Work Text:
There's a church bell ringing in the distance. Even doesn't think he's ever heard as many church bells as he has in what little time he's spent here in Rome, but it's not what woke him. He just… woke up. The sun is already up and the day is promising to be bright and lovely when he rolls over to blearily look out the open window. The noise from the street below spills in, the excited cadence of Italian making him smile even though he understands nothing of it. There's something about the melody of this language that just feels magical.
He stretches, making full use of the queen size bed, toes pointed and arms lifting up above his head and then spreading out to both sides until he can grasp the edges of the mattress. It's only when he does that he remembers the bed wasn't empty when he went to sleep last night.
His heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline kicking in, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows quickly, casting his gaze around the room. He's definitely alone. Isak left.
Fuck, he didn't mean to fall asleep with him last night, didn't mean to share the bed. Definitely didn't mean to share his thoughts and fears and his… fucking heart. What is Isak supposed to do with it? What is he supposed to do without it? He can still feel it in his chest, beating fast and strong, but it feels tender, like it's already bruised.
Fumbling for his phone he realises he must have slept through his alarm somehow and now he has only two hours until the press conference and photo call. Two hours until Isak realises what he did, two hours until Even will have no choice but to live with whatever story Isak comes up with to explain the previous day to himself. It's not like Even is going to have a chance to explain.
He fucked up. He fucked up royally .
Even looks across the piazza lazily, soaking in the sunshine and the loud, cheerful Italian chatter all around him. Deciding to come to Rome a few days before the press gig for a mini holiday was definitely the right decision. It’s not the height of summer season yet, but Rome in the May sunshine is a whole other ballgame than Oslo anyway. He looked up the weather prognosis before he packed, of course, but it always feels odd to not pack a few warmer (or cooler) options just in case. Sure, he technically knows that Rome’s lower temperatures right now are basically Oslo’s high points, but it still feels odd to not pack at least a jumper or two. You never know, after all!
But Rome has been nothing but brilliant sunshine ever since he stepped off the plane, and Even hasn’t touched either of the two jumpers, except to move them to the side so he can get to his cooler linen shirts. It’s not hot yet, but it’s so nice to dress in light clothing and feel the sunshine on his skin, the light breeze billow up under his looser clothes every now and then.
The only thing putting a small dampener on his mood is the reason he’s here in the first place.
That damn press conference and photo op the Crown Prince will be attending.
It’s not even like he’s photo shy and this will be the only opportunity to get his photo this year or anything. Prince Isak very dutifully attends charity functions and gallery openings and nights at the opera house and even some of the smaller theatre shows. He visits sick children in hospitals and shakes hands with architects and construction workers alike when there’s some building or other to open. He’s a publicist’s wet dream, but somehow it is apparently still vital someone - someone other than the other twenty-plus photographers who’ll be here - take his picture at this event here in Rome.
To be honest, Even has forgotten what it is. Something terribly important and deserving of the royal attention, he’s sure.
He’s not looking forward to elbowing his place to the front, to being stuck in the crowd of photographers all trying to get the best shot of the day, to be able to sell it for the highest price. He supposes it’s lucky that he’s been sent here, at least. He knows he has a guaranteed paycheck at the end of this - which is why he’s doing it in the first place after all. Being a glorified paparazzo may not have been his dream career, but at least it pays the bills.
And sometimes there’s even a little left over for a quick weekend trip to Rome. So Even really shouldn’t be complaining. He’s got enough friends in the art community who would kill for a steady gig like this to fund their actual art - it’s just that this takes up so much of Even’s time and energy that he barely has any left for what he really wants to do. But if he doesn’t do this, then he won’t be able to support himself. It’s the eternal artist’s dilemma.
In a different life Even might have chosen the instability of living paycheck to paycheck and relying on life working out somehow, but he knows he can’t afford to do that.
Sighing, be focuses his gaze onto the fountain in the middle of the piazza again, banishing all the existential worries to the back of his mind. He’s in Rome, the weather’s lovely, he just discovered the deliciousness of the affogato - life is good.
Looking around at the people again, the way they dress and move and laugh so different from Oslo yet somehow exactly the same, he lifts his camera automatically, snapping a few quick photos. They probably won’t make it into anything, but Even likes to keep in practice, likes to take the opportunities to take photos as they present themselves, so he keeps moving his viewfinder across the piazza, looking for another shot.
There’s an elderly couple sitting at the rim of the fountain eating ice cream cones.
There’s a young boy tugging on his mother’s hand excitedly and pointing at a flock of pigeons
There’s a blond man exiting the barber’s shop on the other side of the piazza, running a hand through his hair like he’s getting used to the new haircut.
Even lingers on him a little, the clean-shaven, strong jawline, the sunglasses stylish and expensive, the t-shirt equally so. The man turns and Even gets a view of his side profile, presses the shutter before he’s even thought it through and then feels a jolt in the pit of his stomach.
That’s--- holy shit. He knows that jawline, those cheekbones, the brows, the nose, the ear. That’s not just any attractive, expensively dressed man - it’s Crown Prince Isak Harald of Norway.
He’s looking around the piazza like he’s not quite sure where to go, and Even realises that he must have slipped his security detail. Or given them the day off. He’s not actually sure if he’s allowed to be out by himself, but at the same time it seems ridiculous to assume a grownass man isn’t allowed some alone time if he wants it. Even doesn’t really know anything about the royal lifestyle. He has no idea if there’s a legitimate worry over Prince Isak’s life every time he steps outside.
Still, this is, well. If Even was looking for an opportunity for a good photo, here it is. Prince Isak, alone, seemingly planning on hanging out in Rome like any other normal person. That’s the kind of behind the scenes content that sells for a lot more than he’s being paid for the photo op gig tomorrow.
Without really thinking it through he jumps up from the chair, leaving a few euros on the table. He keeps his eyes on the prince even as he grabs the handles of the Vespa he rented for the weekend and swings a leg over it. Prince Isak is still looking around, though he looks a little less lost and a little more like he’s just taking everything in.
Even takes a chance, rounding the piazza and stopping right in front of him.
Prince Isak startles, looking first confused and then suspicious when he sees the camera slung around Even’s neck.
Right. Fuck.
“Sorry, this is very forward,” Even says in English, “but I saw you from across the piazza as I was taking photos and, well. Would you like some company?”
Prince Isak stares at him quietly for another long few heartbeats, but then he smiles.
“Where would you be taking me?” he asks, also in English, eyeing the Vespa.
Even shrugs, smiling as sunnily as he can. “Wherever you’d like.”
Prince Isak laughs like he can’t believe this is happening, and then shrugs. “Sure, alright. The forum first, then.”
It takes Even a moment to realise that he actually agreed, but then he hands him the helmet and scoots forward a little. Prince Isak puts the helmet on over his freshly cut hair. He’s been wearing it slightly longer, recently, and with a beard to match, but Even can’t believe the Superman tactic of changing something so basic about his appearance actually made him unrecognisable for even just a moment.
When Prince Isak sits down on the scooter behind him, hands on Even’s hips for stability, it occurs to Even that maybe, just maybe, he’s made an error of judgement.
Even showers quickly, washing his hair but not bothering with a blow dryer. It’s warm enough outside that it’ll dry by itself and it’s not as though he’s the one going to the photo op to have his picture taken. Isak, he’s sure, will look impeccable as always, showcasing his new haircut and the clean line of his jaw.
He wonders when Isak snuck out. Did he leave as soon as Even fell asleep? Did he set an alarm that Even didn’t hear and leave then? Did he just wake up and regret everything deeply and took the opportunity to get away without having to say any of that to Even’s face? Or maybe he’s just the type to hit it and quit it. Nothing about his sexual or romantic adventures - if there have been any - though if last night is anything to go by then there definitely have - has ever hit the papers, so it’s not like there’s a precedent for this sort of thing. At least not one that Even knows of. Isak either has everyone in iron-tight NDAs, or he leaves them all satisfied enough that they’d never tell on him.
Even is certainly going to delete any and all pictures he took of Isak yesterday that he can be identified in. Sure, Isak is Prince Isak, but the day and the night they shared wasn’t for public consumption, and frankly Even is disappointed in himself that he ever even considered tricking Isak into revealing more than he wanted to. Sure, he would have never passed on anything that Isak said, but even just sharing pictures of him in moments that weren’t meant for public consumption… it’s not something Even can really condone.
So he dresses quickly and grabs his camera, already thinking about the espresso and cornetto he’s going to have for breakfast at the little café just down the street. When he reaches for his press pass, he freezes.
There’s a receipt wrapped around it, a simple message written on the back of it in an elegant hand.
‘See you there. - I’
Even’s blood runs cold.
He never even considered the possibility that Isak might, for some reason, know about Even. Maybe he figured it out at some point yesterday. Maybe he saw the press pass this morning and that’s why he left. He has no idea what the message is supposed to say either. Is Isak going to have him shackled and flown back home to be tried for, like, treason? Is he looking forward to seeing Even there? Is he just going to sue him for breach of privacy rights or… something? (Look, Even really doesn’t know the exact legal circumstances for what happened yesterday.)
Groaning to himself, he runs a hand over his face, trying to come up with some sort of game plan.
But there’s nothing he can do. There’s only facing whatever happens.
So he grabs the press pass, pulls it over his head so he can’t lose it, and then grabs his hotel keys and leaves.
“You know, people used to believe that if you put your hand through there and told a lie, it would bite off your hand,” Isak says, taking Even’s hand and guiding it towards the open stone mouth. The face it’s a part of is a little scary, Even’s not going to lie. It’s not a monster’s face, but that somehow makes it worse. If you’re going to be judged, it’s going to be by a human face.
“Did they?” he asks.
Isak hums in confirmation. “That’s why it’s called la bocca della verità . The mouth of truth.”
“Apt name,” Even says with a grin and lets Isak guide his hand all the way through. It’s a nonsense superstition of course, but there’s a peculiar feeling curling around Even’s guts when Isak looks up at him with bright, shining eyes.
“So, then,” Isak says, grin widening. “What did you think when you saw me on the piazza?”
“I thought ‘oh wow’,” Even says, which is not technically a lie, and has the benefit of making Isak laugh and roll his eyes because he doesn’t take compliments well.
“That’s it? You thought ‘oh wow’, so you came over and offered me a ride on your scooter?”
Even wiggles his head side to side. “Well, I also thought ‘I’m never going to get this opportunity again’. When in Rome, and all that.”
Isak laughs again. “I don’t think that’s what that saying is about.”
“But am I lying?” Even asks with a grin. “My hand seems to be fine.”
Isak snorts another laugh, accompanied by another roll of his eyes. It’s really not very convincing when he’s smiling like that. Almost like he’s fond of Even’s dumb teasing.
Even pulls his hand back out and takes Isak to put it into Truth’s mouth. Isak raises a challenging eyebrow in return.
“What about you?” Even asks. “Why did you get on my scooter?”
“Well, I saw you and I thought ‘oh wow, I’m never going to have this opportunity again’.”
Isak’s grinning, and Even makes himself laugh, but he feels his heart plummet into his stomach at the hidden truth behind it. Isak probably isn’t ever going to get this opportunity again, or at least not for a long time. There probably aren’t a lot of people in Oslo who don’t recognise him. There probably aren’t a lot of opportunities for him to test it either.
Even is going to delete all the photos he took today.
Isak is still looking up at him, his smile a little smaller now, probably because Even hasn’t said anything yet. But there’s something there too, like he’s looking for something in Even’s expression, and though Even doesn’t know what it is, he keeps his eyes on Isak, lets him look his fill.
And then Isak takes his hand out of the stone face and curls it into the front of Even’s shirt instead, pulling him in and leaning up to meet his lips in a kiss.
It’s a sweet kiss. A gentle, tentative kiss that Even doesn’t know what to do with.
But when Isak pulls away, he hears himself make a small, distressed noise, his hand flies up to hold Isak close by the waist, and he follows him to keep kissing him, lips moving now; still gentle, but a little more sure.
Isak’s hand moves up to his shoulder, the other one coming up to the side of Even’s face, a soft touch curling around his jaw and cheek.
This is probably a really bad idea, but Even can’t regret it.
The espresso and cornetto are just as good as the last two days, but Even barely even tastes them, methodically going through every photo he took since he saw Isak on the piazza last night and deleting anything that could be used to clearly identify him. Every time he taps ‘yes’ on ‘are you sure you want to delete?’ he feels his stomach sink a little. He wants to think he wouldn’t have sold these pictures regardless of how yesterday went, but it still feels gross to ever have planned to do it in the first place.
And at the same time, with each deleted picture, he feels a little better. No matter what Isak thinks of him, Even will do right by him as well as he can.
When he’s reached the end of the photos, every last trace of Isak’s face or moles or that scar on his left hand gone, he sighs, and picks the cornetto crumbs off his plate. After one last look at the piazza, he gets up and leaves.
They don’t fall into Even’s room in a tangle of limbs, hungry for each other. There’s some anticipation curled up in Even’s gut, a little tingle of a possibility, but Isak’s telling him a story about his friend back home, and Even laughs at all the appropriate places. They’ve got bags of bread and cheese and ham, sun-dried tomatoes and olives in oil, and bottles of wine in each of their hands, having decided against a restaurant dinner. Instead, they bought enough food to feed them for the rest of the night and they’re going to camp out on Even’s balcony.
“Your room’s nicer than mine,” Isak says when they get inside and Even turns on the light just so they don’t bump into anything.
Even laughs, because he sincerely doubts that, but there’s something in Isak’s voice and his expression as he looks around the room that makes it seem like he’s telling the truth.
“Well, then it’s a good thing you’re here,” Even says with a grin, toeing off his shoes and gesturing towards the balcony.
Isak grins back. “Yes, it is.”
Isak looks impeccable.
His shirt is tucked in neatly, not a crease in sight despite the hour long press conference he just left. His smile looks easy and jovial, and his hair - now neatly styled - sits perfectly atop his head like it’s reminding everyone of the crown that also sits there, metaphorically speaking.
There’s a moment where Even thinks he’s just going to let the other photographers elbow him out of the way, paying gig be damned, but it’s not like that’ll reduce the damage he’s already done. He still needs to pay rent, still needs to pay for his studio space, still wants to do that exhibition soon. He needs this gig to pay, and if he takes good photos he might even get a nice little bonus out of it.
So he stands his ground and picks up his camera, looks at Isak through the viewfinder and turns him back into Prince Isak; just another person to photograph.
The one thing he doesn’t do is call out to him. He knows he could, knows his voice would stand out among all the hectic English and Italian, knows that if he shouted something in Norwegian it’d get Isak’s attention at least. He might even recognise Even’s voice. But he doesn’t think he wants to know if Isak would turn to him. And if he did, what expression he’d be wearing. So he keeps quiet and does his best to snap as many photos as he can.
When it’s over and Isak is walked out by his security detail, he doesn’t linger. There’s nothing else for him here.
He’s already outside, walking down the steps slowly and flicking through the photos for a preliminary check, when a man in a black suit grabs his arm.
“Mr. Bech Næsheim?” the man says.
Even swallows heavily, heart beating in his throat, wildly wondering if this is when he gets arrested for treason. He manages a nod.
The man reaches into the pocket of his trousers, but instead of handcuffs, he pulls out a postcard and hands it to him.
“His Royal Highness wanted to pass along a message to you.”
The photo on the front of the postcard is La Bocca della Verità. Even tries to suppress a wince and turns it around. The same handwriting as the one on the back of his receipt is sprawled across this too.
‘It was a very pretty lie.’
“Can I send him a message back?” he asks, voice smaller than he means it to be. Somehow this is worse than any mean thing Isak could have called him.
The man looks Even over coolly, and Even wonders how much he knows.
“You may,” he finally says. “I cannot guarantee he cares to take it.”
“That’s fine,” Even says quickly, and digs a pen out of his camera bag. Digital age or not, you never know when you might need a pen, he always says when people mock him for it, and if he could, he’d shove this moment under all their noses. He already knows he won’t tell anyone about any of this.
His own handwriting isn’t nearly as neat as Isak’s, but he’s pretty sure it’s legible at least, which is the most important thing.
‘I’m not that good a liar. I deleted everything,’ he writes, and adds his phone number. He knows the chances that Isak will want to have anything to do with him after all this are slim to none, but now at least Isak has the means to do so. He probably has them anyway, could just find out where Even works, but this is more personal. It’s the only thing Even can think of to let Isak know that he would like Isak to reach out, but that if Isak doesn’t want to, he won’t push.
The man looks at him with what may be a measure of amusement behind his stoic facade, but takes the card when Even hands it back over. He nods curtly in greeting and then stalks off with the kind of purpose that makes it feel like the air hurries out of his path to let him through.
Christ.
Even really can’t believe this is his life.
The man vanishes back inside, and Even takes a moment to collect himself and then turns around to leave. He still has to pack and his flight leaves in three hours. No time to dawdle.
The cabin crew are just reminding everyone to switch off their mobile devices, Even fumbling his own phone from his pocket, when it lights up with a text. It’s an unknown number, but there’s really only one person it could be from.
How are your hands?
Heart beating wildly, Even doesn’t let himself think before he texts back. Still attached.
Good , Isak sends. Have a pleasant flight.
It seems like that’s all Isak is going to say, and if he’s talking to Even, then Even definitely doesn’t want this plane to crash, so he turns his phone off and hastily stuffs it back into his pocket, buckling his seatbelt and settling in for the flight.
It’s only when he lands in Oslo, a few hours later, that he sees it wasn’t Isak’s last text after all.
I’ll ask again tomorrow, is right there on his screen when he turns his phone back on while waiting for his luggage to come around on the conveyor belt.
Even’s heart skips a beat and he grins to himself, probably looking like a fool beaming down at the screen on his phone.
Isak can ask however many times he wants. Even’s answer won’t change.
The End