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They are bringing cod home, and Isak plans to cook it up with some potatoes. He usually tries to avoid eating too much before bed, but it’s snowing in that cozy way that calls for a quiet evening with comfort food and warm blankets. What sunlight melted during the day is now a frozen crust over concrete, extremely slippery and with bokeh from street lights spilled all over it. Fredrik is clutching Isak’s elbow for dear life – his shoes are not weather-appropriate and constantly try to run away from under him, taking the legs in the divorce. Isak is far more stable in his boots and he doesn’t mind. He likes it.
The mittens stayed home, forgotten on the hallway shelf, so his left hand is pocket-bound, tote swinging from the wrist, and Fredrik has the right one in a tight grip to shield it from the frosty air. They’re laughing at the clearly high supermarket cashier who beeped them out. Isak throws his head back. The trees leading up to their building are all decorated in bluish white fairy lights. Snow falls in giant fluffy flakes, and one lands onto his forehead before slipping away and leaving a ticklish trail behind. The night smells cold and fresh. A backdrop of orange-tinted urban winter suits Fredrik a lot, flatter the austere lines of his tall figure and thin pale face, his dark hair and eyes.
The idea is to cuddle up with some cider after supper, turn the main lights off in favor of more subdued accent lighting. Someone, perhaps, would joke about “Steel Magnolias” pocking fun at that… but it would be another winter, far removed from this one in time.
They pass by a snowless rectangle on the ground where a car took off, already getting covered up with a sparkling layer of translucent white. They pass by a cat washing its light fur in someone’s warmly lit window. They pass by a sleepy child in a sled getting a ride from her smiling parents.
“Don’t get all melancholy on me,” Fredrik jokes from their building’s doorstep. “You oversalt things when you’re like that.”
Isak opens his mouth to answer, but then someone’s calling out to him, saying his name, and – there’s Even. Right here, on Isak’s street.
He’s across the road from them, next to a parked car. Dressed as Isak remembers him dressing for important meetings and parties: formal shoes and pants, a thin white sweater visible in a gap of his unbuttoned dark grey coat. His hair is the usual length, unchanged since – oh, god – since high school, but it’s not combed back and instead allowed to fall around his face softly. Isak is avoiding his eyes; the highest his gaze gets is that dip in Even’s chin, the one he loved to kiss and press the tip of his thumb into.
No watch needed to know it's 21:21.
“Isak.” Audibly, it’s not a question, but the hesitation is there in the man’s posture, the set of his shoulders.
Isak’s senses catch up to his reality all at once, heart hammering a wave of nauseous heat to life. It rolls over his whole body and concentrates behind the eye sockets, burning and pressing. His mouth and throat go numb along with his palms. He can feel himself staring, but is helpless to stop it. The world dims out of Isak’s sight, and all that’s left is Even in a swarm of fairy lights with snowfall trying to diagonally cross him out of existence.
This time of evening the street is already dead in terms of traffic. So when Even takes a tentative step forward, it’s fine. His arms go up in the air as if he’s giving himself over to the police, open palms facing Isak. There are black leather gloves covering his hands.
“Look, I’m not… I’m. Mahdi gave me your address. I’m not stalking you or anything. I’m well, right now,” he says, tone tentative but loud enough to carry. His head dips to one side, towards his coat pocket: “I can call my therapist? To confirm?”
Even has his own exclusive mixture of emotions that boil up inside Isak only for him and only because of him. It’s tenderness, protectiveness, irritation, anger – a jumbled clot that clogs up Isak’s throat. It’s like he’s alight with it. But happiness is also there, and it’s the brightest.
His eyebrows rise almost on their own and his mouth opens to let out an indignant huff. He turns to face Even completely. Isak’s whole right arm is free then, cold without Fredrik’s body heat. He hides it in his pocket, too. Now, he has no problem meeting Even’s eyes. The man’s face is habitually tilted down, giving him a wary, vaguely guilty appearance. His fucking eyelashes are so long they almost touch his eyebrows like this.
“First of all,” Isak says, old indignation rising, “fuck you for assuming I wouldn’t have talked to you if you were unwell. Second, fuck you for thinking I wouldn’t have believed your word alone. You know you don't have to explain yourself to me. Or anyone. You can just go places.”
Even blinks. Even does that thing with his lips Isak doesn’t wish to dwell on. Then, he smiles. The smile is tiny and beautiful, like he never doubted Isak. Like he just wanted to hear the words again because he missed them. Even looks very, very good. His features always make him appear youthful, but it can come off as fragile at times. Not now, though. Even is well, now, and it shows.
When he crosses the street, it’s in criminally low amount of steps, the long legs carrying their owner over without any rush, but still too quickly. Not one placement of the foot is unsure or ungraceful. Isak comes forward to the edge of the sidewalk to meet him. Like this, they’re almost the same height.
“Hello,” Even says. “It’s so good to see you.”
Isak goes in for a hug. Since the tote bag is still with him, it’s of the haven’t-seen-you-in-a-while-Male-Friend variety: one hand under the arm, another – over the shoulder. He remembers too late that Even hates getting those from him, but it would be too awkward to stop halfway. The bag makes a loop through the air and collides with the back of Even’s thigh. His clothes are not wet or covered with snow, and the woolen coat doesn’t have that crispy frozen feel under Isak’s fingers. He probably waited in the car.
Even follows along with the arrangement but, of course, makes it into… something else. Instead of bear-hugging it out or slapping Isak between shoulder blades a couple of times, he places one hand at the small of Isak’s back as the other cups his nape. Isak’s jacket is thick, so he absolutely cannot feel the touch’s warmth when it’s this fleeting, but he imagines he can anyway, how it seeps through the fabric and spreads underneath. There’s short stubble covering Even’s face, and it scratches Isak’s temple lightly when the man’s cheek and chin are pressed there. Hands around him clutch harder, only for a moment, and Even exhales warmly before sucking a trembling breath in. Isak doesn’t have to do that, surrounded by an earthy smell of cologne – not on the skin, but it clings to the dark red silk scarf Even has hanging under his coat lapels.
With all the mess, with all the years behind them, they still just… fit.
Isak steps back and says:
“Hello.” Farther away, Fredrik looks amused, running a hand through the hair that’s falling into his face. He comes closer to take the tote away from Isak. Right. To make this as painless as possible… “Fredrik, this is Even, my old friend. This is my boyfriend, Fredrik.”
Even climbs the sidewalk to tower over Isak as per usual, takes his gloves off in two smooth motions and stretches a bare hand out:
“Even. It’s nice to meet you, Fredrik.”
A polite fleeting smile is his only response, but Even’s own is genuine. They’re the same exact height. The shake is energetic, if short. Fredrik gives the standard three seconds of solid eye contact before looking away, at Isak. Isak can’t find it in himself to return the sentiment just yet.
“I didn’t know you were back,” he says instead.
Even shrugs. He can’t stop grinning like a fool, obviously as happy and relieved to see Isak as Isak is happy to see him. He has his own difficult concoction of Isak-related feelings, no doubt, but happiness and relief have always been the two most prominent for them both. “I need to talk to you,” Even’s eyes search his face restlessly. “It’s not super personal or weird or anything of the sort. We can all talk together, if you prefer that.”
Isak is gutted by disappointment at the words from a very deep, primal place inside him; but, at the same time, he is relieved and proud. They learned the hard way about self-control and boundaries and the importance of keeping them. Parting ways was heartbreaking, but sticking to their mutual and firm decision of respectable distance was – is – even more so. There’s this part of Isak that always wants to fall back into “super personal” with Even, consequences be damned. He guesses that’ll never change. But falling without plan or thought hurts. And with time he came to realize he cares more about Even’s happiness than he cares about whether or not they’re in a relationship with each other.
These past three years proved that Even feels the same way.
“Talk?” Isak nods as resolutely as possible, buries his chin inside his jacket collar. “Sure. Would you like to… come up with us?”
Blizzard doesn’t howl through the streets, but it’s not warm by any means. Isak has no mittens. And Even’s fancy coat is only good for walking from a car to a restaurant and back. A home is an intimate place, sure, but Fredrik’s presence will help them keep their accomplishments intact.
Even looks up at the net of windows, some aglow and some sleeping, with vacant expression – he clearly doesn’t know which ones are the right ones. There are all the same familiar clusters of moles covering the long line of his throat and climbing up his cheeks, stable as constellations. When he looks back at Isak, it’s apologetic. His light eyebrows crease.
“I would prefer not to,” he says with almost painful honesty.
Isak would’ve also preferred not to, should their current positions ever be reversed. Not to look at a life a person (the person) created with someone else. Not to look at a corkboard covered with layers of silly notes and paper scraps. At all the photos pinned to a fridge with generic colorful magnets. A mix of clothes hanging from their hooks near a front door, where it’s impossible to tell who owns what. Not to smell that unfamiliar soap scent in a bathroom. Not to wonder.
“There’s a café here, just around the corner,” Fredrik proposes gently into prolonged silence, voice kind as ever. “We could go grab a table?”
Even momentarily switches to him, smiling again: “That’s a really nice suggestion, Fredrik, thank you. But I have another important meeting after this one. I’m pretty busy, still. I’m.” He looks suddenly flustered, and it’s almost as adorable as him considering talking to Isak for two whole minutes an “important meeting”. “I finished my first movie, Isak.”
It’s blurted out. And that, right here, is the most adorable: him honestly thinking Isak doesn’t know. As if he hasn’t been following along with the movie’s carefully limited social media presence. Its Instagram, untitledbechnæsheimproject, posted some photos of Even over the last year, but always in highly professional light. It’s not at all personal since it’s so clearly heavily moderated by someone on the production team. Mostly they post videoclips of the two up-and-coming leads, charming young women, doing challenges and interviewing the crew on set. Perfect for keeping tabs on Even’s career from afar without getting hurt in the process.
The group photo from a wrap-up party has been saved on Isak’s phone for a good amount of time now. Even looks so happy in it, even if it’s a pain to discern his tiny face in a sea of others. Isak doesn’t look at it often or anything, but just knowing it’s there calms him somehow. He can’t believe how far they’ve come; him living his most honest life, Even – living his dream.
“I know,” Isak says warmly. “I’m planning on seeing it, of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Even swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The collar of his sweater is a v-neck, pretty modest but still showing the dip between his collarbones. Snowflakes land on his fluffy blond hair before wind carries them away. His eyes shine with catchlights, and it seems almost surreal how childishly happy he looks.
“Really?” He asks, hoarse.
“M-hm.”
The movie will premiere as a part of an independent cinema festival, here, in the city. It’s only the fourth year of the festival’s existence. Back in the day, Isak took Even to the very first one, a little cheer-me-up date after a harsh depressive episode. The whole thing was slightly chaotic that time, but felt good and real. It grew quite a bit since, of course.
Even gives Isak and Fredrik both an open smile that breaks up the intensity somewhat - a chance to breathe. He squints and reaches inside his coat with the same hand his gloves are in.
“That’s really fortunate, because…” An expensive looking envelope appears. “This is for you. An invite to the premiere.” The cream cardstock is as pale as the hand holding it, cold turning nails blue at the base. “It’s a plus one, so you can bring along whomever you want – Fredrik, I assume. And please, don’t worry about the rest of the gang. I’ll invite them as well. I just wanted to come to you first.”
Isak touches the fancy envelope reverently as the offering he knows it is. The texture is rough under his fingertips, and it’s heavy. He can almost see the smooth thick paper inside. Is his name printed on it? Or has it been written in with a sharp hand in smeared black ink?
“This is very kind,” Fredrik comments.
Even shrugs, eyes glued to Isak. “It’s nothing, really. Will you come? This is important to me. If you could come that’d be… god, beyond amazing. Out of this world.” A pause. “It’s fine if you can’t though. No pressure.”
Isak bursts out laughing – against his will, really. Even’s words are so hasty, tumbling over each other almost. In his usual nervous way, not the hyper way.
“Fredrik’s right, this is very kind. And I’ll definitely come.” Even isn’t looking that convinced with eyebrows rising slowly in question, so Isak tries to convey his sincerity through voice alone: “I will! Even, I promise.”
He must’ve managed it, somehow, because Even’s visibly overwhelmed with emotion. He grabs Isak’s wrists over the sleeves, soft but secure, and shakes him a little to share the excitement.
“Thank you. Thank you.” With every phrase he leans in for emphasis, transparent curls of breath mixing between their faces. In true Even fashion, hands still on Isak, he then starts to back away. He isn’t looking where he’s going. He doesn’t slip once. “I have to run. I’m leaving now. I’ll send a car to pick you guys up.”
“You don’t have t-”
But Even, already out of reach, is raising his palm again (in a salute this time) and shouting over him as if he’s afraid Isak’ll change his mind last second:
“Bye, Isak! Bye, Fredrik, it was nice meeting you!”
Fredrik waves back. The bangs are in his eyes once more despite all the efforts, and he blows them away. It looks slightly exasperated. Finally able to catch Isak’s eyes, he points to the building door. Isak checks on Even climbing inside his car. Sighs. Nods.
(He can’t really process it. Even was here. And then, he’ll have to process the fact that the man left again… But not yet. For now, he’ll just have his food and draw a bath and drink some cider. Oh, god.)
“Isak!”
A thud of a car door slamming shut reaches them when they’re almost inside. They both spin around just to witness Even’s speedy return. Fredrik smirks – it dimples his cheeks deep, like Sana’s, and Isak had been so fascinated with it the day they first met – and shakes his head.
“Okay, you know what?” He says to slightly stunned Isak, who can feel his heart beating right under his tongue. “I trust you. And I respect your decisions. So, I’ll wait at home. Go talk to your friend.”
Isak watches him disappear into the elevator, a light above it marking the upward progression by crawling right. He’s too chickenshit to step outside immediately. When he does, Even is waiting for it, half-turned away and bouncing in place. His lower and upper front teeth, visible in the gap between those light pink lips, are locked together – he does that when unsure, mulling over his next move. The flyaway hairs catch light and create a hazy halo around his head.
They lock eyes.
“I would like to be in your life again,” Even declares.
It’s like they have a common denominator underneath all the emotional turbulence, distance, time. With other people in his life, Isak has to really try to maintain this default understanding, rekindling the connection periodically. With Even, he doesn’t. It’s just there. Through bad and good, sometimes clearer, sometimes muddled, but it’s there.
Isak wanted him to say something so, so badly. He asks, just to make sure:
“What?”
“I would like to be in your life again. In any capacity you’ll have me. You want to be distant friends? Let’s be distant friends. You want to just be text buddies? We’ll do that. I mean it. I won’t be just moping in the corner hoping for more. I will be legitimately happy with anything you’ll give me. And if you want nothing to do with me anymore, I’ll accept that. But think about it, Isak. We’ve proven we can keep our distance, right? So, we’ll be able to go slow and be smart about it. And I miss you. God, so fucking much. Just talking to you…”
It still doesn’t come naturally for Isak, sharing his feelings, but he has grown a lot, he’s better at it now, in his adulthood. He makes himself say the words out loud, even if his throat is busy trying to swallow his bursting heart back down:
“I miss you, too.”
There’s a Volvo up the street, practically crawling on ice and snow – it’s a heavy pedestrian traffic area, after all. Even moves to let it pass and he’s still far enough away, but it does seem like a bit too much. Isak forgets to blink properly; his eyes water, moisture blurring the lights and making everything even shinier, more saturated.
“I think we don’t have to. If we keep working on it like we do right now, we don’t have to miss one another. We can have all the best parts.” Even puts his hands in his pockets as he goes on, visibly gathering himself. Isak knows exactly how Even's feeling right now, can clearly see these exact words coming out of his own mouth with this exact body language and just as much conviction – in different circumstances. He doesn’t want to leave Even thinking he’s alone in this, so he reaches between them to squeeze his shoulder as the man continues: “Just think about it. Okay? You’ll do that?” Even’s eyes catch the sight of Isak’s watch that the sleeve uncovered. “Shit. I’ve gotta go. You promise me you’ll come?”
“I promise,” Isak whispers. Even cups his elbow, already pulling away. The true him is always mercurial, always in motion. Before driving off, he rolls the window down a bit.
“Think about it!”
The envelope is still in Isak’s hand and it feels warm somehow, despite the wind that should've made the paper cool to the touch.
Isak is so fucked.
***
After the film ends, there's a blink of darkness and then a title card, simple white letters over black. It says: “To Isak. Thank you for allowing me to make this movie about you.”
It’s blurred to all hell because Isak is crying silently.
Isak is so fucked.