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“Hi baby,”
Isak’s voice makes him open his eyes. Blurrily trying to focus at where Isak’s leaning against the white-painted wood frame at the door to their bedroom.
“Hey,” he says back. It’s a sad excuse for a greeting though, his voice a dry rasp, and he doesn’t really have the energy for talking. Not today, either.
Not when everything’s washed-out grey and there’s nothing to celebrate; just another meaningless trip around the sun. His 25th.
It’s been too long like this; maybe a month if he’s being honest. A month of bleak and pointless. Of Isak cooking and doing their laundry and taking care of him and sending him worried glances when he’s still flat on his back on their couch in the late afternoon when Isak comes home from class.
He’s sending him one now, too; green eyes looking dark and so fucking weighed-down, and Even loves and hates him for it; the care he shows him. The love he doesn’t deserve. Never has. Never deserved a boyfriend like Isak.
“Happy birthday,” Isak then says, still from the door.
His hands are curled around a mug of tea - the Jesus mug that they bought as a joke on vacation in Barcelona a couple of years ago. The one with the broken handle, that Isak determinedly keeps gluing back on, like he’ll never give up on it. That stupidly fragile porcelain.
He mutters back a “thanks.” Closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, Isak’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand in his disgustingly greasy hair,
“…I made you tea.”
“I don’t— don’t really feel like it.”
“No?” Isak says, moving the mug gently from side to side, “…’think Jesus will be disappointed to hear that.”
In spite of everything it makes him smile a little. More when Isak speaks terrible Spanish;
“Feliz cumpleaños with love from Jesús.”
“Jeez.”
“Exactly,” Isak sends him a blinding smile, when he smooths his hand down over his cheekbone, pad of his thumb touching the corner of his lips,
“You’re smiling.”
He kisses Isak’s thumb for an answer. Can at least give him that.
Jesus is staring at him from where Isak’s set the mug down on the nightstand, but then he’s sliding down to lie next to him. Gently stroking a hand down his side and blocking everything out until all he can see is Isak’s face.
“I’m sorry you’re not…feeling well.”
“Me too,” he says back, an all too familiar feeling clawing at his chest. “I’m sorry for everything.”
“Hey.” Isak’s hand stops at his hip. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”
He hears the words, but doesn’t feel it.
He has everything to be sorry for. Weighing Isak down.
“I do though. I’m—“ too messed up.
“No, baby, you’re sick right now.” Isak says gently like he can hear his thoughts. Resumes stroking his hand over the thick hoodie he’s wearing. One of Isak’s old ones. “…you’ll get better. You’ll get well again.”
“Will I?” He asks bitterly. Can hardly remember felling well.
“Yes.” Isak says back surely. “You will. I, uh…” He starts wavering the way he does when he’s unsure of his choices. Like the time he’d applied for an internship in Stavanger without having discussed it with him first. “…I texted Håvard. He can squeeze you in on Monday. I mean, only if you want to. I didn’t—“
He bites his lip and looks down, so Even looks up at him. A few years back he probably would’ve been mad at Isak for contacting his therapist on his behalf. For overruling his agency. Now though, he gets it. Isak trying to help him when he can barely keep his head overwater.
“I want to,” he says back. “Or, not really . But I probably should.”
“I think you should, yeah,” Isak says, his lips pulling into a soft smile, when Even agrees to the appointment with a nod.
“You’ll get better, baby.” Isak whispers. “You just need a little help.”
And burrowing into the crook of Isak’s soft neck, for a moment he lets himself believe it. That the sun will shine again.