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Living with Isak is possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to Even. He still doesn’t know how he managed to convince Isak to do it, food and sex was inevitably involved, but here they were now, living together and splitting a rent and sharing a refrigerator and waking up in a bed that’s theirs. That’s Even’s favorite part, probably. Knowing that everything on every square inch of this place is theirs, and nobody else’s.
But with owning an apartment and owning things like furniture and knickknacks within the apartment comes with its own set of responsibilities. Like paying bills, or, the more basic, cleaning it up. And Isak’s been okay with that, he does the dishes and sweeps the floor and makes the bed on occasions. It’s just that Isak is also the messiest person Even has ever met, and he’s still super busy with school, whereas Even has a lighter workload despite being in a higher year. So Isak doesn’t always have time to do the small things, like dust or fold and put away the laundry. It can get annoying, but mostly it isn’t, because Isak chips in his fair share. And Isak does 99% of the grocery shopping, so Even can manage this one little task on his own.
After his shift at KB earlier, he’d come home to find Isak was still at the library working on a presentation with Sana. And Even knew how hard they worked, so he powered through the slight irritation and set to work cleaning. He put away the clean dishes, folded some laundry, cleaned out the cabinets. He decided to stop when Isak had sent him the text saying he was on the way home, and completed his tidying by putting away the laundry he’d just folded. He graciously puts Isak’s favorite hoodie—a red one that had originally belonged to Even—in Isak’s drawer instead of his own, because he’s the greatest boyfriend ever and his only rival is Isak himself. Isak is a damn good boyfriend.
When he sets down some boxers in Isak’s underwear drawer, he hears a crinkle of paper. He puts the laundry on top of the wardrobe and digs through the pile of boxers, eventually finding a small folded up piece of notebook paper. He sits down on the bed, not even bothering to close the drawer or finish the tidying, and unfolds the note. He can't imagine what it could be, unless it’s some old class notes that Isak had accidentally put away in his wardrobe. Even doesn’t know how likely that is, though, because Isak is so anal about his notes. It’s perhaps the only thing he actually makes a conscious effort to keep organized and in its proper place.
Even recognizes Isak’s chicken scratch handwriting from the second he sees it on the paper. It’s a long note, whatever it is, with a heart drawn at the bottom. Even briefly considers putting it away, going through Isak’s shit isn’t something he’d ever want to do because he respects his boyfriend’s privacy, but then he sees Kjære Even written on the first line. His heart all but stops in his chest when he sees it, his knuckles turning white as he clutches the flimsy paper between his fingers.
The thing is, Even has written a few suicide notes in his lifetime. The first was when he was 18 and had just gotten diagnosed as bipolar. He and Sonja had gotten in a fight; she’d called him crazy, and he’d locked himself in the bathroom for three hours crying into the tile. He’d shredded the note the next morning, and never told anyone about it. The second was when he was 19, the summer before he started at Nissen, when he’d lost all his friends and nearly his girlfriend and had kissed a straight boy and ruined everything. He’d tried to end his life that time, and his mum had seen the note. Even’s never really forgiven himself for that one. The third was also when he was 19, when he thought he’d lost Isak for good. Part of him regrets that, too, but the rest of him thinks that maybe Isak wouldn’t have come back if Even hadn’t reached out like that, and well. Even doesn’t like to go that route.
Point being, Even knows what a suicide note looks like. He’s written many and he’s read more, online and in literature and once from a friend in ninth grade. And while he can’t figure out why in the hell Isak would write one—is he really such a bad boyfriend that he hasn’t recognized any signs of depression in Isak? How did he let Isak get bad enough to write a note? What’s hurting his baby so badly? Why hasn’t Isak come to him? Is Isak okay?—he can’t shake the feeling that this is one. That he’s holding, in his hands, what has the potential to be the last words Isak writes. It makes his stomach churn, and he makes the decision that reading this isn’t an invasion of privacy, because he needs to make sure his boyfriend isn’t considering such destructive actions.
He stares back down at the paper, has to take a couple of deep breaths before he forces himself to read it.
Kjære Even
I spent my whole childhood wondering if God ever makes mistakes. The Bible says he doesn’t, the vicar in the church I grew up in says he doesn’t, my mum says he doesn’t. But whenever I thought about people who kill, or rape, or torture, I always thought they must be mistakes. I never wanted to put myself in the same category as them, as a mistake of God’s, all because I looked at boys the way my pappa used to look at my mamma. God created Man in his image, that’s what I grew up hearing in every corner of every church pew that I’ve ever sat in. God makes no mistakes. I always wondered what it would mean if he did.
When I was 15 I started feeling weird things for Jonas. He was with Ingrid back then, and then with Eva, and it killed me. I did some pretty stupid things when I was 16, because I was scared and sad, too afraid to face up to who I knew I was. Jonas had this friend named Elias who used to call me gay all the time. Jonas would laugh at all of his jokes and it always sucked, feeling like I was being laughed at, even though neither of them could’ve known I was gay. And after my pappa left, Jonas came over and slept in my bed with me, and I thought about kissing him. I remember thinking how fucked up it was, wanting to kiss your best friend. And I hated myself for it. I did a lot of stupid shit after that night, like running away from home whilst drunk, and I stayed up for four nights in a row thinking about how I must be the exception to the rule that God makes no mistakes.
When I met you, I remember looking into your eyes and thinking that God didn’t make any mistakes with you. I don’t believe in God, but if I did, I’d thank him every night for blessing me with the best thing that I’ve ever had. You’ve never made me feel judged, or mocked, or like I was a mistake. You made me feel like I had someone standing with me, in a world where I’d previously felt so alone. And you’ve continued to stand by me, to hold my hand and keep my feet on the ground, even when you or I feel like it’s getting too much.
I’ve learned more from loving you than I’ve ever learned in any classroom or Sunday school. I’ve learned to be more patient, loving, kind. Everything that I never was before. I’m more myself when I’m with you than I ever was for the 17 and a half years of my life before that. It’s a scary thought but a real one. I fell in love with you, and you’ve never once made me feel like I’m hard to love. I spent so much of my childhood feeling like I was undeserving of love, and then you came into my life and tore all of those false perceptions down, and I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for doing that. For saving me.
Kissing you feels like coming home. Holding your hand feels like smelling flowers. Waking up next to you in the morning is an indescribable feeling, but also probably the best one in the entire world. It’s fucking archaic, how much I love you, every single part of you and every single part of the life we’ve built together. I love dancing along to Gabrielle when you make breakfast, I love pretending to care when you teach me how to cook, I love watching films with your annoying film nerd commentary, I love when you shove your tongue down my throat in the supermarket because I spent too long in another aisle without you and you missed me, I love sitting on your lap when you watch me play Fifa, I love the smile you gave me when I finally learnt to make tea. I love all the ways you tell me you love me; and how every single day you seem to discover at least 10 new ways.
You, Even Bech Næsheim, know everything about me. You know every bad thing I’ve ever said or done. You know every single person I’ve ever hurt. You know every time I’ve ever destroyed someone else. You know every time I’ve hit self destruct. You know how to make me cry, how to make me laugh, how to piss me off, how to cheer me up. How to be there for me, how to cuddle me when I’m sad or sick, how I like my eggs in the morning, and where I’d like to travel. You know my favorite color and you know how bad I am at math and you know about the time I failed a class and nearly had to redo a grade in primary school. You know everything about me, you know me better than I know myself; and you love me. You love every bit of me, even the ugly parts, especially the dark parts. You love my good and you love my bad, and you know exactly how to show it when you think I might’ve forgotten, or when I just need a reminder.
And I, Isak Valtersen, know you. Everything about you. From the braces you had to the retainers you lost. From the time you ran over a squirrel and cried on the side of the road to the time you were late to class in order to save a turtle. I know what teas you like, I know how to turn you on, I know how to not only wipe your tears but also how to get them to stop. I know how to get you to smile that huge smile I love so much. I know every bad thing you’ve ever done and every good thing you’ve ever done. I love every inch of you, from the good parts to the bad parts, and the parts you never wanted me to know about. Even when you make me cry and scream and so angry I could punch a wall, I still love you with all my heart.
I love you so much, Even. I love you so much more than I ever thought I’d ever be able to love anyone, and that should be scary, but it isn’t. It’s humbling, it’s reassuring. Loving you is the thing I’m most proud of myself for.
I’ve never been certain of much. I’ve never been sure about the world, or my place in it. I was never sure I was even deserving of a place. I was never positive about who I was, or who I would become, or if my parents really ever loved me like they said they did. I’ve questioned every single aspect of my life over and over again, to the point where I’ve gotten physically sick.
In my whole life, I’ve never been sure of anything. Until you.
I love you. And I hope to keep loving you for the rest of my life and yours, until we die, and maybe we’ll still love each other then. I don’t doubt it.
Isak
Even reads the letter five times before he hears the click of the door opening. He has half a mind to shove it back in the underwear drawer and pretend he never saw it, but his reaction time is too slow, and Isak walks in and sees everything. He sees the discarded laundry, the letter clutched in Even’s hand, and the tears streaked down Even’s cheeks. (Even had started crying at the second sentence in the whole letter, and he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to stop for the next nine days, or something like that.)
Isak rushes over, hesitating before the bed. He scans his eyes over Even again, before pointing a shaky finger to the paper. “Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is. Don’t tell me that's a...note,” he whispers, a plea that breaks Even’s heart.
“No,” Even says, and he watches the way Isak sags with relief. “I thought it was a suicide note, too. When I first found it.” He gulps, watches the way Isak’s eyes widen as he takes in the open underwear drawer and the impossibly fond look in Even’s eyes. “Isak, I love you so much,” he cries, and the next second, Isak is lunging forward and wrapping his arms around Even’s middle.
It’s all Even can do not to totally collapse into the embrace. He leaves the letter on the duvet in favor of looping his arms around Isak’s neck and sobbing into his shoulder, getting his nice new sweater wet with tears and snot, but also not giving half a fuck about it. He can’t be expected to control his emotions after finding and reading the most romantic love letter in the history of the universe. A love letter that was, by the grace of God, written by the best man Even’s ever known and addressed to Even.
They just sit on the bed and hold each other for what feels to Even like hours, but could be just minutes. It takes him ages to stop crying, and when he does, he pulls back and holds out the letter. Isak takes it, doesn’t even look at it, doesn’t have to. “I’m sorry I read it. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy,” he hiccups, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve.
Isak shakes his head, pressing a soft kiss to Even’s cheek. “It’s okay. I was going to give it to you earlier, but I got embarrassed. I wrote it one night when I couldn’t sleep, and you were curled up in my side… I couldn’t help myself.” He bites his lip, scoots closer to Even, putting himself in Even’s lap. He straddles Even, knees on either side of Even’s hips. “Every single word was and is true. That letter is my brain basically word vomiting through ink,” he teases, and Even nearly sobs again. What the fuck did he do to be so lucky?
He leans up and nudges their noses together, making Isak smile. Even loves his smile. “No one’s ever done something like that for me before. It’s the most romantic gesture someone’s ever done for me. I love you.” He doesn’t think he’s going to be able to stop telling Isak he loves him, not even when they’re gray and old and fighting like the old married couple they’ll be. Even can’t wait for that.
“Well, after you literally made a film for my 18th birthday, I figured it’s the least I could do,” he jokes, and Even laughs, leaning up to press their lips together. It’s a kiss just like any other, except it’s so much more, because it’s them.
It’s always been them.