You cooked dinner…for me?”
He looks surprised, and awed, and—dare Isak think it—a little hopeful?
It’s enough of a boost for Isak to muster an awkward half-smile. “And dessert,” he says, lifting his eyebrows.
Even is very still for a moment, his face frustratingly blank, and Isak is just about to start back-tracking incoherently when Even suddenly launches himself forward, gripping Isak’s face in his warm hands and crashing their mouths together.
It takes approximately 0.05 seconds for Isak to melt into it in relief, fisting Even’s plaid shirt in one hand and threading the fingers of his other hand through the hair on the nape of Even’s neck.
He tilts his head to deepen the kiss, happily sucking Even’s tongue into his mouth, and Even groans and slips his hands down Isak’s body to his hips, pulling them flush together, and Isak is seriously considering the merits of skipping this stupid dinner altogether and just tugging Even towards their soft, freshly-made bed—
But then Even pulls away abruptly, and Isak is left dazed, red-faced, and panting.
And imploring certain critical parts of his anatomy to calm down.
“Do you like it?” he asks, rather breathlessly. Though he’s got to say, all signs are pointing to “yes” right now.
Even takes a moment to catch his breath, and then his face breaks into a blinding, absolutely devastating grin—the kind that makes Isak’s heart catch in his throat, makes him want to drop to his knees (shut up) and thank the universe for somehow giving him the magical ability to make Even happy enough to smile like that.
“I love it,” Even says, an uncharacteristic note of shyness in his voice. “I can’t believe you actually got off your ass long enough to cook for me.”
Isak scoffs. “Um, excuse me, you ungrateful dick,” he says, shoving Even’s shoulder. “I can just eat it all myself, buddy. You can just watch.”
Even laughs, and Isak should probably be offended that he reacts that way every single time Isak displays indignation…but mostly it just makes him feel warm and content inside.
“Besides,” Isak says, softer, running his palms up Even’s chest and across his shoulders. “You cook for me all the time.”
He gets a small, intimate smile in return, and with a flush of pride, suddenly Isak is certain that this night is going to be nothing short of a raging success.
###
It takes about half an hour for everything to go wrong.
Isak hears another violent wretch from the bathroom and winces—how does Even have anything left?
“Even?” he calls desperately through the door, which has been closed and locked since Even scurried in there to expel the entire contents of his stomach. And possibly a few vital organs. “Can I please come in?”
More horrible, suspiciously vomit-y sounds.
“No,” Even chokes out, and Isak can barely hear him through the thick panel of the door and the echo of Even’s voice against the bathroom tiles. “No, I’m—I’m fine, I—”
Wretch.
The burning shame that fills Isak is thick and overwhelming, and he bangs his palm against the door in frustration.
“Even, please,” he begs, “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what happened, I fucked up—”
“No,” Even says again, more forcefully this time. “This was probably something else, I was already sick or—fuck—”
Wretch.
“Oh God,” Isak groans, “Just let me in, would you? I know I’m fucking useless but at least let me try to help.”
A few beats of silence, and then a slow, agonized rustling, like Even is dragging himself to the door on his belly, army-style. The mental image makes the back of Isak’s eyes sting.
Finally, the door unlocks and creaks open slowly, and sure enough, Even is on the floor, face pallid and sweaty and his eyes glazed over.
“You’re not useless,” he says in place of a greeting, with as much vehemence as someone who just lost half his body weight in sick can muster.
Isak drops to the floor, studiously ignoring the unfortunate smell wafting from the room, and nudges Even’s chin up so he can get a better look at his face.
“Baby,” Isak murmurs, and though he usually feels a little uncomfortable throwing endearments like that around, he finds himself physically incapable of holding this one back. Even looks so small, so pained, so pitiful, that it’s all Isak can do not to clutch Even to his chest and rock him like an infant.
“I’m fine,” Even says again, and based on the tiny, sarcastic half-smile he offers, it seems that even he’s now caught on to the fact that it’s bullshit.
Isak shakes his head sadly, gently carding his fingers through Even’s damp hair and pushing it out his face. “You’re not fine,” he says, and embarrassment flares in his stomach again. “You’re not fine, and it’s all my fault.”
Even’s eyes widen, just a little.
“It’s not,” he valiantly tries to argue, but a pointed look from Isak quiets him.
“It is,” Isak says with a self-deprecating snort. “Because I can’t fucking get my shit together for one evening and cook a simple meal for you.”
The pale, clammy mass in his arms is silent for a moment, but then Even’s relaxing further into Isak’s embrace, sighing.
“Could have happened to anyone,” Even says hoarsely, voice shot from his body’s hideous betrayal. “I feel like shit now, but it’ll pass.”
Isak wants to push harder, keep arguing, do anything to ease the guilt building inside him—but Even looks so sweet and sincere, all he can do is offer a small nod.
“What is this really about?” Even asks, because scratch that part about being sweet, he’s obviously a bastard. A bastard who happens to be highly astute.
Isak sighs. Lying to Even, even by omission, is a pointless crusade.
“You’re always doing shit for me,” he says, looking down. “Cooking and bringing me things and helping me study and helping me not study and I just…I don’t know. I wanted to make you feel….the way you make me feel.”
He blushes hard at how sappy that sounds, but the haze from Even’s eyes seems to clear a little at Isak’s confession.
“And what way is that?”
Wow, this fucker’s really going to make him come and out say it, huh? Typical. Isak knows his face is on fire, but he pushes the word out, anyway.
“Special.”
Suddenly Even is smiling, and it’s a little duller than it would be normally, a little less incandescent, but it still makes Isak’s heart clench painfully in his chest.
“Hey,” Even says, shaky hand coming up to brush Isak’s cheek. “You do make me feel special, okay? All the time.”
Isak rolls his eyes. “I don’t do anything,” he says. “I just…sit here and…bitch about school and forget to do the dishes and steal your clothes.”
“Well I happen to like that you steal my clothes, so—”
“I steal them because I never do laundry.”
“Pssh, a technicality.”
“I killed half our plants.”
Even shrugs, and a little color is returning to his face, now. “They would have died eventually.”
“I killed a succulent,” Isak says, a little frantic. “Do you know how hard that is to do?”
“Isak!” Even cuts in, laughing lightly—cautiously, as if the act might trigger more digestive fireworks. “Where is this coming from? You do all kinds of stuff for me.”
Isak scoffs, because that is a dirty lie. “Like what?”
Even rolls his eyes, like he can’t believe it’s come to this. “Well, you’re always making me tea, and buying me new pencils from that fancy art store when I forget.”
“Yeah, so?”
“And you sit through all those French films I force you to watch—”
“I complain the entire time, Even.”
“But you still do it, though, don’t you?”
“…I suppose.”
“And last week you bought groceries for my mom—”
“She sprained her ankle, Even,” Isak says. “And that wasn’t even for you.”
“And the other day, you did that thing I like, with your thighs—”
“Okay, it doesn’t count when it’s for both of us.”
“And you’re you, Isak, don’t you get that?” Even says, exasperated but fond. “That’s enough for me, even without the other shit. It’s all I want.”
And, well. There isn’t much to say when Even is looking at him like that, his features deadly serious, like a grand piano could fall through the ceiling right now and it would still take a backseat to Isak. Even still does that, sometimes, even though the life they’ve settled into in the past few months is quieter, easier, the urgency tempered by the comfort of routine.
Truth be told, Isak prefers it that way. But sometimes…sometimes he still craves moments like this, when all the other shit in their lives falls away and it’s just them, touching, breathing, existing together.
The urge to pull Even in, to hold him against his chest, is still lingering. He gives into it this time, and Even goes happily, content to be cradled.
“I’m sorry I got you sick,” Isak murmurs into Even’s hair, and feels him smile against his shirt.
“That’s okay,” Even replies softly. “Sorry my stomach ruined your big night.”
And Isak can’t help it, can’t keep himself away. He leans down for a kiss, tilting Even’s face up and brushing their noses together—
“You sure you want to do that?” Even asks. “After what I just did?”
Isak would do a hell of a lot more, in much grosser circumstances, for the opportunity to kiss him, so he doesn’t even give it a thought.
“No regrets,” he says, and goes for it.
###
He does kind of regret it, in the end. But that’s okay.
It’s all part of the boyfriend experience.