Work Text:
You meet him in the summer before your senior year, and you fall in love the first thing you do. He’s experienced, handsome, and, maybe most importantly, he’s the kindest person you’ve ever met. He’s a few years older than you, is in university and everything, but he doesn’t talk to you as if you’re a child. In his eyes, you’re an equal, even though everyone knows that you aren’t.
At first, you’re friends - so close you make others envy what you have. He drives you places, gives you cigarettes, and he talks to you about what you’re planning on studying after high school. Sometimes, you go dancing together, and you watch as he styles his hair with gel and pulls the Letterman jacket over his shoulders.
He ends up with a pretty girl every night you go out dancing, and drives you home with her occupying your spot in the passenger seat. When he drops you off, though, he always smiles at you, wink, and tells you to sleep well. It always makes you smile.
He’s not religious, and when you ask him how he dares not to believe, he says that he thinks it doesn’t make much sense, according to what he’s seen in his life. That he still respects your faith, but that it just, doesn’t click for him. You respect that, too.
A week before he’s to drive back to school, you bring him home with you, invite him to dinner with your parents. They adore him, of course, asking if there are any pretty girls from where he’s from, or maybe if there is a pretty girl. He shakes his head, chuckles, and responds with a smooth, “Not yet, Mrs.Valtersen, but one day, hopefully there will be,”.
You take him up to your room, show him your small collection of science books, and when he’s turning the pages of one of your anatomy books, you do the stupidest, most reckless things you’ve ever done - something you’ve thought about before, wondering how it would feel, and how it would look.
You step up onto your tiptoes, place your palm against his arm, and kiss him. He tenses up, you step back. Your heart drops into your stomach. “I’m so sorry. I- I don’t know why I did that. I’m so sorry. Please don’t tell my parents. You can leave, of course you can-”
And then- then he kisses you. He kisses you, and it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. You’ve never kissed a girl, either, but you’re sure that nothing could ever measure up to the feeling of Even’s lips against yours. He’s holding you tightly against him, and you put your fingers against his jaw, ever so gently.
The radio sounds from downstairs, and in a moment, you’re back in your room, and holding Even at arm’s length. “I wasn’t- that wasn’t supposed to happen, forget that,” you say, look away from his disheveled person, and onto the wall over his right shoulder. There is a picture of you from your last graduation, with your grades held under your arm.
“I like you, Isak. Is that okay with you?”
And that’s okay, so okay, but it’s not right. You’re supposed to marry a woman, have kids, get a dog and move into a house with white picket fence. It’s what God wants for you, mamma has said, and you can’t ever disappoint God.
You tell Even so, and he smiles at you, sighs, takes your face into his hands, and holds you there. “Forget what’s right and what’s not. Do you, Isak Valtersen, not your mom or your god, think it’s fine that I’m very, very fond of you?”
Well, when he puts it like that- you nod shakily, lean up to ask for a kiss, and then you’re back where you were before, with his body pressed against yours, letting yourself melt into him.
A week later, he’s packing his stuff into his car, and you’re looking on as he pushes his suitcase into the trunk, shuts it, and walks up to the driver’s side, up to you. He gave you one of his jackets, one that was a bit too small for him, but it still hangs off of your small frame.
“Even, promise me you’ll write. Even if you find some pretty girl, or if you’ve fallen out of love, please write to me. Just so I know you’re okay,” your voice sounds small in the late August winds, and your locks have gone loose, falling into your face every couple of seconds.
“Promise. I won’t, though. You’re the one I want. Talk to your parents about that visit, yeah? Maybe you can come look at some schools sometime, and I can show you around,” he’s speaking in that excited way he always does when he’s dreaming, a little too fast and a little too loud - but it’s worth it, as long as he’s smiling.
You nod, tell him to get in the car, and bid him goodbye. You can only hope it won’t be your last.
He writes to you, a lot. You keep his letters in a box under your bed, and write him back every time you get the chance. He talks about the two of you, together, at his school. About how he knows that some of his friends would accept it all. You agree and talk about it, too, but only to humor him. You’re pretty sure you won’t ever get out of your parents’ hold.
One afternoon you come home from school, and you’re greeted by your mother and father sitting by the kitchen table. In front of them, there’s a box.
“Isak, care to explain what these letters are?”
You go to bed with a red cheek and a bruise on your back.
You stop writing to Even, his letters start fizzling out, you double your bible study days, and flirt with the girls in church. One of the girls - Emma - is particularly infatuated with you, and you know that both your families hope to have the two of you married in a year.
Emma’s dad pulls you into his study as you leave their home one night, after having dinner with them, and he shows you a ring. Your collar feels tight and your stomach’s churning. That day, you’re the bravest you’ve ever been. You leave Emma’s house, pack a bag, and hop onto the next train.
The wood feels weird against your cold hand, and soon you’ll be standing in a puddle of rainwater. You knock again, and pray to God that it’ll open - that there will be someone on the other side, wanting to see you, too.
You’re not prepared for the sight that greets you as the door swings open. He’s there, glorious as ever, and when he sees you, he smiles. He lights up, even, like the goddamn sun, and with a startle, you realize that you love him.
Then he glances down at the rest of your body, and his smile drops. “Isak? What are you doing here?” he asks gently, and you fall apart.
“They wanted me to marry someone - a girl from church, and I can’t. I only want you, you know that, right?” your voice is desperate, seconds away from breaking altogether, and normally you’d be ashamed, but now- now there’s Even.
Even places an arm around you, takes you into his dorm room, and then you cry. You cry all night, and he holds you for longer. The morning after, he pulls you onto his lap, and tells you to explain everything - from start to finish.
It’s the first time you ever think of what your parents have always done to you as wrong.
You write home, tell your parents that you’re safe, but that you won’t come back. You don’t get an answer. You sign up for the last semester of senior year at the local high school, and months later, you’re a highschool graduate. You live in Even’s dorm room for all of it, until he graduates and the two of you move away for you to start university, too.
The apartment you buy is cheap, with roaches crawling up the drains, but it’s yours. During the first night there, Even takes your virginity, and you cry for an hour afterwards. You love him, so so much, he’s probably the man of your dreams, even, but it’s wrong. It’s not what God wants for you.
“Evy, I’m so so scared. What if I go to hell?”
He hugs you, and his tears dampen your hair. You cling to him, never letting go, and in the morning, he tells you that if you do go to hell, at least you’ll both be there. It comforts you.
You’re two months from graduating, and Even’s just about to get promoted, when you wake up in the middle of the night to Even painting your bedroom wall with his oil paints. You try to talk him down, but he’s unresponsive - eyes blank and energy high, high, high.
The next morning, he doesn’t go up. He spends a month in bed, and you curl up to him, every night, kissing his back, and falling asleep. One morning, he’s up again, but he cries into your arms, calling himself crazy.
He’s not, and you tell him as much.
It happens again and again over the years, but you never once think of him as crazy.
You’ve moved, again, and you’re pushing thirty, when you walk into the kitchen and is greeted by the sight of Even sitting by the table, reading the newspaper with tears wetting the ink, smudging it a bit. You put your arm around him, and he turns to you, lips turned up into a smile.
“There has been some kind of uprising in New York. From other people like us.”
You both cry over your morning eggs, kissing and embracing until you both go to bed, staying there until nighttime. There, in the wee hours of the morning, you press yourself against the skin of Even’s back, and say, for the first time in your life, “I’m homosexual.”.
You’re well past thirty when you hear from one of your parents again. It’s your mom, wishing to meet you and the person you love.
She flies up to you, and comes to your apartment for dinner. You greet her with an awkward nod, unsure what to say to her, after all that’s happened.
“Mom, this is Even, my love.”
She hugs him like he’s her son.
The two of you buy a house with a white picket fence, and get a golden retriever. The only thing missing are the kids running around in the garden, an emptiness that’s hard to fill in your lives, but as long as you have each other, you’re okay.
You travel to Europe, and see two women holding hands on the street. You’re forty seven, and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen something like that in public. Even takes your hand, then, and your heart races in your chest.
You have loved a man for thirty years, and it’s the first time you show him affection outside of your home quarters.
There are rings around your fingers, and to each other you are husbands, but the state doesn’t allow people like you to get married yet. You still hold a ceremony, though, with your friends, Even's family, and your mom present. You kiss at the altar, and for the first time in thirty-six years, you don’t hide your love for Even.
You’re sixty-four and Even’s sixty-seven when you get married - for real. The state calls you husbands, now. You’re Mr.Bech Næsheim after years and years of waiting. It doesn’t really matter, though. You’ve been each other’s for almost fifty years already.
Even’s sister’s grandkids call the two of you their cool uncles, and you treat them as if they were your own grandkids. The two of you always spoke about wanting kids, and even if you are both probably only a few years from hitting the grave, it’s like you finally have them.
You both fade away on a Tuesday morning, only days after you celebrated your seventieth anniversary. There’s a funeral for the two of you - “two loving husbands”, the priest said - and a shared tombstone.
But maybe, most importantly, you don’t go to hell. Instead, there’s light, and there’s Even.