Work Text:
Even organizes the pompous lavish wedding of his dreams himself. Isak isn’t too keen on the whole thing. It’s putting too much weight on the far ahead, it’s the wrong kind of planning. So he stays out of the way, but obligingly points at flower arrangements and tastes cakes when needed. And it comes together beautifully. The venue’s already looking like a fairytale grotto when Isak comes to cancel it the day before, because Even cannot leave their bed, and there’s no chance of him getting better by tomorrow morning.
Isak hopes against all odds that Even will forget about it altogether. But on day three of the slope he remembers and is nearly inconsolable after; unwell for so long, it starts to feel as if he’s not getting up again. Isak understands, logically, in his head, that they’ll get through this just like they did every single time before. But some of the episodes are worse than others, and those feel unending, defying logic. Minutes stretched into eternities.
Eventually though, color returns to Even’s face, his lips stop cracking and bleeding. He becomes more alert, gets his facial expressions and little ticks back – a sure start of an upward curve in the little life graph they’ve drawn for themselves.
The wedding does happen, two months after – quietly, with only fifteen people there. Isak and Even both drink sparkling apple juice instead of champagne. Isak could’ve never been happier.
***
Astrid knows she’s the fourth director’s assistant in as many months of filming and is acutely aware of what that conceals between the lines.
“Tell me honestly,” she begs Liv, the second AD and the friend who wore her down into this job. “Is he mean? Does he throw things?”
Liv hums and chews the inside of her cheek in thought.
“He does, sometimes,” she answers finally, soft eyebrows distorting. “But never at people.”
The set is an abandoned factory on outskirts getting its last moments of glory before deconstruction. The grey and miserable morning is the only thing standing between the sea and the giant open pavilion that became a constant whiny trap for the salt-and-iodine-scented wind.
“I don’t think we’re getting anywhere today, to be honest,” Liv whispers as they approach a whir of human activity inside, lifting their feet high to avoid various cables all over the floor. “There’s kind of a… rut? Over the reveal scene.”
The picture is a love story with a bittersweet ending. Astrid paged through the script and some call sheets this past week; she has read the original novel before. It’s not her cup of tea, but it’s fine. It’s good. The production is still pretty much on schedule, even with the ruts and the throwing things and the rapid DA rotation. So.
Just as break gets declared, a huddle of people around the main camera falls apart. Some production assistant is pushing an infrared heater closer to the two leads – they relax out of character and immediately start shaking and chuckling. Cathedral-like acoustics amplify everything, but muddle and mix it with screams of seagulls. Sound guys don’t look too happy, fiddling with their panel. Already at first glance Astrid recognizes the script supervisor, sullen, sullen man, and the first assistant camera. Everyone is bundled up like polar scientists in three, four layers under massive parkas and double hoods over hats. She still has her city outfit on, a nice coat with skirt and tights underneath, fashionable boots; her scarf is more decorative than anything. A misjudgment.
Liv leads her ahead, pushes through a stream of people pouring towards catering tables.
Both director Næsheim, immediately recognizable, and the first AD, a tiny dark-skinned woman Astrid has never seen before, are wearing black caps with the company logo on them to ease the constant use of massive headphones, now around their necks.
Newcomers are greeted by: “Liv!” The exclamation is sunny enough and the voice is loud, booming. The man’s smile thins his eyes. He looks, as it usually goes, far rougher than his polished pictures online and in magazines. The elegant line of his neck and jaw, the sensitive mouth that catches eye in those photographs – all is concealed under a wild, untrimmed beard. “Everything is fucked! It’s all complete and utter shit! Ammaarah is about to kill me, I think.”
He checks behind his shoulder and the first AD bares her upper teeth at him, lifting her dark plum lip.
Liv tags Astrid to the front by the coat sleeve, and she’s forced to catch herself with quick steps, preventing an embarrassing fall. Her hills click loudly against the concrete.
“Your new DA.” Liv’s introduction is firm. “Make sure this one stays, she’s a friend of mine and I had to grovel to get her. She’s the best.”
Astrid sticks out her hand, still covered by a black leather glove.
“Astrid Lund. It’s nice to meet you.”
Director Næsheim looks down and honest-to-god snorts. It’s not malicious, though.
“Another babysitter?”
“I hope not. I’m terrible with children.”
They shake; he does not suggest she call him by his first name. Others are warmer in their words, but rather judgy about Astrid’s outfit, she can tell.
“Well, anyway,” Næsheim declares after a pause, apropos of nothing. “I am going to go visit Isak now.”
…In the middle of a filming day.
As the man shakes off the equipment adorning him, people around share a variety of glances and, ultimately, all turn to Astrid. It reads as not that unusual a situation, but a tense one nonetheless.
Liv didn’t lie. Astrid is good. Largely because she’s not stupid. She didn’t only research the movie, she also read up on the man. Artistic circles are fond of big words and broad phrases. So director Næsheim is “highly creative”, “eccentric”, “unique”. Which most likely translates into hypomania, at least. And Astrid would know, her stepmom is Bipolar II. She doesn’t understand the useless hush-hush policy around every poor-kept secret in the industry, and earns for environment that surpasses the stigma. Hundreds of artists of all varieties are retrospectively proven or known to live with mental illness. Plus, Næsheim is obviously doing the job right if they keep hiring him, so what’s the big deal? But the world of cinema is a slow behemoth. They’ll accommodate sudden conjugal visits in the middle of the day and write them off as a fluke of genius to preserve the status quo.
“Should I call a taxi, or are we taking a set car, or…?” Astrid asks, her iphone quick at the ready to Liv’s obvious approval.
“I have a car. They gave me one. It’s ugly, but I love it. That makes me quirky, just so you know.” There’s a tartan blanket wrapped around the director’s legs, and he wrestles it away before stretching up to a, frankly, freakish height. “Hang on, I’m going to grab my…” He wanders off, the unfinished sentence trailing behind him.
Distant waves fill the brief following silence with their rhythmic crashing. Ammaarah sighs, hand hovering near the walkie on her hip.
“Second unit can get those pick-ups done for now, I guess,” she starts walking off, as well. “Get me the set manager!”
“Well. At least Isak’s working for central channels now. Last year he was located in some basement in Sandvika. It took much longer to get there.” Liv slaps Astrid’s shoulder in friendly support. “Just stay in his line of vision so he doesn’t forget about us. Also, if you could manage to drag him back in three hours or so, that would be lovely.”
Astrid doesn’t need to be told twice. She zeroes in on a tall silhouette sasquatching around the parking lot and beelines there, bypassing the familiar screen supervisor on the way (the man is no longer sullen – rather, ready to combust). Director Næsheim is about to drive off without her, as one does. She shimmies her way into shotgun without looking at him once, fastens her seatbelt. It smells like mint and coffee inside, and it’s immediately warm without the wind seeping into every gap in her clothes.
They’re not moving, and he’s staring. With very round, very flat eyes. The unnerving feeling starts to spread from the bottom of her lungs and up the windpipe, but recedes when Næsheim’s laughter fills the car.
“Astrid, you say.” She nods. “Well, Astrid. I guess you’re going to see Isak with me. Do you know Isak?”
Isak Valtersen, she knows of, via research. There are a couple of shots of him from this premiere and that, a reserved looking man, but always with a warm smile for his husband. He keeps to himself; he’s a sound supervisor for TV. Probably. That’s really it.
“Kind of,” she says diplomatically.
“Well, he’s the best. You’ll see.”
***
It’s Sunday, the weather is miserable and general consensus seems to be “fuck it, I’m staying home”. Driving back to the city is swift as a result. Still, the station’s parking lot is pretty full – no rest for the wicked. There’s a security post in the lobby where they check IDs, and one of the two guards, an older Arab man, appears to know Næsheim: they talk about nothing for a bit while his partner fishes around in a drawer for an electronic visitor badge. Næsheim already has his, and it looks semi-permanent, without a picture but with his name in permanent marker over a grey plastic case, unlike Astrid's blank one.
“Good day, Even,” says the guard in the end. Ah, so others are allowed to call him that.
The building is air-conditioned to all hell, dry. It’s so warm, Astrid has to put her scarf and gloves away and unbutton the coat. Næsheim shed his parka back in the car and now looks completely at home walking through the corridors, fitting right in with the station staff – a lot of whom are equally unshaven and comfortably dressed. Most people ignore them, well-adjusted to the presence of various celebrity, but some younger workers look a little starstruck where they froze by a gigantic ficus.
An elevator takes them up, and the closer their destination gets, the quicker Næsheim’s long stride becomes. In the end it’s practically a run, Astrid struggling to move her feet twice as fast on the carpeting. The space on this floor is divided not as much into offices but more into studios; large separated areas make for unexpected turns and angles, weirdly situated entrances. Yet Næsheim has no problem coordinating their path. He knows exactly where he’s going.
And where he’s going is empty and locked, apparently.
The studio door has an illuminator: it’s dark inside, electronics in sleeping mode blinking with a handful of small lights, and the hallway lamp carves out enough to discern acoustic insulation panels along the wall. Næsheim stands peeking into it for a good minute, hands in pockets and rocking from heel to toe, and looks rather forlorn the whole time.
“What day is it?” He asks, at last.
A professional habit makes the answer jump off Astrid’s tongue immediately:
“Sunday, November twenty third, ten-” a quick pause for a check-in with the watch, “forty seven.”
“A-ha! That explains it.” Næsheim’s face clears. He turns around and points at her: “That’s very useful, by the way. I never remember the date.”
They ascend three more stories to a bizarre food court of a buffet, a frozen yoghurt kiosk, and a salad bar. After searching around the lounge Næsheim finally locates his husband at a table near the wall, cityscape behind him tinted blue through armored glass. Two men are sitting there, actually, and Astrid isn’t good enough with faces to tell who the right one is, at first, but the vigorous – if brief – kissing helps.
“It looks like his beard is consuming your entire face for procreative purposes, man,” comments the Not Husband, voice filled with morbid fascination. He’s packing a pair of very prominent eyebrows and has a look of someone who fights the turbulent ocean to provide for his family of probably seventeen.
Næsheim, now deep into some soulful face rubbing, plops his giant long hand on the man’s head without looking and messes up the dark curls there something fierce.
“How’s Sana and the baby?” He asks after dragging himself away with visible difficulty to sit across the table.
“They’re fine, uh… there’s a lady? Standing right here?”
Everyone arranges a group stare at Astrid – second time in a day.
“Oh, that’s my new assistant, Astrid.” Næsheim spells her name weird. Was that supposed to be an accent?
“Astrid Lund, nice to meet you,” she says, comfortable with the familiar phrase.
The Husband seems well and truly underslept. His hair is shorn to almost nothing, and the bulky black sweater he has on engulfs him, makes the wearer appear smaller. He can’t be more than two years Astrid’s senior, but the look he dons when faced with her is outright paternal.
“Hi. I’m Isak. This is Jonas. Have you eaten? Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thank you. Do you want some, though?” She makes to move away from the table. “I can get you whatever.”
She wants to establish some professional boundaries: be on friendly terms, but stay useful and alert, do not let people around forget she’s on a job, it’s her working hours.
“Actually, I would…” Næsheim, clearly guilty of the latter, brightens, but is shut down with fond irritation:
“Get your own damn coffee, Even.”
There’s a heavy sigh.
“Nah, I’m good. I’m not even thirsty.”
Jonas is laughing at them quietly as he puts on a knitted hat (his stoic fisherman look rapidly intensifies). He pats Isak’s sweater in a condescending manner before getting up.
“Okay, guys, I have to go. Bye, Astrid,” he gives her a kind smile, eyes darting to Næsheim and back. “Good luck with this one.”
“You can forget about him, he’s not important,” Næsheim says immediately.
“Oh, I’ll remember that! For the next time you call from atop a pine tree at four in the morning.”
Isak puts a hand over his mouth, but it looks momentarily tense and not the way a person hiding a chuckle would. Rubs his chin. Næsheim lets him fidget; he found a generic sugar stick and is drumming it against an empty napkin holder while observing his husband serenely. He then takes off his cap and fluffs up the flattened hair.
“If you would’ve come an hour earlier we could’ve all grabbed a bite together,” Isak says eventually, picking the cap up. He shakes it out and starts wiping leftover water droplets away with his sleeve. “I don’t have that much free time left.”
“It’s alright, I only came to ask you something.”
The air between them is quietly content, tender. Astrid performs her usual I’m-still-here body language combination: straightens up, puts her hands together, audibly sucks a breath in.
“Where do you want me, boss?” She asks, and is waved away: “Wherever. Just sit.”
She chooses a neighboring table and takes a chair facing the opposite way. Close enough to be a presence and hear if she’s needed, but removed, creating a decent illusion of privacy.
For some time, it’s quiet. She thumbs through messages on her phone. The food court is filled with distant metallic clacking from the kitchens and barely-there hum of other conversations. A malfunctioning lamp is buzzing somewhere overhead, far enough to not see the blinking itself. Then:
“What is i-”
“Would you be sad if I died?”
Astrid’s eyebrows shoot up and eyes widen. This phrase is familiar, as it is, if she's not mistaken, the movie reveal one. Of course, with the gag order on the production, there's no way for Isak to recognize the words.
Behind her, there’s an indignant huff.
“No. I would’ve helped Jonas finish Sana off and we would be free to elope, at long last.” Silence. “The fuck, Even? What kind of question-” More silence. “Yes, I would be sad! Why? Why are you asking me this? Did you have a doctor’s appointment I didn’t know about?!”
She can feel the vibrating absence of Næsheim’s answer.
“Even… are you… sick?”
By this point pauses are crashing, devastating things: they are sticky palms and dry throat and heart so loud it’s deafening.
“No. No more than usual. It's... It's for the movie.”
There’s a hitched breathy sigh, barely there, followed by a frantic hand waving in Astrid’s peripheral vision. The empty napkin holder flashes in her memory, so she makes a blind guess and grabs a handful from her own table before jumping up. Isak’s face is unchanged, undistorted, neither nose nor eyes red, but there are fat tears swelling over his lower lids and streaming down his cheeks. Shoulders down, defeated, he blinks at Næsheim with helpless vulnerability. The latter grabs a white stack out of Astrid’s hand, dropping a few, and relocates to his husband’s side. His plan is to gently apply the bunched up tissue to soak the tears up.
“Should I get some tea?”
Næsheim looks at her, obviously a bit bewildered by the intensity of the reaction he’s gotten.
“Mint?” He suggests.
Astrid gets that (“Morrocan chai” in theory, bullshit in practice) and a water to boot. When she comes back, Isak is leaning onto his palm forehead first, face hidden away from everyone, and Næsheim is oh so gently whispering something to him and caressing his other hand. The pair detangles when Astrid lowers the paper cup before them, sending rings through the amber liquid and raising wafts of aromatic steam.
“I’m sorry, Astrid. I’m not such a mess, usually,” Isak says when he’s finished taking a tentative sip and throws himself back in the chair. “It’s just… We have three major projects wrapping up, so I had less sleep than usual and I don’t handle insomnia well.”
“Not a problem. Be as much of a mess as you want, it’s my job to deal with it.” She lets the relief sink in and adds, somber, “To a degree, of course.”
There. That should stick.
Næsheim finishes opening the water bottle, passes it along, and starts blowing on the tea to cool it off. Instead of picking up the cup he is ridiculously hunched over it and is in danger of giving his bangs a minty bath.
“That’s why I think you should come back with us,” he says between exhales. “Take a break. Hair and makeup are camped out in this storeroom they heated up – you can sleep there. Or in my chair in some corner somewhere, we’ll point a heater at you. Fresh air is healthy, anyway. Come on. It’s Inger’s birthday today, there’s leftover cake.”
“Wow, Inger’s birthday, really?” Isak seems tempted, calmer now after getting some fluids in. “But no. No way I can. I don’t have a job that lets me act like an irresponsible dick seemingly for artistic reasons, but really just because they can’t tell symptoms and trolling apart.”
“Don’t expose me in front of my co-workers,” Næsheim laughs, throwing a phone in front of him. “Just call. You’ve done your share. They’ll manage for half a day.”
Instead of calling straight away Isak flips the phone over and over and over in one hand. The skin there is not smooth, covered with little burns, scars, and cuts in a way that suggest regular tinkering with equipment. He doesn’t have a ring on, maybe for this exact reason.
“Would you be sad if I died?” He says. It doesn’t sound like an attack, too genuine and sweet for that.
The entirety of Næsheim stops as if someone has paused a video, predator-like, and that creeped out feeling starts crawling up Astrid’s esophagus again. He’s just so… intense all of a sudden, zero to max.
“Every film I make is about you. You will never die, I’ll make sure of it.”
Now it’s Isak’s turn to laugh, though not before a heavy pause. “You’re so dramatic! Really!”
“Really.”
“Please tell me how that monkey taxi movie was about me.”
They purchase a bouquet for the mysterious Inger before heading back. Astrid gets shotgun again, to her great surprise. Back seat is completely occupied by Isak, who is stretched out diagonally under his husband’s parka for a blanket, a thick hood of his own cushioning his head against the car door. Næsheim, she discovered by now, is not a fan of radio, and the car’s audio system is jacked, so it’s silent. In a sense that Astrid’s presence is very obviously killing the conversation that would be organically happening otherwise. They’ll learn to ignore her in time, just as people don’t perceive waiters or secretaries as real conversation participants. But not yet; she’s too new for now.
“So-o-o,” she says, faking awkwardness she doesn’t really feel anymore, “how did you guys meet?”
Tires hiss softly as they move against a smooth road. The heel of Næsheim’s palm, the one he uses to steer, slips off of the wheel for a second as he produces a heavy sigh. He, unlike his husband, wears a wedding band – so polished, it almost shines.
“We’re high school sweethearts,” Isak explains eventually. “I guess.”
Talk about awkward.
Ten minutes in he falls asleep: his mouth goes slack and the quiet snoring starts. Næsheim almost kills them all by checking on the man with a full body twist instead of a glance at the rear view mirror.
“I don’t like how that “high school sweethearts” stuff sounds,” he declares then. His voice is not lowered, but it does nothing to disturb their passenger, being too familiar a noise. “Makes it seem so leveled. Effortless, too easy. It wasn’t like that at all. It was hard, and we fought to get where we are now.” Another sigh. “We’ve been broken up for three years once.”
And doesn’t Astrid know how that goes! The romance between her mother and stepmom is similar but more stretched out, across four decades at least. Næsheim is lucky to have caught his happy end before the half-century anniversary. To be polite, she keeps that to herself and inquires instead, in a whisper:
“And what changed?”
“I finished my first movie and invited him to the premiere.”
His first movie, “Underwater”, an indie darling, is a heartbreaking coming-of-age story of two girls on a swim team falling for each other. It’s structured so that main characters’ POVs intersect before crashing together during an overwhelming finale. The first lead is in your typical candy-colored high school rom com, made only slightly more complicated by the love interest’s gender in their liberal urban environment. The second – a deeply personal and tragic drama of a girl who has to discern if her caretakers are right and her feelings are delusional, or if she is just unlucky enough to fall head over heels in love on a verge of… a manic episode. Huh. Okay, Astrid is rewatching that tonight.
“I also groveled a lot,” Næsheim adds with a chuckle. Then, suddenly, the overwhelming intensity is back along with that flat stare. “Our love story is like a crash that never happened. We saw the car coming, and we were sure it would hit, but at the very last moment… it just didn’t. The driver steered away. And we are so happy now, because we know it could’ve been different. We could’ve lost everything. Or we could’ve missed the car altogether. I think we would be less happy then. I know it is like that, in some other universe. I don’t like to think about it, though.” He looks guilty. “And I’m not supposed to.”
The bit sounds almost recited. Maybe it is, who knows.
The blurry bleakness behind the window runs away from Astrid’s eyes in wet ribbons, not letting the gaze detangle any details. She tries anyway, before the expectant silence catches up to her.
“Sounds like the real deal,” she says – her actual feelings on the matter. “But, if you don’t mind me saying…”
Almost all of her previous employers loved to ask for an honest opinion on things, frequently just to disregard it completely or do the opposite, and she’s fine with that. It gives a certain freedom and lifts responsibility. Næsheim, too, nods his head in a “go on” gesture.
“A person like that… You’ve been through so much together. A person like that should not be used for figuring out the right way to film some movie scene. I mean, in such an emotionally manipulative fashion, at least.”
Astrid rushes the words out and shuts up immediately after, eyes glued firmly to the swinging air freshener.
“It’s not just “some movie”, excuse you,” Næsheim protests with mirth, “it’s going to be great – now. It’s going to be great now.” He nods to himself. “But, you’re right. I should have never done that. I knew he was tired.”
There’s a lot of one-handed digging through pockets and, finally, some strawberry gum. Astrid has a variety of this stuff in her purse in case her ward demands some, but she says nothing and accepts a piece with a grateful smile.
“Call me Even, Astrid,” the man says.
It’s been under three hours, and they’re back after zero detours. Someone is waiting for their return, hidden from the wind behind a trailer, and charges off at the sight to bring the great news to others. They park sloppily, but Even doesn’t kill the engine yet, turning to her instead:
“Go see where we can put Isak before I wake him up.”
She tries to not smash the door too bad to avoid disturbing the sleeping man. It’s as freezing as it was before, a change in light the only difference. Darkness will start to thicken soon, but there’s still time. Nevertheless, she hurries, bypassing the crew and going straight for the factory office building. Hair and makeup really did create a small cozy cave of warmth amidst the concrete beehive, and they’re only too happy to host Isak on some chairs (pushed together to form a cot). They also give Astrid a piece of Inger’s vegan cheesecake on a paper plate for her way back. She spits her gum out and squishes it against the cardboard before taking a bite of the dessert. It’s delicious.
“There’s room, they’ll accommodate him,” she says through a mouthful.
Only then does Even turn the keys, stopping all rumbling and vibrations that run through the car. They both turn to look at his husband in expectation. Nothing happens. Soon Astrid finds herself under the director’s scrutinizing gaze once again and is forced to turn her head dubiously. They are uncomfortably close like this, peeking between the sits.
“You know, I can’t help but love Isak,” Even says as if sharing a great secret, absolutely serious. “Even if he is of Hitler’s descent-”
The snus container comes flying straight into his forehead before Astrid’s shock can settle in. It hits hard – there’s a thud – and leaves a pale mark that quickly starts filling up with pink. Even doesn’t even flinch.
“Why don't you ever shut up!” Isak grumbles, tugging his hood down his face. “Why. Stop fucking with innocent people. They don’t know you like I do, and then weird articles appear everywhere.”
“No one knows me like you do,” Even deadpans.
Astrid cannot just give in to the chaos. Instead, she employs the usual technique of remembering an important thing on her to-do list:
“Can I have permission to use your personal information for contacting you if my work demands it? At appropriate times, of course. Unless it’s an emergency.”
Isak pushes the parka and the hood away and just looks at them both. He’s very sleepy, and now his eyes are red. He squints in extreme suspicion.
“So this is how it’s going to be with you two. I see. I see now. I just woke up, you know.” There’s a flurry of movement as he frees himself from excessive clothes, picks up the flowers, and fumbles with the door handle. He faces them before getting out. “You, you can do whatever you want. And you, for the love of god, stop firing assistants. I cannot with all the new names anymore. And wear your jacket, or so help me.”
Evidently, he isn’t worried about slamming the door.
Astrid turns her head to Even again, but now it’s not uncomfortable since they cultivated a fleeting sense of comradery.
“So like, no connection to Hitler?”
“You never know,” he shrugs and adds: “I’ll need a giant cool thing for tomorrow with a card that says “Sorry I’m such a dick.” Not flowers, though. Maybe something edible. I’ll trust you on this. And no rephrasing the card into some mellow bullshit. The dick is essential.”
“Okay.” Astrid nods. “Done and done.”
***
Well, Hitchcock did it. And Even is no Hitchcock, he knows that, nor does he want to be. But he’s a young director with no big projects under the belt. A fucking debutant. Apparently, it’s expected of him to be lamely eccentric at times. To get it out of his system or something. He tried avoiding anything of the sort during filming, stayed inside the lines. He is a person with something to hide, after all. Something to devalue all his creative decisions with, if he’s not careful.
But… but.
Annie is a great actor. He’s so fucking happy to have met her and enjoys working with her so much he could kiss everyone in casting twice over. And she nailed everything he has asked of her so far, conveyed the slightest of nuances. Every day, even when she had the flu. Except today.
He gets why, kinda. She has never felt like that. The two of them talked for hours, him trying to describe. She also did some independent research. The production has a consultant on the topic.
But it’s simply not enough. So he decides to talk her through it. Like Hitchcock did.
Really, it’s just about the facial expressions. That close-up is important. Everything else is as rehearsed and goes smoothly at every take, both Annie and Line hitting every single mark. He could’ve been done with this by now. But his first AD trusts him and keeps nodding his encouragement. So they go again, and Even starts:
“You are so very afraid to look. The others’ words are loud in your ears. This is an illusion, they say.”
He can tell immediately that it works. Annie, now perfectly Alis, looks down as before, but this time Even can see. He can see how it hurts. He can see himself. She is so open in front of her Lise. So scared.
“You’ve seen rainbow sparkling at the ends of her eyelashes. You’ve seen golden fractals move in her eyes. This all seems too much for a mortal person. So you believed them a little, deep down, and now you hate yourself for it. You are afraid to look… but you have no choice.”
Lise waits for answers. She needs them. She is hurting, as well. They have the shot from Line, already – the perfect vulnerability in her eyes and the imperfect beauty of her face. Alis lifts her head, her eyes up to it, searching in fear… in hunger.
“And there are no rainbows now, no fractals, that much is true. But this is the same person before you, the person you laughed with, the same person who makes your heart flatter. The person you love. The person you want. ”
Alis starts smiling, a weak bloodied hatchling of a thing at first, but then the happiness sets in. She looks right, like it got mixed with relief inside her and is now ripping her apart. Lise is not answering yet, undecided.
“Now, the question is, does she want you back?”