Work Text:
It all started out simple enough, innocent even. While on his way to a morning lecture- a lecture that he despised with the passion of a thousand suns- he passed some graffiti spray painted to the side of an abandoned building. It wasn’t anything particularly special- just a mural depicting a person with their back turned. It was nighttime around them, but not the calm, peaceful kind of night that seemed to tunnel out the farther away from the person it got until it blossomed into a golden-pink sunset. No, this night was pure dark, no stars, no moon, no hope. Looking at this painting felt like standing at the edge of a void and knowing you were stuck there, deciding by fate or choice alone to stay in the emptiness while observing the happiness possible just out of reach on the horizon. The person’s shoulders seemed to somehow be both slumped and pulled back in determined resignation.
For some reason, this was where the tram stopped, stuck in the traffic jam from hell that didn’t make any sense at 10:30 in the morning- most people should have been at work already, so god only knows why every soul in Oslo suddenly decided to be out and about on this one particular street. At least it felt like that to Isak, who was sitting directly across from the mural, captivatedly staring at it through the window. By the time the tram had started moving again, it was too late.
Isak thumped his body back against the seat he had somehow managed to snag and shut his eyes, squeezing them as he slumped down further onto the hard plastic. It felt like that painting was ingrained in his brain, there every time he shut his eyes or blinked. He almost missed the announcement of his stop, couldn’t concentrate in class, and kept zoning out during conversations. Seriously, he was probably going to bruise from all the elbows to the ribs he’d taken from someone trying to get his attention. At one point he even tripped and nearly fell down a flight of stairs just because he passed a group of girls talking about it and wiped around to stare at them, which probably could also add whiplash to the accumulating list of injuries he’d received all because he couldn’t stop thinking about that fucking painting.
It didn’t make sense, at least not completely. Isak had seen plenty of art work on the street covering abandoned buildings, bridges, the sides of train cars parked on the tracks for too long. Hell, he wasn’t even a stranger to doing it himself. More than a few times he dabbled in tagging the dull gray walls of the skatepark he frequented during his days at Nissen, more often than not drug there by Jonas, who- unlike Isak- actually had a passion for skateboarding.
That’s actually how he’d met Vilde, a perky blonde girl who was scared of her own shadow, continually glancing over her shoulder as she drew a small yellow flower on one of the ramps with the spray paint Isak had offered her when she’d stumbled into the dark area. She was new in town and was taking care of her sick mother who was severely depressed, something he could relate to as his own mother was mentally ill and on the verge of a breakdown at the time.
Under the cover of the night sky they had completely bared themselves, talking about everything from Vilde’s secret fear of never being good enough to Isak’s growing feelings towards his best friend. In turn, Vilde told him about the girl with the long auburn hair she met in the coffee shop the day she moved in. Isak had an inkling he knew who she was talking about but remained silent. Instead, he tentatively suggested that he and Vilde should hang out again, somewhere other than the skatepark in the middle of the night.
It wasn't the most likely of friendships but that's exactly what it was. Years later, it's still one of the most stable and strong relationships in his life, almost all of his other friends from Nissen having moved for university or fallen out of touch.
Anyway, the point was that Isak was no stranger to street art. What he was a stranger to, however, was the way this one piece of it was making him feel like his soul was naked and flayed apart on the side of a dingy building for everyone to see.
It was like it was calling him out, making him itch in all the places his fingers couldn't reach to scratch. And it wasn't just him. No, this art work was somehow affecting others. His mother, his friends, every god damn person he passed on the fucking street. All of them were affected by the jagged lines that were somehow more than just the release of pressurized aerosol on brick.
That's probably how he found himself in a hardware store scooping up every can of spray paint available on the shelf instead of following his normal routine of destressing in bed with shitty reality shows on Netflix.
It had taken hours to get it just right. He wasn't as practiced as he had been in his younger days- god, that made him sound old- and despite keeping up with his sketches and speaking regularly to Vilde who had started an underground art blog, he hadn't actually done any graffiti of his own since the night before he graduated from Nissen. Still, when it was finished even he had to admit that it looked pretty damn good. Definitely not a Michelangelo but not an atrocious scribbling either.
Fundamentally, Isak hadn’t made any serious alterations to the original. Rather, he had copied the design in its entirety, only making one small addition. Beside the person who was at the center of the original Isak had drawn another person, similar to the first in that they were essentially ambiguous. Both were standing in the dark staring down that tunnel to the light and where their hands were combined shone a galaxy in black, purple, and red paint. At the top of the first painting the artist- EBN as declared by the slanted writing in the bottom right corner- had written the title as “Somewhere in the Universe,” so Isak scrawled across the top of his in white paint “Somewhere in a Parallel Universe.”
Correspondingly, he’d drawn two little dashes in the bottom right corner of his own work, just a simple //, unintentionally branding himself with the pseudonym Parallel in the underground art community, an art community that seemed to be run by his very own firecracker of a friend Vilde. Seriously, it was amazing what this one girl could do when she set her mind to it. She singlehandedly started one of the most popular blogs dedicated to the art covering the streets of Oslo and the artists who took the time to go out and share it with the world. If you wanted to know anything about anything in the underground art world, then you went to Vilde.
That’s exactly where Isak went to learn more about this elusive EBN, which led to him finding out more than he originally bargained for. Apparently, this guy was one of the best street artists out there, painting everything from abandoned buildings to the sides of schools, even going so far as to paint a huge teddy bear on the side of a hospital for a sick little girl to see from her bed, the angle just right with the window in her room. And this wasn’t one of the numerous rumors floating around about him. No, it was 100% true. Someone who knew the family confirmed that EBN had, in fact, done it just for that little girl. Her father had made the request through Vilde’s blog.
Regardless, Isak found himself looking further and further into this guy, not just locating his paintings for perusal but to draw a corresponding work underneath it, his own interpretation of EBN’s work, something from a parallel universe. With every drawing, every piece of EBN’s soul that was revealed to Isak, he could feel himself falling for the anonymous artist. It was a little bit ridiculous but he felt like they were almost flirting with every ship-in-the-night passing, like EBN was making something special just for him and he was responding with a little piece of himself as well.
Soon enough, Isak had a little following of his own, a little following that grew into a huge following when people inevitably realized what he was doing. Every time EBN posted a new work somewhere, Parallel would be called out. They told him where the new drawing was and what it was, uploading pictures of the graffiti in varying degrees of clarity. He constantly had to change his pattern of when he did his own paintings as fans would sometimes wait at the location hoping to catch a glimpse of Parallel at work. The last thing he needed right now was his face to be plastered all over the internet circulating through the underground community.
He doesn’t have much to worry about today, though, as it was Vilde who found the newest addition of EBN’s work. She was the only person who knew of Isak’s identity as Parallel and instantly texted him the address of the new art rather than posting it to her blog like she normally would, claiming that she would keep it quiet until the next morning to give Isak ample time to respond to the mural without fear of interference. As soon as he saw the painting he’d understood her reasoning.
Painted in soft muted colors was the depiction of a beautiful girl propped up on a collection of pillows, fluorescent blue crosses shining in the background around the makeshift bed. In her hand a gun, positioned midair and pointed towards herself. Her long hair cascades over the edge of the pillows, drawing attention to the sight that is clearly holding her attention, which is the boy laying on the ground beside the bed, an empty bottle of what is clearly meant to be poison rolling on the concrete at his feet. It’s melancholy and beautiful. Appropriately, it’s named “A Version of Romeo + Juliet.”
Isak’s always hated the idea of Romeo and Juliet, hated how they both had to senselessly die, hated how nobody won in the end, hated how it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Right then, he decided he was going to fix it, give the couple the epic ending they deserved, and he wasn’t going to do it in the conventional way either. No, he was going to go all out, paint the image that came to mind when he thought of Romeo and Juliet and EBN.
Flipping his hood up over his snapback, he sets to work, outlining in dark red the edges of what will become the bedroom directly below EBN’s work. Isak likes to think that he purposefully leaves these blank spaces below his work specifically for him. Maybe that’s a little narcissistic, but so what? He’s allowed to fantasize.
It’s around 21:21 when he feels it. He’s about halfway done just moving on to start on the other side, working on mapping out the shape of the second boy when the prickling sensation travels through his body. It starts with his scalp, then cringes down the back of his neck making his hair stand up and goose bumps erupt on his skin. It’s the kind of sensation that usually means someone is watching you, and he suspiciously glances up and down the street, looking for anyone who might be observing him in the twilight. Vilde had said she would keep it quiet but that doesn’t mean people couldn’t have found out about this on their own. Plus, there’s always the possibility of cops stumbling upon him while they’re patrolling the neighborhood.
But he doesn’t see anyone, at least not until he turns around and is met with the hottest boy he’s ever laid eyes on lounging on the steps of the apartment complex across the street. His long legs are splayed out carelessly in front of him, black skinny jeans revealing the smallest hint of cream colored skin where they’re fraying at the knees. He’s wearing a jean jacket covered in buttons that are pinned all over the sides in a disjointed pattern and his hair is styled in an honest to god quiff like some kind of modern-day James Dean. For the amount of casualness oozing from the guy, Isak can still tell that he’s watching him with a burning intensity. The smoldering look combined with the aura of sexiness emanating from him has Isak idly wondering if he should call the fire department before something sparks and catches flame. That thing most likely being Isak himself because Hot. Damn.
He’s not sure how long they stay like that, staring at each other, before the Greek god pushes himself into a sitting position with his elbows and stands up revealing how tall he is. Isak’s always been a weak bitch when it comes to tall boys and by the looks of him as he crosses the street- how anyone can make crossing a dirty old street look like a stroll down the catwalk is beyond Isak - he’s got to be at least a few inches taller than Isak himself. And that’s saying something because Isak is pretty freaking tall.
He has about five seconds to panic about the possibility of this boy being an undercover cop about to arrest him for spray painting public property before he’s standing right in front of him, up close and personal like he’s unfamiliar with the concept of personal space.
“Halla,” he smiles, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and tapping it against his wrist that’s wrapped in a paisley pastel bandana, making Isak think he’s more of a hipster than a cop.
“Um, hei,” Isak says a little skeptically, cocking his head to the side and squinting at the stranger, giving him a once over.
He doesn’t seem to be the only one checking out the person in front of him either, though he’s not entirely sure it’s for the same reasons. As his gaze returns to the boy’s in front of him- and holy shit are his eyes blue, Isak could practically swim in them- he realizes he’s being checked out, eyes traveling up and down his body appraisingly. It’s surprisingly intoxicating.
“Watcha doin?” the boy asks with a smirk, rocking back on his heels innocently like he hasn’t been watching Isak for god knows how long.
“I’m um-,” god he used to have more game than this. He once got a guy to take him home with nothing more than a quick exchange of names and an enticing display of his ability to tie a cherry stem with his tongue. He gestures at the half-finished portrait behind him and tries again, “I’m defiling public property. What’re you doing?”
“Watching you,” he replies easily, not batting an eye, clearly unashamed. Jesus, he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s been creeping on him. Isak’s not going to survive this, he can feel it already like the cool breeze that signifies an approaching storm on the horizon.
“Is that so?” he asks, attempting to channel smooth Isak- seriously, what does that bitch need a freaking séance- as attractive stranger walks around him slowly in a circle like a predator sizing up his prey.
“Mm-hmm,” he hums sounding distracted but confirming the statement nevertheless. He throws a contemplative glance at the painting but otherwise doesn’t stop in his trek around Isak until he’s at the tall chain link fence beside the wall. It looks like the contractors either ran out of money or material to continue the concrete barrier blocking the street from the playground and had to make due with the flimsy metal fence. That’s where hot stranger stops, leaning against the flimsy fence and making it bulge holding up his lean frame. “So, you’re the infamous Parallel, huh?” he asks sounding slightly impressed.
Isak blinks rapidly, trying to catch up. He’s not exactly sure what he was expecting the guy to say but it sure as hell wasn’t that. Obviously, this boy isn’t a cop nor is he just any hipster invested in art. No, this is someone involved in the underground art world as well, and he clearly knows enough about the so called star-crossed love affair between EBN and Parallel to be able to piece together what Isak’s doing.
“Yeah, that’s uh- that's me,” Isak confirms. No longer afraid of the beautiful creature beside him being a narc, he picks up where he left off with a shake of the paint can. He shrugs with one shoulder to avoid jerking the can that’s hissing quietly as colorful streams spray out of it. “Most people just call me Isak, though."
"Most people,” he repeats with a teasing lilt, his eyebrows bouncing up. “By that do you mean people who aren't your fans?"
"Of course, I'm fairly famous,” Isak sniffs haughtily, silently pleased to have regained the ability to talk without sounding like a complete idiot. “What about you, what do your nonfans call you?"
"See that's where your mistaken,” he says, pointing an admonishing finger at Isak, “You're assuming that there are people out there who aren't fans of mine."
"Oh, my apologies. I’m sure you’re very popular, but seeing as I’m not familiar with your work and, therefore, can’t possibly be a fan, how should I refer to you?”
The boy raises his eyebrows, a playful smile stretching his lips and crinkling his eyes just slightly. He’s clearly enjoying this, and for a few minutes Isak thinks he isn’t going to answer. But then he’s pulling a cigarette out, setting it between his plump lips, and lighting it, holding one hand up to the end of the cigarette to shield the flame from the light breeze. “Even,” he says in a deep voice that makes Isak’s stomach flip as he flicks the lighter shut with a snick and blows a pretty impressive ring of smoke.
And, damn, did this boy stumble out of Isak's wet dreams? Seriously, he’s ticking all of the boxes of hotness for him effortlessly. Forget the signaling breeze, this has just ramped up to a full-blown tornado warning.
"Well, it’s nice to meet you, Even," he says, tasting the name on his tongue, enjoying the way it rolls right off with a level of smoothness akin to a paintbrush making the first stroke over blank canvas.
"You too, Isak. I would call you Parallel- cause you know I am a fan," Even says, placing a hand on his chest in a show of sincerity, "but I feel like we're friends now seeing as we're on a first name basis and all."
"Is that all it takes to be your friend?" Isak snorts, switching to a different can of paint to begin constructing the sneakers. The sneakers are essential to this painting as is the cigarette, and as such they need to match the color of its burning embers. They’re the only objects in the painting that will share this particular shade of ink.
"Pretty much," Even nods, taking another drag. "That and they have to be ridiculously hot, which in case you didn't know means you're doing exceptionally well." He tosses a wink in Isak’s direction, successfully chocking him with a shocked gasp.
"You ok there?" Even asks, sounding concerned but his eyes give him away. The blue is lit with mirth and- dare Isak say it- smug satisfaction. Fucker. If he is from Isak's wet dreams, he’s clearly from one of the rare ones where he's into BDSM.
But, clearly Even doesn’t realize that Isak can give as good as he gets, so, despite being flushed and clearly a little frazzled, Isak looks straight ahead and says with a shrug, "Takes one to know one."
And, okay, what? Did Isak seriously just tell Even he was hot like a five-year-old in a fight? He's about to groan- maybe beat his head against the concrete for good measure- when he hears a snort and risks a glance over to see Even looking pleasantly surprised. He doesn't look weirded out or put off. On the contray, he looks like he's settling in for the long haul, sliding down the fence until he’s sitting on the sidewalk, pulling his knees up to rest his crossed arms on. Turning his head to watch Isak work, he changes the subject, asking, "Are you an art student?"
"Nei," Isak says, shaking his head. "I'm pre-med. Art's more of a hobby for me. Always kinda has been."
"This is just a hobby?!" Even squawks disbelievingly. "This is- you're amazing, though. Fuck me- you're really studying medicine? So not only are you incredibly talented, but you're also hot and smart? The full package. I think I just hit the jackpot."
"Must be your lucky day, then," Isak quips in a teasing voice.
"Must be," Even agrees with a decent amount of sincerity, crisp blue eyes boring into Isak's and throwing him for a bit of a loop.
They've been teetering on the verge of teasing and seriousness, but this feels like it’s starting to veer off path completely, feels like Even might believe what he's saying to and about him. Which is ridiculous considering this boy knows practically nothing about him other than his name and the fact that he illegally paints buildings all over Oslo, ironically for another boy that Isak knows nothing about. It's borderline laughable, so he decides to change the topic, maybe steer them back into safer territory since it's going to take Isak some time to finish his work and Even's clearly not leaving anytime soon.
"Are you an art student then?"
"No," he sighs, tipping his head back against the fence, squeezing his eyes shut. Swallowing harshly, he opens his eyes again to stare at the rapidly darkening sky. "No," he repeats more firmly, knocking the end of his cigarette against his thumb to coax some ashes to fall to the sidewalk. "I applied but apparently my portfolio wasn't on par with the admission office's standards. I believe their exact words were that I was good but my work wasn't a promising indicator of a successful artist."
Isak's head snaps to the left to look at Even at the harsh words, practically giving himself whiplash with the tiny crack that comes from his neck at the quick motion. His finger presses a little too hard on the paint nozzle in his surprise, smearing a jagged line of purplish-red across the hand he’s working on intertwining with another but that doesn’t matter right now. Maybe it won’t matter in the future either.
"What do you mean not an indicator of a successful artist?" Isak demands, adding the bitterness to the words that Even's recollection was lacking in. If it had been him, he would have been furious not just... quietly accepting or whatever the fuck Even was.
Instead of answering, he just shrugs, jacket catching on a separation in two of the links in the fence. By the lack of a ripping sound Isak guesses it doesn’t tear the material, though.
"Well it doesn't matter," Isak declares. "Obviously you're an artist. You can see it."
"Really?" Even asks, eyebrows raised and a small amused smile beginning to paint across his face. It's just a delicate quirking of the lips but Isak will take it. "How can you tell?" he questions, cracking his eyes open, watching Isak out of his periphery.
That was a really fucking good question. How could Isak tell? From the moment he'd set eyes on him, Isak had decided this boy was involved in art. But that didn't make him an artist, neither did the fact that he's been observing Isak for the past thirty minutes due to him being a self-proclaimed fan. Part of it comes from the fact that he resents when people put limits on others, it reminds him too much of the way his father was before he walked out- always it's in your head Marianne or it's just a phase Isak.
So, yeah, part of his assertion was a knee-jerk reaction because Even can be an artist if he damn well chooses, but the majority of it, Isak realizes, is because of "The way you look. You're fingers have calluses on them from holding pens and brushes, and there’s a streak of blue clay on your neck behind your ear,” he says, causing Even to instantly raise his hand and rub at the spot. Unfortunately, the damage is already done so the only thing he succeeds in doing is smearing the spot further over his skin.
“I was working on something earlier,” he says sheepishly.
“See, that’s just another part of it,” Isak exclaims, on a roll now, “You don’t seem overly self-centered. If anything, you have this vibe of humility, something I bet half of those trust fund assholes being accepted into their program don’t have. Successful artists- real artists,” he stresses, “they don’t do it for the glory or the recognition. It’s deeper for them. It’s about capturing something and showing it to the world, giving others a chance to see something they’ve never seen before. And, I for one see that in you. You’ve been looking at things so intensely, almost like you’re trying to trap the image with your mind. Besides,” he shrugs, “art is subjective. The fact that they’re putting a label on whether or not others will be impacted by your work or not kinda defeats the purpose of art itself.”
He glances over at Even who’s watching him with an awestruck expression. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes wide, mouth open in a little ‘o’ like he can’t quite believe Isak just did that, just went on a five-minute rant because of something he’d said.
He winces. “Was that too much?” He’s not exactly the most social person in the world but he knows enough to realize that most people don’t whole-heartedly defend someone they’ve just met like he just did. It’s just that somewhere along the line in the short amount of time since they’d met Isak had started to care about Even. He sees worth in him, even if the boy himself can’t.
“No, no. That was um- Wow,” Even says, dazed. “Thank you. That was- Thank you,” he repeats softer, voice cracking in sincerity. His eyes look suspiciously damp, but Isak doesn’t want to push it. He’s already said more than enough, so he accepts it when Even changes the topic after a few silent minutes tick by during which the sound of Even’s sniffles are covered by the sound of the paint being squeezed from the can splattering on the concrete. “How’d you get started doing this then if it’s just a hobby?” he asks, returning to their earlier path of conversation before they were derailed by the fork in the road.
“Art in general or this?” Isak asks, gesturing at the graffiti in front of him.
“Both,” Even clarifies, and Isak licks his lips, sucking them between his teeth, nodding.
“I’ve always been interested in art. My mom used to take me to galleries when I was little and we would spend hours there just looking at the pieces and coming up with stories that went along with them. She was the one who bought me my first notepad and pack of charcoal pencils. So, I’ve kinda always drawn, but the street art thing…” he trails off with a sigh, cutting a glance over at Even. He looks nothing but warm and accepting, and for some reason he feels like he could tell him anything without fear of judgement.
It’s reminiscent of the night he met Vilde all those years ago in the skatepark. Just like then, Isak feels himself opening up. Unlike then, he feels it happening with more of an ease to it, feels himself falling with the ease of autumn leaves sinking to the earth, nothing holding them back against the tree branches above.
“My parents started fighting more often, loud and ugly. Stuff would get thrown and I could hear it shattering against the walls from my room. One of those nights I just couldn’t take it anymore, so I snuck out the window in my room and just walked around trying to clear my head. Normally, I would do that by drawing, except I left my shit at the house and I wasn’t about to go back for some pens and paper.
“Anyway, I stumbled upon this group of people painting the side of an old train car and they asked if I wanted to join them. Just like that,” he laughs, remembering how shocked he’d been when they had spotted him and, instead of yelling, had tossed him a can and told him what they needed help with. “It was… surreal,” he says, deciding that to be the closest word for the experience. “After that night, I just couldn’t stop going back to the streets to draw on stuff. I don’t know, it was just freeing somehow, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Even agrees, nodding sympathetically, something indescribable burning behind his eyes. “So, that’s the origin story of Parallel, huh?”
Isak snorts a laugh. “Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “Though you make it sound like the background story of a superhero and not just the story of how a kid started disrespecting public property to escape his dick of a dad who couldn’t handle the fact that he was married to a woman with schizophrenia.”
“Your mom has schizophrenia?”
“Yeah, she’s doing so much better now, though. We- me and her- got her the help she needed. Medicine, a therapist, somewhere safe and healthy to live.”
“That’s really good, Isak,” Even says, but he sounds a little distracted, picking with a hangnail on his thumb. “I’m bipolar,” he admits, more like whispers, wincing at the harshness of the words in the stillness of the night. He looks nervous, almost like he’s expecting Isak to tell him to leave. The thought makes Isak’s chest ache.
“Did you just do the mental illness version of I have a gay cousin?” he says trying to lighten the mood, showing Even with his actions rather than his words that this changes nothing, doesn’t stop the butterflies flapping their wings in his stomach, doesn’t change the fact that Even’s laugh and smile have ingrained themselves in his brain, carved a cavern just for themselves in his heart.
It has the desired effect as Even barks out a surprised laugh. “Maybe I did. But isn’t that sort of a stupid assumption, though. I mean, not everyone has a gay cousin. I don’t have a gay cousin.”
“Well, I hate to tell you this, but if you can say that, it usually means you’re the gay cousin.”
He gives him a contemplative look. “Shit, I think you’re right. Technically, I’m pansexual, but still in the grand scheme of things I’m in the LGBTQ community so… Fuck, now that’s gonna bother me. My grandma has this thing about validating people, so now I’m gonna wonder how many times she’s told people her grandson was pan when she found out they were gay. Don’t laugh,” he scolds Isak, but he’s laughing himself, mirth painting his eyes, dusting over his features, “it’s a serious problem. I once witnessed her tell a little girl at the store about the time she fell down the stairs and broke her arm and her foot so the kid didn’t feel bad about scraping her knee in the cereal aisle.”
“Wow. She certainly sounds like something else,” Isak giggles.
“Oh, she is. I used to spend the summer at her house when I was younger. If I think about it, that’s probably where my obsession with art started. She had this huge driveway and she would buy sidewalk chalk and judge contests between my sister and I to see who could draw the most creative stuff. There was always a category, like favorite holiday or make the scariest monster.” Even shakes his head fondly, “That was my favorite part of summer, favorite part of anything really. When I was diagnosed, I didn’t really want to do anything, talk to anyone. It got kinda… bad, but she brought pastel chalk and paper to my hospital room and told me to draw the things that scared me most about being bipolar. And then she had me flip the page and do the exact opposite, draw things that I thought were good about myself, things that weren’t going to change because I was bipolar. Made me see that I wasn’t a label just because one had been ascribed to me, you know.”
“Smart woman,” Isak says around a small smile. Even hums in agreement, and they sink back into a comfortable silence, Even lighting another cigarette.
Eventually, he breaks the silence to question, “Why do you do this, though. Why make parallel scenes for EBN’s work? I mean, I’ve heard some rumors and speculations but I don’t know if I buy any of them.”
And, oh, Isak’s heard some rumors too. That he does this because he hates EBN and what his work stands for, that he’s actually dating the guy and they’re the next Bonnie and Clyde committing low-key art felonies and running from the cops.
“Is this your way of telling him to fuck off, that he’s too pretentious and needs to get some chill?”
"It's not pretentious," Isak defends, snapping back to attention. "I mean, it looks that way to you maybe and to others who pass it by, but this is a reflection of something inside EBN. It's something he felt, so it's not pretentious... It's just real."
"If it's real, then why are you out here correcting it?" he hedges, but he doesn't sound accusing just openly curious. Nobody’s ever looked at Isak the way Even does as he questions him, like he’s trying to peel back the surface and see the inky gold strands of his soul.
"I don’t consider it correction,” Isak starts, cutting his eyes over to the other boy before refocusing on his work with a final tentative shake to the paint can, “For me, it’s more of- I don’t know. Well, I do, but it’s going to sound stupid.” Even simply cocks his head and waits, eyebrows raised in obvious intrigue. “Ok, so, it’s like all of his work seems to have this edge to it, like a hidden sadness, and while we may not know each other in the conventional sense, I feel like I know him on a more spiritual level. By doing this I guess I'm trying to tell him that he's not alone. So, it's not a correction," Isak says, stepping back to admire the way his addition looks beneath EBN’s, "it’s a different perspective of possibility."
Even has this contemplative look, turning his cigarette over and over between his fingers before snuffing it out on the sidewalk and flicking the butt into the street. "Alright then," he says with a soft smile, standing up and brushing his hands against the back of his jeans to remove any dirt collecting there, "let's see this other possibility."
He comes to stand beside Isak, their arms touching, once again displaying Even’s complete lack of personal space. This time, though, Isak finds that he doesn’t mind.
When Even sees what Isak’s done, his breath hitches.
The painting depicts a dark room, cluttered with clothes strewn across the floor, music CDs lying on almost every flat surface, a vinyl spinning in the record player on the desk. It’s all shades of dark red and black with hints of purple and luke warm blue. A little window opened at the back of the room replaces the neon cross in the original painting and lets a breeze sweep through the etched room, caressing the bodies wrapped in the center of the work.
Like the original, there’s two people in the room, one laying on the unmade bed, the other spread out on the floor below. Unlike the picture above it, the two boys are clearly alive. Instead of a vial of poison at his feet, there’s a pair of sneakers, one titling over and leaning against the other. Instead of a gun, a cigarette is raised in the air, being passed from one boy to the other, their pinkies and ring fingers hooked together delicately while the transfer is made. The look of devotion of their faces is hard to miss. Above the picture are the words “this time with Adidas sneakers and cigarettes.”
"You saved them," Even says sounding awed and a little breathless.
Isak shrugs. "I like to think they saved each other and were just kind enough to let me tell their story."
Even's watching him with this look that Isak can't quite decipher. If he had to guess, though, he'd say it's pretty close to what he imagines a blind man would look like upon seeing the sun for the first time, only amplified, which should be a ridiculous concept but somehow it’s not. Even looks like he's found not only the sun but the stars and moon as well, maybe even a comet flashing across the night sky.
"You're amazing," Even says so lowly that Isak almost doesn't catch it. He shakes his head, scrutinizing the boy in front of him, flushed from adrenaline and the intimacy they've been sharing, and says at a normal volume, "Ok, so you don't believe in the epicness of a tragic love story. But do you believe in other things, say... love at first sight?"
"If you asked me yesterday, then you'd probably be getting a very different answer. My friend always says I have the heart of an optimistic cynic."
Even throws his head back in a laugh that catches Isak's breath. "And what does your optimistic cynic of a heart say now?" he asks, inching closer to Isak until he can feel the denim from his jacket brushing against the lighter fabric of his Nike jacket. At the touch, there's a quiet swish sound.
"I think I'm starting to believe," he glances down at Even's chapped lips, "now."
They’re about a breath away from each other now, eyes hooded and noses bumping, a light drizzle beginning to fall, sticking in their eyelashes and reflecting the light from the streetlamp nearby. The moment’s shattered though as a deep voice shouts at them, ringing with enough authority to startle them apart. Down the street is a cop, fully uniformed, flashlight on and pointed directly at them as he briskly makes his way over, clearly intent on catching them if the way his hand is hovering over his handcuffs is any indication.
“Shit,” Even curses, grabbing Isak’s hand and threading their fingers together. He takes off running in the opposite direction, dragging Isak with him down the street and around the corner into a dark and narrow alley. They have to practically hold their breaths to ensure the giggles threatening to expose them don’t break free and alert the officer of their whereabouts as he dashes by the alley entrance, speaking into his walkie talkie about being in hot pursuit of two suspects.
“Well, that was close,” Even says.
“You’re telling me,” Isak laughs. He moves in closer to Even, wrapping his hands in the front of Even’s jacket to pull him in. “But before we were so rudely interrupted, I believe we were talking about something about love at first sight.”
“I do believe you’re right,” Even says, sobering up and nuzzling his nose against Isak’s. “Something you believe in now,” he says warmly, eyes lit up with affection.
“Shut up,” Isak says, pushing Even away slightly only to pull him right back in by his grip on his coat. “You believe in it too.”
“Of course, I do. Love at first sight is absolutely real, especially when it’s with a boy who has a tendency to compliment your drawings with his own.”
Isak is almost too distracted by the beginning of that statement to register the last half, but when he does he pulls back slightly, staring at Even in confusion. “Wait. Your drawings? What do you- what are-” he’s desperately trying to make sense of Even’s words. If Even was talking about him, then that meant, “You’re-”
“Yep. Even Bech Næsheim,” he says, popping the p and pointing smugly to himself, “EBN for short.”
“Oh my god,” Isak groans, burying his rapidly heating face in his hands, echoes of everything he’s said to this boy rushing to the forefront of his mind. Fuck, he talked about EBN like he knew the guy, like he had any right to make the assumptions that he had. He was such an idiot, rambling on about everything. He lets out another groan. Honestly, he should have seen this coming. This is just his mortifying, shitty luck.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Even says, prying Isak’s hands from his face and replacing them with his own warmer ones. His thumb rubs over Isak’s cheek smoothly as he searches his eyes. “You’re so sweet. From the moment I first saw you at that first drawing, I was pretty much gone.”
Isak feels the embarrassed coloring in his cheeks drain out of them, going pale at the realization that “You saw me that first night, the first time I ever did this.” It comes out like an awkward half-question half-statement. When Even gives a confirming nod, he can’t stop himself from wondering, “But why didn’t you say anything? I was a complete stranger potentially destroying your work, and you were what, just completely chill with me doing it?”
"When I made that first drawing, I wasn't," he blows out a breath, averting his eyes to look at something down the alley, "in a good place," he settles on, glancing at the clouds overshadowing the moon above them before snapping his eyes back to Isak's. "I was coming back to fix it, cross it out or paint over it or- fuck, I don't know. But when I came around the corner, I saw you. You looked so fucking intense- breathtaking and beautiful. You were so focused on what you were doing that I don't even think you knew I was there." He pauses, skimming his fingers along Isak's jaw before taking his face tenderly in his hands. "Except, you did see me, better than anyone else, because what you drew... God, Isak it was how I felt. It's like I have these thoughts, and I can explain them sure, but you make sense of them. Turn them into something I can understand instead of just a jumbled mess. And I know we don't really know each other all that well, but I feel like we do. I see you, Isak, and I think we could be like our art..."
Even trails off, searching Isak's eyes for something. He must find it because he breaks into a wide grin that only intensifies when Isak finishes his previous thought for him.
"We complete each other," he says breathless, voice cracking under the intensity of the fire burning in Even's eyes- blue like the flames of a too hot fire, so white hot they're no longer capable of emitting the normal red orange hue.
Even looks blindingly happy, his eyes crinkled around the edges. If it were possible to bottle the pure emotion flowing out of Even, the world would never know sadness again. He's watching Isak like a kid watches the sun, the rays stinging his eyes but unable to look away from the radiance, afraid to miss a moment of the power, the light it exudes.
As for Isak, he's always been more of a night person. And he thinks he may have just found his moon.
Darting forward, he captures Even's lips, threading his fingers through his ridiculous hair and uses his grasp as leverage to pull him in as close as possible. Even goes easily, pliant and soft under Isak's touch. One hand stays on Isak's neck, fingers lightly pressing against his pulse point, thrumming against the matching rhythm humming in Even's fingertips. Even wraps his other arm around Isak's waist, the quiet swish of denim grazing over nylon mirroring the sensuous slick glide of lips on lips, enhanced only by the occasional moan echoing in the tight space of the alley.
It's all lips and tongues and teeth, quick breathing and slow falling, tingles that taste like an eclipse on a humid summer night.
When they finally break apart they don't go far, resting their foreheads against each other.
"Woah."
"Yeah," Even says, nuzzling his nose against Isak's, startling a delighted laugh out of him that makes Even's eyes sparkle. "I haven't felt anything quite like this ever."
"Neither have I," Isak says with hooded eyes, returning the nuzzle, sliding his nose down Even's and bumping the tips together.
"D'you wanna come home with me?" Even asks, taking a step back and trailing his hands down Isak's arms until he reaches his hands, threading their fingers together in a way that feels loose but is tight with intent. "We don't have to do anything," he assures, eyebrows flicking up as he brings their joint hands to his mouth and presses a tender kiss to Isak's knuckles that makes his heart stutter. "We could just talk and make out."
"We can do that. We will do that," he amends because he's pretty sure he wants to know everything about this boy, "but we can also see what else you can do with paint, and what else I can do with my tongue."
Even openly groans at the suggestion, eyes rolling back slightly before he breaks into a laugh just as beautiful as he is, leaning in to peck Isak's lips again one, two, three times in quick succession. "There you go again, reading my mind," he says, leading Isak out of the alley and back to the street. They're still holding hands, but the other hand that Even dropped feels his absence like a physical ache.
It's not until they stop and Even pulls his phone from his pocket that Isak realizes they're right back where they started in front of the graffiti. Isak's contribution is only a little messed up due to the slight drizzle earlier. The majority of the lines were already dry so there's only a few places that look smeared and runny. Somehow it makes the painting look more authentic, more open and real. It almost matches the vision he had in his head when he set out to draw it.
Even snaps a picture of the two paintings, the top one pristine and elegant, the bottom one more grunge and realistic. It's like Even said, they complete each other, perfectly filling in the elements the other lacks. Isak feels good about it, like it's an omen of hope for their future.
Humming his satisfaction, Even once again pockets his phone and takes Isak's hand, turning them around and crossing the street to the building where Isak first saw him lounging on the steps.
Eyebrows crinkling in confusion, Isak pauses. "What are you- Do you live here?" he asks incredulous.
Even gives him a sheepish look, cheeks dusting a delicate pink visible in the starlight. "Um, yeah," he admits, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "Besides that first time I've never been able to catch you in the act. I'd see you around town, just a quick glance here or there, you know. The more we indirectly connected, the more I wanted to meet you. But it's not like I could just walk up to you and start a conversation like 'hey, this is gonna sound weird but I know you’re Parallel and I'm EBN, that guy you've been doing your paintings with. I think we may be soulmates."
"Soulmates, huh?" Isak asks, weaving his arms around Even's waist and putting his hands in his back pockets. "I kinda like how that sounds."
"So you're not like-"
"Creeped out?" Isak supplies. "I mean you did basically put a painting up directly across from your apartment because you wanted to meet me and knew I'd be here eventually. Actually, it's kinda like the prefect stalker trap, desperate on a whole new level."
Even's eyes have been getting wider the entire time Isak's been talking, like he's afraid of what he's about to say next. Almost like he expects Isak to tell him this is too weird and he wants to be left alone.
"So am I creeped out?" he repeats rhetorically, "No, I'm actually not. It’s sort of flattering to think you'd go through all that trouble just for me. A little romantic. But maybe I'm messed up, too, a little creepy myself. I mean I have been practically shadowing you all over Oslo just to paint a scene parallel to something you did days before. Or maybe," he says, lowering his voice and wiggling in closer to Even who accepts the closeness eagerly, "and this is my personal favorite, maybe it's because we really are soulmates."
"I think I prefer that explanation," Even agrees, murmuring the words against Isak's lips before claiming his mouth in a heated kiss. Slowly, he starts walking them backwards towards his apartment building, stumbling on the concrete steps in their reluctance to separate for even the five minutes it would take to walk to the front door.
Even pauses when they reach the door, breaking apart with a soft pop and a thin line of saliva still attaching their red and swollen lips. "I hope you know," he says, hand on the doorknob as he considers Isak, "If you walk through this door with me, I don't intend on ever letting you back out. If we do this, I'm not letting you go."
"See, that's where you're mistaken," Isak says, shaking his head fondly and kissing the hurt look off Even's face. "You're assuming that I don't want that too. I'm not letting you go either. You're stuck with me, baby."
"Baby," Even mouths, his lips forming a soft smile around the words. There's awe sparkling in his eyes, and what Isak thinks might be love, though he's never seen that much open affection directed at him before to know for sure. Maybe nobody's ever called Even baby before, either. Maybe that's why he looks so warm and open and vulnerable at the prospect of it. Maybe, Isak thinks as they tumble through the door together, in all the ways that count they'll be each other's first.
Years later, when they're married and opening an art gallery of their own to preserve and showcase the graffiti murals from the streets, masterpieces that others only deem as the illegal rebellion of underprivileged kids on the streets, Even blows up the picture he took that first night of the two versions of Romeo and Juliet that brought them together. It hangs in the front window of the gallery for everyone to see as they pass by. Isak's soul once again on display, but this time he doesn't mind because it’s not just his soul anymore.