Work Text:
Isak watches the traffic lights flicker from red to green, Jonas and Noora and Yousef’s cars all moving out of sight seconds after. Headlights blurring against holiday bulbs strung up against trees, reflecting in the distance, Isak waits, not quite sure what for. He leans against Even, his socks slipping against the hardwood floor as almost all of his weight presses against his boy, and Even catches him, keeps him up, with a soft hum and his breath tickling the soft, trimmed hair on the top of his head. He cut it two days ago, just a tiny bit, enough to be noticeable and make him feel a little older, a little different, but right here, he feels the same as he always has. The same way he always wants to feel: happy, which somehow, remarkably, has become pretty much an everyday thing for him.
“That was fun,” Even says, his quiet tone a contrast to the noise that had been contained in their house just moments before.
“Yeah,” Isak says back, and nothing more because he’s feeling a little too full to elaborate, to say much else. It’s strange to grow up, strange to watch his friends get engaged and married and have kids, but it’s even stranger to not mind it— actually, to sort of like it. To embrace the growth. To want it.
“I’m happy for Vilde,” Even comments. “Always sort of knew she was into girls.”
This gets Isak to move, if only to turn around and give Even a pointed, almost accusatory chuckle. “Seriously?”
Even shrugs. “Yeah, didn’t you?”
“Yes!” Isak shoves him, the movement filled with affection and flowing into another gesture, one of Isak’s many favorites: him dangling his arms around Even’s neck, attaching himself, making it clear that he’s not coming close to moving out of this space anytime soon. “I thought it was just me, though! I didn’t want to gossip!”
Even laughs, looking at Isak in...well, that way. It’s hard for Isak to describe, to put into words that do justice to the way that it makes him feel. He’s tried: sweet, adoring, kind, amused; the list goes on. Even looks at Isak with pure love, a kind that Isak doesn’t think any language, Norwegian or English or even a brand new one that just the two of them created, could accurately capture. Regardless, Isak swoons, over and over, perpetually, forever. Right now is simply a prime example.
He’s so lucky, he thinks for probably the four hundredth time in the past two hours. And he keeps thinking it as Even keeps laughing, the sound shimmery and golden, like a bird taking flight. Isak drinks in every sound— and maybe now’s the time to mention that yeah, he’s had a couple of beers, but they don’t affect him like they used to, he’s not seventeen anymore, and he didn’t need them anyway, because screw it, he likes Christmas. He’d maybe even go as far as to say that he loves Christmas, especially after how many he’s spent with Even and the even greater meaning it has to the both of them now.
But even more than that, it’s hard not to be happy when Even is cracking jokes about gaydar and compulsory heterosexuality, and they aren’t even really jokes because they both clearly know that he’s damn well aware of what he’s talking about.
But when he mentions how in the past Vilde always looked like she wanted to be anywhere else whenever a man was giving her attention, Isak can’t help but soften, to distance himself from the current moment and his own fortune and instead think of Vilde, of how similar they were when growing up; how he didn’t even know it, didn’t say anything when it maybe would have helped her a lot.
No matter. She was blissfully happy tonight, chattering on about her new girlfriend and how supportive her family has been, and that’s the memory Isak wants to hold onto from her; of all of them, all his friends: joy, like the kind they all radiated tonight.
“You don’t have to convince me,” Isak replies as Even keeps explaining his observations, “I noticed it, too.” After a beat, once he’s locked his fingers into some of Even’s curls, he adds, “I’m glad for Vilde too. Really, I am. I’m going to text her in a bit, tell her so again.”
Even nods, agreeing, and takes one arm away from Isak’s middle to reach for his own phone in his pocket. Isak thinks to protest, decides better of it, but then ends up doing it anyway when Even queues up the newly downloaded Instagram app on his phone and searches Vilde’s profile, hitting “follow” when he finds it. So far, the only account he’s followed is Isak’s (and Chris’s after she grabbed his phone out of his hand and followed herself for him.)
“Who do you think the girl is?” Even asks, scrolling through Vilde’s page with an almost Eva-esque amount of nosiness. Isak nudges him, guides Even’s arm back to his waist, and mumbles a needy, “hey, kiss me” before Even can get past the fifth photo.
Even doesn’t object. He never does.
There’s Christmas music on in the background, a playlist curated by Jonas as he tried to fit in every possible holiday song known to man on the lineup, including some lesser known Muslim-friendly songs that had Sana shaking her head.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Sana had said, buckling over in laughter once the weak, tone-deaf attempt at a chorus played around the living room, “but this sounds like it was made in someone’s garage on a computer from 2002. Hard pass.”
The door isn’t shut quite all the way, slow cold air sinking past the screen and into the house, but Isak can’t bring himself to care, especially not when he backs up and lets Even press him against it. Even’s corny Christmas sweater, decked out with silver and gold jingle bells on each side of the garment, makes noise when he dips down to kiss Isak’s jawline, and Isak lets out a sound that’s caught between a laugh and a sigh. He’s giddy, at peace— and also remarkably tired, he realizes once he rests his head against Even’s shoulder and doesn’t want to move it aside from meeting his kisses halfway.
“Carry me,” Isak suggests, but it comes out more like a fussy demand.
“Where to?”
“Upstairs. To bed,” Isak answers swiftly, almost authoritatively, as if Even should know, and he probably should; he probably does. He’s looking at Isak with that same look as before, mixed with a lot more playfulness and curiosity, and Isak remembers that he shared a joint with Magnus and Madhi outside earlier. First one in maybe four months, because he’s not supposed to smoke but in the summer they both got a little too lax. Even looks alert now; energized, and it makes Isak feel awake all over again as his eyes stare him down.
“Why should I?”
Isak pouts, keeping the game going. “Come on, carry me, Ev, I’m too tired.” He steps even closer, flush against Even’s body and tightening his hold around his neck, but Even still waits, looking at Isak expectantly. There’s a point here, Isak recognizes that, because nearly every other day Even will lift him up and take him to bed without even asking. Now, Even blinks, his long eyelashes distracting Isak from his lips, his jawline, everywhere else that he was staring, and he looks at Isak like he’s waiting for a magic word.
“What do I have to do?” Isak huffs, getting bratty on purpose. There’s a joke he could make, one about the last time they got drunk— like, really drunk— and called Even a certain paternal name that would probably ruin the current cozy vibe of the evening, but he stifles it, saves it for later. He feels the energy around them changing, shifting from busy to calm to busy again, in a completely different way than the former festivities had called for. As if to signify it, Isak takes a hand off Even’s neck, lifting his arm up to remove the red and white Santa hat atop his head, and then he chucks it across the room, smirking as it lands atop Even’s gift pile, right on top of a navy sweater Noora had bought for him.
“What do I have to do?” Isak repeats, pushing closer to Even and lifting a leg, waiting for Even to take it and hoist him up. Even’s fingers skim his knee, teasing. “Do I have to beg you? If I beg you, will you do it?”
There’s another hidden innuendo in there, one that wasn’t even intentional, and Even catches it, because of course he does.
Even flicks an eyebrow up at that, mischief lighting in his eyes. “I’ll carry you if you beg once I take you upstairs.”
Isak rolls his eyes. “I can do that too,” he concedes, not at all displeased.
Even takes him then, hoisting him up into his arms and peppering kisses on his neck that linger too long, suck too hard to be considered chaste, but he laughs the whole way up the stairs, especially when he almost trips and gives them both concussions on a spare beer can left on the top step. There’s so much that they should be doing right now instead of this: packaging up leftovers, recycling gift wrapping, feeding the cat, among countless other chores that need to be put away before Isak’s parents come over to celebrate tomorrow, but Isak isn’t worried. It’s Christmas, they’ll deal with it later.
And fy faen, does he love Christmas, does he love Even, does he love the world.