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It’s not a long way over from his and Isak’s place - by the NTNU campus - to Kaffebrenneriet.
Just long enough for him to catch a bit of chills with the crisp fall air creeping in through his hoodie and Isak’s old green bomber jacket, that he’s more or less fully annexed by now. The collar still smells faintly of Isak though, and just for that he’s going to wear it until it’s undeniably parka weather.
He detours through Høgskoleparken; likes to take the scenic route when he’s not rushing to make his shift at KB which is - admittedly - more often than not. He’s never been good with time, has never exactly been a punctual guy.
He’s got time today though. Time to stroll instead of speed-walk, time to look at the crisp blue afternoon sky. The pretty main building of NTNU, that he’s only ever been inside once - the day he and Isak both attended the official matriculation a little over 3 years ago. The chestnuts hanging heavily from the trees, the fall foliage of green-brown leaves. With a familiar tug at his chest, he realizes it’s irrevocably autumn now; feels that sharp pang of melancholy that hits him every year come fall. He’s never really been great with seasons changing, either.
He bends to pick up a leaf from the ground, rolls the delicate stem between his fingers. The center is still a vibrant green, but from there it gradually browns right out to the brittle edges. Somewhere between the green and brown there’s an approximation of Isak’s eye color; a shade he’s never quite been able to capture while drawing or painting him. Not for lack of trying.
Reaching into the satin lining of his (Isak’s) jacket, he takes his phone out and snaps a photo, sends it to Isak along with an eye emoji and picks up his pace just a little bit.
Isak replies before he’s slid his phone back into his pocket.
“Are you saying my eyes are the color of rotting leaves?”
It’s such an Isak reply; Even can so clearly picture his arched eyebrow while texting him. Every one of his expressions long etched into memory.
Typing out the first words that come to mind, he sends the message before he can overthink it.
“Life and death, baby.”
Another immediate reply:
“Romantic”
It makes him smile — Isak’s sharp sense of irony in that easy little one-word reply.
Next comes a selfie from Isak, super-messy curls under a headband, the top of his blue football jersey visible. He’s holding up two fingers, and Even lets his gaze rest on those slender, pretty, familiar fingers for a second until Isak’s next text comes through,
“Scored twice at practice today.”
“That’s awesome, baby ❤️”
He can’t tell if the pride he feels is entirely his own, or if it blends with Isak’s like some sorta telepathic bond stretching the few kilometers over from the soccer pitch in Nardo where Isak has football practice every Saturday and Wednesday.
Another buzz against his palm,
“Want to celebrate with me later?”
“Of course. What did you have in mind?”
He’s closing in on the park exit and KB, and is just about to slide his phone back into his pocket again, when Isak’s reply comes through:
“You+me+the bed. Grandis and a movie. My pick for the movie tho”
The crunchy gravel of the park shifts to smooth asphalt under his feet as he walks out the exit and just like that, he remembers how fall also equals Isak’s cold nose pressing against his skin, long afternoons and rainy nights spent together on the couch or in bed and their anniversary— officially it’s in late-December, but autumn really was when he knew he wanted Isak. 5 years ago and now.
He thumbs to unlock his screen and sends Isak one more text before picking up his pace for the last 100 meters to KB.
“Sounds perf.”