Chapter Text
It isn’t often that Isak lets himself do shit like this. He has to be careful, after all.
And he is careful. Most of the time. In all the years he has been living in England, ever since he was barely nineteen and newly signed by a London Premier League side, he has given in to scratching this particular itch really only on a handful of occasions. Somewhere around what could be counted on just under ten fingers, probably, if he had to put a vague number to it. That number isn’t anywhere near as impressive as he might like it to be, obviously – but his career always has to come first.
He has worked too hard and for too long to get where he is now, to become who he is now, to command the respect of his opponents on the pitch and the adoration of his fans in the crowd. He has put too much into earning himself this career that he loves, this career that is his life, this career that means absolutely everything to him and that finally allowed him to leave his shitty, shitty childhood far, far behind him. He could never let himself be stupid enough, often enough, to truly put it at risk.
Footballers aren’t gay. Everybody knows that. So he lives with the lie, and he finds his ways to live around it.
Like tonight. Just for this one night only… he is giving in.
The hot, sticky air of an English summer has been prickling at his skin for what feels like weeks of a scarcely begun season already, still so close even all these hours after the sun has disappeared behind the horizon that it clings to his every tiny movement. All day he has been alone with his not quite buried deep enough memories, half-hard in his shorts as flashes of hands and mouths and illicit desires creep in from the darkest corners of his mind.
Any feeble argument he could have had against giving in to these urges was lost before it even really started, and now he stands, waiting and fretting, beside his front door. Too damn early, and too damn eager, with his phone resting in his palm and his heart picking up speed with every minute that ticks on by.
On the way, the message on the familiarly black and orange app reads. Be there in 30.
It is the last message in an embarrassingly brief exchange. The guy currently on the way was hot enough to have Isak capitulating to his impulses a lot quicker than normal, throwing his usually so meticulous caution to the wind to throw out a home address to this relative stranger.
Or, well – the stranger’s body pictures were hot enough, at least. There hadn’t actually been any identifying details or photos on his Grindr account beyond those. But Isak isn’t exactly in a position to criticise; for fairly obvious reasons, he doesn’t have his name or face plastered anywhere near his own sparse profile.
More importantly than simple good looks though, this guy had passed Isak’s test. The same one he puts out to all of his hook ups before anything can get too far or too real. Just an offhand mention of a past game, or an upcoming tournament, or a favourite player. As long as any response he gets is little more than politely clueless disinterest, things can move on forwards. It probably isn’t a foolproof system of making sure he won’t be recognised, but it’s worked out well enough for him over the years so far.
A very specific twenty-seven minutes have passed when Isak’s phone vibrates with a new message. Despite the fact that he has been doing nothing but staring helplessly down at it pretty much this entire time, it still makes him flinch. He blinks to refocus and scans the words before him.
I’m outside, it reads, quickly followed by, Holy shit you’re rich.
His eyes roll around in their sockets as he uses one hand to buzz the gate open and the other to tap out a message in return.
Don’t get any ideas about stealing anything, he sends back.
Too late, comes through barely a second later. I’ve already stuffed my underwear full of expensive gravel.
The corner of Isak’s mouth lifts into a smile. He bites at the inside of his cheek, ignoring the stupid swoop of his stomach and the way his mind wanders to whether this guy might be smiling on the other side of this wall, as well. Without giving himself time to chicken out, he fires off a response.
Let’s hope that’s not all you’ve got in there.
He slides his phone into the pocket of his shorts just in time for three, swift knocks to echo through the house. The next breath he sucks in only catches a little at the back of his throat, and he waits an appropriately aloof five seconds before curling his fingers around the cool metal of the handle. As soon as the door swings open, he is ridiculously glad that he let himself give in to this tonight.
Immediately, he cannot help but notice how tall this guy is. Like seriously, ludicrously tall. There aren’t many universes where Isak could be considered short, so much so that he often finds himself one of the tallest in any given room, the tallest on most pitches he’s played on – and this guy still has at least a few inches over him. Enough that Isak has to actually lift his gaze up, just slightly, to meet the guy’s eyes.
And, fuck – those eyes. Open wide and shining with interest and blue enough for Isak to get lost in so fast it makes his head swim. It takes him a few moments more of being entirely captivated by those eyes before the rest of this guy’s appearance begins to register.
His hair is blond and styled carefully, a single strand of it falling across the centre of his forehead, its placement so artful it could only be intentional. The shape of his jaw is strong and defined, sharp edges and long lines, and a slight dimple sits right in the middle of his chin. Isak kind of wants to press his thumb to it.
There are broad shoulders beneath a light shirt, dark denim skimming a stretch of long legs, big hands pulling out from deep pockets and long fingers flexing in the stuffy evening air. A shivery flash of heat zips up and down the notches of Isak’s spine as he remembers just what that body looks like, underneath all those layers.
When his attention flicks back up to the guy’s face, he finds full lips now curved into a crooked smirk. Isak releases a quiet exhale as he looks up even further, catching naked amusement in a pair of blue eyes. The guy lifts both eyebrows and tilts his head towards his shoulder, the silent question of coming inside crackling in the expanse between them.
Gripping tightly onto the door, Isak takes a step back. The guy hesitates for less than a second before following over the threshold. Isak lets the door slip shut behind them, and now they are trapped in here together.
This guy is absolutely shameless as his gaze roams around Isak’s house. Just one storey: a few bedrooms, a large living area and an underused kitchen, a built-in gym to soothe Isak’s reclusive soul. Its architecture is all sleek lines and modern finishes, the furniture all complementing and matching. Everything in this place was picked out by a designer recommended by a teammate’s wife when he first moved in, someone with a lot more care for the aesthetics of things than Isak has ever possessed himself.
It isn’t as big as some of his teammates’ houses, but it’s big enough for him. Could even be called too big, maybe, if you were to ask Jonas for his opinion. Which Isak rarely does.
For a moment, Isak watches as the guy lingers on the master bedroom, the furthest room from them, all the way in the back. The door is cracked halfway open, an unmade bed just about visible through its gap. Isak licks his lips at the intent he can see in this guy’s eyes, but he won’t steam ahead and push them there – just yet, anyway.
He should probably get at least a name first. He does plan on letting this guy inside of him at some point tonight, after all.
Eventually, the guy’s piercing focus shifts all the way around and falls back onto Isak once more. He raises both eyebrows again and pushes a hand out into the space between them, palm offered up and open.
“Even,” he says.
Isak meets the hand in the middle. Even’s grip is firm and warm.
“Isak,” he replies.
“Well.” Even’s voice is liltingly deep in a vaguely unexpected sort of way, and his hold on Isak’s hand lingers maybe a second too long before it pulls back. “Thanks for having me over, Isak.”
Isak narrows his eyes. So far, all of their communication has been entirely in English. But – there’s just something about the slant of that accent. Something about the way he pronounces Isak’s name, something about the way he pronounces his own name, too…
“Norsk?” Isak asks.
Even’s mouth splits into a grin around straight, sharp teeth. It looks scarily good on him.
“Ja,” he answers.
Their native language sounds so sweet, so effortless, on his tongue. As they both slip seamlessly into it, Isak can only hope that it doesn’t sound as rusty on his own as he often worries it does. Outside of his regular phone calls with Jonas, he doesn’t get the chance to speak it very much nowadays.
A beat of silence passes as they simply stare at each other. Isak has no idea what to say, but he can’t imagine somebody like Even ever being at a loss for words. The moment breaks with the soft scuff of Even’s shoe against the hardwood floor, the slight bow of Even’s head so that Isak is left blinking at his golden crown. His hair looks soft, Isak cannot help but think. He quietly wonders how it might feel underneath his palm, or caught between his fingers.
Another beat more, and then Even’s gaze snaps up to find his. The look Isak sees there has anxiety spiking instantly through him.
“Before this goes any further,” Even starts to say, “I should probably… admit something.”
Isak’s heart leaps up to his throat. He swallows thickly around the heavy lump of it.
“Oh?” His attempt at nonchalance fails miserably when that single word cracks right down the middle. He quickly stuffs both of his hands into his pockets. “Admit – what?”
“I, uh.” Even stalls, his mouth twisting and his eyes shifty. “I actually know who you are… Isak Valtersen.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was so not meant to fucking happen.
Isak needs to kick this guy out. Immediately. He glances over to the front door beside them, already swung shut but easy enough to yank right back open again. It’s what he needs to do: to call this night the bust that it so clearly is straight away, to cut it short right here and right now before it can become even more of a stupid fucking risk that it already inherently is.
He needs to; he should. Of course he should. Only – he doesn’t really want to.
Blowing out a breath he is relieved only shakes a little bit, he meets Even’s gaze once more. The worry wrinkling Even’s forehead seems to fade with every passing second that Isak doesn’t shove him back out of the door.
“I thought you didn’t like football,” Isak says.
Even huffs a quiet laugh. He picks one shoulder up in a small shrug.
“I don’t,” he replies. “But I’m still Norwegian. Every Norwegian knows who you are.”
Isak arches an eyebrow. “They do?”
“Obviously,” Even scoffs, and yeah, okay – maybe Isak was fishing a little bit there. “You’re probably the best athlete to ever come out of Norway, even I know that.” Even pauses with a tilt of his head and a knowing smile, blatantly catching the way Isak preens. “You’re also pretty famous for being a complete asshole, too.”
Instantly, Isak’s face scrunches in indignation. Even merely blinks innocently back at him.
“What the fuck?” Isak splutters. “I am not.”
He most definitely is. He fights with players on the pitch, and he argues with journalists off of it, and he thinks he has actually bothered to smile in maybe a total of three photos that fans have begged to take with him over the years. He’s an asshole. He can’t really deny it.
Across from him, Even lifts his shoulder in another brief shrug. It rises along with the brightness of his smile, crinkling all the way up to his blue, blue eyes.
“I’m only repeating what I’ve always heard from my friends who do like football,” he says. “Isak Valtersen: incredible footballer, absolute asshole.”
Now it is Isak’s turn to scoff. He folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, even as the corner of his mouth twitches traitorously up in the face of Even’s unwavering amusement.
“Wow,” he monotones, “you’re such a charmer.”
“I didn’t realise I still had to charm you,” Even shoots back. “You’ve already invited me in.”
“Yeah, and you’ve made it as far as the front door before blowing it,” Isak says, but there isn’t even a moment of real heat to his voice, no intent beyond the playful snark that seems to make Even’s smile get even bigger, his eyes crinkle even prettier. “Nice moves there, bro.”
“Bro?” Even’s eyebrows jump up towards his hairline. “Do you call all your hook ups bro?”
“I’ve never spoken to any of my hook ups this much before,” Isak blurts out.
Heat flares across his cheeks the moment those words and their humiliating truth are spilled out into the open. He and Even have hardly had what anyone could consider an enduring or meaningful conversation, and yet this is still the longest he has kept his clothes on in a situation like this in, well – ever.
He is still blushing like a fucking schoolgirl as the smile on Even’s face melts achingly soft. There is simply nothing that Isak can do to stop the way his insides flutter at the sight of it.
Even takes a small, deliberate step forwards. And then another, and then another. Isak remains fixed, frozen, in place, blinking helplessly as Even presses in closer and closer, stopping with their bodies just shy of touching.
“So, I’m special,” Even says, so quiet it’s almost a murmur. “Is that right?”
Isak’s heart stutters over its next beat. He licks his lips and pushes out a shaky laugh.
“Do you want to be special?” he asks.
Even smiles. Big, and slow, and easy. He stares straight into Isak’s eyes as he extends one arm out, barely having to stretch at all to place a hand at Isak’s hip, fingers curling around sharp bone and bunching into thin fabric. The burning warmth of his palm seeps through Isak’s t-shirt to lick at his sweat-damp skin.
“I want to charm my way further than your front door,” Even says, his voice somehow dipped lower, somehow impossibly deeper, than even before. “How are my chances looking?”
It feels as though Isak sort of forgets how to breathe, for a moment. It doesn’t help at all when Even’s gaze flicks down to his lips, lingering there in a way that cannot be anything but intentional. Isak forces his brain to remember how to act like a normal, functioning adult with a quick shake of his head and a quiet clearing of his throat.
“They’re, um – pretty good, actually,” he says. “You can… come this way.”
He focuses on the muted stomp of Even’s footsteps following closely behind him once he whirls around and begins heading towards the back of the house. Anything is better than letting himself get distracted by the almost deafening thud-thud-thud of his heart slamming against the ladder of his ribcage. He stares down at his own socked feet for the entire journey to the bedroom, praying to deities he has never believed in that he will feel even slightly less awkward by the time he gets there.
His bedroom door creaks open with a gentle shove. He does not dare peek back to see whether the action has left a damp handprint in its wake. Cautious excitement jitters through his each and every nerve-ending as he stops to stand near the centre of the room.
The room looks just how he left it. A vaguely messy bed from sleeping late that morning, carpeted floors clear of clothes that could be kicked to the bottom of his wardrobe or towels that should be hung up in the bathroom, mostly thanks to his cleaner coming just yesterday. The night beyond the window above his headboard glows black and silver, the moon high in the starry sky and the evening hour now even later than when Isak thought this whole thing was a good idea in the first place.
Without turning around, Isak senses Even hovering behind him. He can feel the warmth of his lean body, can hear the cadence of his quiet breathing. It’s actually oddly comforting.
Isak knows what he should do now. He knows that he should be throwing himself at Even without another word, knows that he should be really getting this thing going, really getting this thing on rails. It’s what he would normally do – what he would normally have already done.
Normally, there is only one game plan here: get these guys in, get himself off, and then get these guys back the fuck out as quickly as humanly possible. There is no time and no need for small talk or pillow talk or anything else as ridiculously asinine as that. But there is just something different about tonight. Different about Even, maybe.
It’s a mildly fucking horrifying thought.
Still – so is the thought of kicking Even out without getting what he wants out of him. And the distaste for that idea prevails, just narrowly.
He says nothing as he takes a seat on the very edge of his bed, and Even says nothing as he takes up the space beside him. Not close enough to touch, to press their thighs together or to knock their knees into one another, but close enough that the mattress curves into a divot beneath their combined weight. The silence in the room stretches on, and on and on and on, and Isak wishes he could be the kind of person who might know how to break it.
“Hey,” Even says. Isak still can’t quite bring himself to look up. “Do you mind if I smoke in here?”
That request captures Isak’s full attention quickly enough. His entire face is already screwed up in disgust as his head whips up and towards Even.
“What the fuck? Of course n–” He cuts off once he registers the distinctive shape of the rolled white paper held between Even’s long, pale fingers. “Oh. Uh, yeah, that – that’s chill. Just – hold on a second.”
His morning coffee still sits on top of his bedside table, the ceramic mug half sliding off the granite coaster underneath it. He hadn’t managed to suck the energy from every last drop before needing to head off to meet his trainer at some ungodly hour, and so a thin layer of near-black liquid still swirls around the bottom when Isak stretches over and picks it up.
Even’s eyebrows flick up with curiosity when Isak offers the mug out to him.
“I don’t have an ashtray,” Isak says.
“Ah,” Even replies with a soft smile. “Creative solution, then.”
When the mug changes hands, Even’s fingers brush over Isak’s knuckles. Isak’s eyelids flutter helplessly closed at that barest, dullest, most innocent of touches. He can only hope that the smirk he spies playing at the edges of Even’s mouth when his eyes blink back open again is caused by literally anything except him noticing.
The lighter that Even slides out of his pocket is hot pink and barely holding onto its last dregs of fluid, and the mug fits snugly in between his thighs, the squeeze of them holding it securely in place. Isak can only watch on with his breath stuck somewhere behind his sternum as Even draws the joint up to his handsome face, sliding it between his lips and lifting that neon lighter up to its tip.
Instinct, more than likely, has Even cupping a hand around the flame that erupts to life. Only seconds later, paper crackles and burns, so loud above the calmness of this warm bedroom. Even’s eyes are closed as he tilts his face up towards the ceiling and releases the first, thick cloud of smoke.
Isak looks at him. Silently, shamelessly. He gazes at the contours of Even’s profile, the juxtaposition of its soft slopes and its sharp lines, his throat long as it works around another inhale, his mouth pursing just before it opens around another exhale. Even’s hardly elaborate Grindr account could never have prepared Isak for this, he thinks, though he’s not sure really anything could have.
A quick turn of Even’s head – and Isak gets caught staring. A searing blush sweeps instantly back across his cheeks, and he has to fight against the itch in the soles of his feet that wants to run away from the knowing glint in Even’s eyes. Smoke billows in the scant space between them when Even angles the burnt orange tip towards Isak.
“You want some?” Even asks.
“No,” Isak answers.
It is automatic, that rejection. Out of him without his brain ever really kicking into gear.
“You don’t smoke?”
“No,” Isak says again, before shaking his head faintly. “I mean – not anymore. I used to, but I get drug tested a lot now. I… I shouldn’t, really.”
The new season may still be more than a month away, but it’s the kind of risk Isak isn’t supposed to take. And, well, so is inviting a ridiculously hot guy over to his house for some hopefully hot sex – yet, here he is.
Humming softly, Even takes another drag. His eyes don’t leave Isak for even a second.
“I shouldn’t really either.”
“Do you get drug tested too?”
“Not so much.” Even taps the joint to send a few flecks of ash hurtling down into the almost empty mug between his legs. “Anyway, I’ll stop corrupting you with a second-hand high. Let me just put this out.”
“Wait!”
The objection is out of Isak’s mouth before he is even fully conscious of wanting to say it, and his fingers are wrapped around the sharp bones of Even’s wrist before he is even fully capable of admitting he wants to do it. The touch of his horrible, sweaty palm to Even’s warm, soft skin has the hairs at the back of his neck standing to stark attention. Even peers back at him with a slight arch of his eyebrow, and Isak licks his lips and sucks in a breath just to steal a little more time to find the words he needs to carry on.
“Maybe,” he begins to say, slow and only slightly unsteady, “a little wouldn’t hurt?”
Even’s mouth lifts up at one corner.
“Please,” he says drily, “don’t let me peer pressure you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Isak snaps, rolling his eyes. “I used to smoke all the time when I was younger. I’m not some, like – pure, innocent soul.”
“I don’t know,” Even says, and his voice is so easy and light, his smile spreading out wider. “Those blond curls do make you look pretty angelic.”
Yet another terrible fucking blush bursts onto Isak’s face, a fire that catches to sprawl quickly far and wide. A teasing edge creeps into the slant of Even’s grin, and Isak forces a scowl onto his blood-red face, yanking his hand back from Even’s wrist so that he can snatch the joint from Even’s fingers instead.
Before he can think twice, before he can think to make better, more rational decisions, he brings it up to his own mouth. The paper is warm in his careful grip, and the end is slightly damp as it slides between his lips, and he doesn’t bother pausing before he inhales.
The coughing fit that immediately follows is quite possibly the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to him. Only an absolute idiot would inhale that fucking deeply when he is this fucking out of practice, and apparently Isak is the dumbest of them all.
It takes Even thumping between his shoulders long enough and hard enough to actually start hurting a bit for Isak to regain control of his breathing. His chest feels like it is on fire, his throat raw and his eyes watering, and he still hesitates a few moments more in order to muster up the courage needed to peek across at Even. It barely surprises him at all to find Even beaming inanely right back at him.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, not that Even has actually said a single word. “It’s just… been a fucking while, all right? I’m not used to it anymore.”
Still grinning like a moron, Even clicks his tongue behind his teeth. He shakes his head as he offers the joint he had wisely plucked from Isak’s wheezing clutches out to him once more.
“Well, that’s no good,” Even says. “Here. Try again.”
Even’s eyes are a shade beyond intensity, sharp enough as they hold Isak in their grasp that his next breath is almost stolen right away. He quickly drops his gaze and focuses on retrieving the joint, ignoring the tremor that runs through his fingers as he lifts it back up to his mouth and takes another, much milder puff.
No coughing this time around. Small mercies.
For a little while, the room is silent. They fall seamlessly into a routine of passing the joint between them, back and forth, and back and forth. It is quiet enough that Isak can lock onto the minutiae of sounds that do fill up the space: the rustle of Even’s shirt whenever he reaches out to take his turn, the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on his bedside table, the thundering beat of his own heart as it races inside of his chest.
He isn’t quite sure how long it takes, but eventually, for the first time in too many years – the weed starts to hit him. He can feel it, fuzzy at the edges of his brain, tingly beneath the surface of his skin, a bone-deep sense of calm that has evaded him for as long as he has taken his career seriously. It feels good.
It feels really fucking good. Loose thoughts and loose limbs and an even looser tongue.
“So,” Isak says, his voice a little scratchy, “what do you do for work?”
The weed gives Isak the nerve to finally look over at Even once again. He finds Even already staring back at him. An unfamiliar ferocity of heat coils low in his stomach as he watches Even drag in a languid inhale, exhaling white smoke along with his answer.
“I’m a teacher.”
Isak feels his nose scrunching up with his instant grin.
“No shit?” His smile only widens when Even nods and returns it. “What age?”
“Secondary school. Teenagers.” Even lets out a huff of amusement when Isak winces in sympathy. “It’s not so bad, really.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Isak mutters, before lifting an eyebrow. “What subject do you teach?”
“I’m an art teacher,” Even replies.
A loud bark of laughter is out of Isak’s mouth before his hand can fly up in time to smother it. Even peers across at him with a slight tilt of his head, the curve of his smile quietly confused. Isak slides his hand around to the back of his own neck and bites at the inside of his cheek for a second.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “It’s just… well. You look like an art teacher.”
Even’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.
“I do?” He purses his mouth into an exaggerated frown, bringing both hands up to his face, assessing them front and back and round again a few times. The joint that he still holds loosely between his fingers is faded practically all the way down to a burnt stub by now. “Huh. I thought I managed to wash all the acrylic paint off before I got here. What’s giving me away?”
Isak throws a hand out to gesture at – well, all of Even.
“You’re a hipster.”
“And you’re a jock.”
“Oh my god.” Isak rolls his eyes even as a smile touches his mouth. “I didn’t realise we were in some shitty American high school movie.”
Even knocks one shoulder up in a shrug, his eyes so bright and so blue that they almost sparkle.
“That’d make a good movie, I think,” he says. “The hipster and the jock, a totally unlikely pair. They’d fall in love, in my version – an epic romance for the ages. I’d definitely watch that.”
Quickly ducking his head to hide the rush of heat he can feel spreading over his cheeks, Isak reminds himself – sternly – that Even is joking. He is absolutely, obviously joking. And even if he wasn’t, that is not a line of thought that Isak can even begin to entertain, anyway.
The joint hisses to a noisy end when Even drops it into the leftover coffee at the bottom of their makeshift ashtray, and the bed dips beneath his moving figure when he twists to set the mug down onto the floor beside their feet. By the time he returns to his previous place, Isak’s blush has subsided just about enough that he feels safe to lift his head and meet Even’s steady gaze once again.
Fuck. Something as banal as fucking eye contact shouldn’t be sending so many stupid butterflies flapping to stupid life in Isak’s stomach right now. This weed must be really starting to hit him.
His tolerance for anything harder than the occasional pint of beer is pretty much on the floor these days, to be honest. He blames that for why the mental image that jumps into his head – of smiley, affable Even telling off a classroom of sullen, horrible teenagers – has him snuffling a helpless series of giggles into his own shoulder.
“I can’t believe you’re a teacher. Okay, Mr…” He trails off there, a surname escaping him. He squints across at the hint of a smirk that ticks up one side of Even’s mouth. “Wait. What’s your last name?”
“Bech Næsheim,” Even indulges him.
“Bech Næsheim,” Isak repeats, careful with each and every syllable. The name feels solid, important on his tongue. “Okay, Mr Bech Næsheim. Shit, can the English kids even pronounce that properly?”
“They get close enough,” Even laughs.
It’s a nice laugh. Isak could listen to it all day, if Even might let him.
Humming softly, Isak drags his gaze away from Even’s still smiling face to stare down at his own lap. There is a loose thread near the hem of his shorts, a wisp of dark fabric that feels smooth to the touch as he rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Without the joint to pass back and forth anymore, it is at least something to do with his hands.
“It’s… it’s nice to get this chance to speak Norwegian,” he finds himself saying. “It’s like… so much of my life is in English now. I feel like I… I’ve missed it.”
“I know what you mean,” Even replies, the curve of his smile soft with understanding. “I spend most of my day speaking English too. But at least I still have Mikael to speak Norwegian with once I get back home every evening.”
Isak’s heart sinks instantly to the pit of his stomach. His fingers curl in towards his palms, loose fists that rest on top of his thighs, and he cannot stop the unhappy twitch of his features as he blinks across at Even.
“Mikael?” he echoes.
His aim for casual misses by a mile. The crinkles gather around Even’s eyes again.
“My best friend,” Even explains. Isak simply nods and pretends that nothing unclenches in his gut with the revelation. “We actually moved here together just after university. We’ve been practically joined at the hip ever since we first met at Bakka.”
“Bakka?” Isak raises an eyebrow. “You’re from Oslo?”
“I am from Oslo.” Even cocks his head with a grin. “Just like you. Where did you go, again?”
“Nissen,” Isak says.
“Huh. We were pretty close then, right? You know, I almost transferred to Nissen for my final year.” The bed groans, just slightly, as Even shuffles in closer. The faint touch of his knee as it rests against Isak’s is enough for Isak to lose any train of thought that might have planned to ask why he almost transferred. “I wonder if our paths ever crossed, back when we were stupid kids in Oslo. I mean, before you got famous, obviously – I’d remember spotting you around town being swarmed by all of your adoring fans.”
“Adoring fans,” Isak scoffs. “More like balding assholes yelling at poor little teenage me for being offside a single pass in ninety minutes.”
Even bursts into loud, unabashed laughter. Isak’s heart soars at the sound of it.
“Well then, if only we had crossed paths,” Even says, tilting close enough to knock his shoulder against Isak’s. “I’d have jumped right in and defended you. Hidden you behind me and yelled right back at those assholes.”
And – damn it all. Those fucking butterflies are back again.
“My hero,” Isak deadpans over them.
“I wish,” Even grins back at him.
He is joking, Isak reminds himself. Obviously, obviously, obviously only joking. The ridiculous flare of excitement that burns to life inside of Isak’s chest is entirely pointless and entirely unwelcome. He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and makes sure to shove it quickly and firmly away.
The room falls silent, after that. There is a tension hanging in the air, something sharp and promising that seems to simmer in the quiet between them. They stare at one another, still perched on the very edge of Isak’s bed, touching no more than just at the knee, just at the shoulder. Isak has never felt more aware of his own body than he does with Even’s heavy gaze on him right now.
Eventually, Isak blinks, and Even blinks back. A soft smile touches Isak’s mouth, and the one that Even returns stretches that little bit wider. After a muted beat more, Even reaches out to push his long, gentle fingers through the hair curling at Isak’s temple, and Isak leans instantly, helplessly into it.
“You’re very beautiful, Isak Valtersen,” Even says.
It takes the still stoned static of Isak’s brain a second or two to catch up with his racing heart. When it finally does, he lets out a shaky exhale, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and he builds himself up to the courage needed for him to reach out too. He slides a palm along the warm denim of Even’s thigh.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he replies, low and almost choked, “Mr Bech Næsheim.”
A small twitch at the corner of Even’s lips, and then Even’s attention flicks down to Isak’s mouth. The searing heat of them makes Isak swallow thickly, too loud in the roaring quiet.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Even murmurs.
“Okay,” Isak breathes back.
As Even starts to lean in, Isak stays entirely still. Not moving a muscle, barely even breathing. The ache of anticipation courses through his veins, sings through his blood, and Even keeps on getting closer, and closer, and closer. Even’s eyes close just as the tip of his nose nudges into Isak’s, and Isak’s eyelashes tickle against his cheekbones just before the very first, very soft press of Even’s mouth to his.
The kiss is gentle, to begin with; cautious. The way that Even’s mouth moves against his own is almost delicate, as though Isak is something breakable, as though this moment between them is something fragile. As though Even is terrified of making even one wrong move and crashing everything to an abrupt ending before it can even really start to go anywhere.
Only – Isak isn’t so sure what that wrong move could be. He can’t think of anything in any universe that could make him stop wanting to kiss Even right now.
Beneath them, the mattress bows and dips as they twist and turn in towards one another. Isak’s blunt nails scratch desperately into the rough material of Even’s jeans, and Even lifts his other hand to cup Isak’s face between both palms, his touch light and undemanding, somehow still almost overwhelming. The slide of their mouths has barely pushed past chaste, and yet Isak feels alight with a fire he hasn’t felt since… well, ever.
Isak has kissed men in this bed before. But none of them have ever come even close to how Even is making him feel tonight, with his soft kisses and his careful caresses, guiding them somewhere special, together, in no particular hurry.
Maybe it’s just the weed. Isak is a lightweight now, after all. Maybe the dizzying heights of these sensations, the thrilling electricity of these reactions, are just side effects of the drugs running through his system for the first time in so many years.
Or maybe… maybe, it’s just Even. It’s all just Even.
A few seconds more – Isak thinks, at least, he lost the ability to track time pretty much as soon as Even’s sharp focus dropped down his lips earlier – and Even pulls back. He doesn’t go far, doesn’t take his hands away from where they frame Isak’s face, but he does shift just enough that their eyes can meet again. Isak’s breath catches at the back of his throat at the black-eaten blue that stares unflinchingly back at him.
The edges of Even’s mouth stretch lazily into a slow, sure smile. Isak only has to endure a beat or two of desperate, impatient hope that Even will soon kiss him again before his wish is granted, and Even’s lips are once more on his.
Instantly, it is even more intense than before. Even uses his hold on Isak’s jaw to tilt his face, to angle their mouths to move against each other more deeply, more solidly, more, just… more. The heat of Even’s tongue is slick against his own, and those long fingers creep around to the back of his head, pushing further and further still, all the way until they can thread through the short strands there, hesitating not a single second before clenching into a fist and yanking a high, choked moan from the breathless depths of Isak’s chest.
Even’s low, loud groan in response vibrates along the notches of Isak’s spine. In the next skipped beat of a racing heart, he feels one hand at his waist and another at his thigh, hefting him up and dragging him over until he is straddling Even’s lap.
“Fuck,” Even gasps, right into the dipped bow of Isak’s lip. “Is this okay?”
Isak nods, fast and frantic. His arms wind around Even’s shoulders and hold on tight enough to bruise.
“Yeah,” he whispers back. “Yeah, yeah, it’s – it’s okay, it’s good, fuck.”
Another breath and a final curse, Isak couldn’t even tell you who from, and then Even is kissing him again. His hot tongue sliding into Isak’s mouth, his sharp teeth sinking into Isak’s bottom lip. Isak’s fingers twist into the material of Even’s shirt as his dick twitches inside his underwear, grinding down against the hard bulge he can feel growing in Even’s jeans.
The room seems to shrink all the way down to the size of just the two of them, the almost indecipherable entanglement of their bodies on the edge of this bed. It becomes nothing more than the mesh of their heavy breathing, panting harshly between feverish kisses, the curve of Even’s big hands around his ribcage and the desperate need for more, more, everything.
Isak whines. Helplessly, he can’t fucking keep it held back behind his teeth. Even grins against him.
First against his mouth, a purse of lips and a slip of tongue. Then up and down the side of his neck, kissing and licking and nipping at any patch of skin he can reach. And finally up, and up, and to the side, tilting his face until he can breathe hot and damp against Isak’s ear, his teeth grazing lightly over its shell.
“Do you have – stuff?” Even asks. “Lube? A condom?”
“No,” Isak says drily, pulling back just far enough that Even can watch with open amusement as Isak rolls his eyes. “I invited you here specifically to hook up, but I don’t actually have any stuff for it. Sorry about that.”
Even laughs, that wonderful laugh of his trilling through the room once again, so loud and easy and bright. As though Isak’s shitty, snarky attitude is the most delightful thing in the whole wide world to him.
“Apology not accepted,” Even tuts back, both eyebrows flicking up. His hands slide from Isak’s waist to Isak’s ass, squeezing and pulling Isak that little bit firmer against his lap, making damn sure that Isak has every fucking idea just how hard he is right now. “That is very disappointing news, Isak. I’ve been looking forward to being inside you since the moment you opened that front door.”
A thrill runs the entire length of Isak’s body. His eyes flutter closed at the same time his mouth drops open, and Even’s fingers dig into the flesh of his ass as he leans forwards to capture Isak’s mouth in another desperate, drawn-out kiss.
“Next to the bed,” Isak says, quietly, eventually, when Even gives him the space to breathe and think and speak again. “In the – in the drawer.”
With one, final squeeze, Isak takes the silent direction and clambers from Even’s lap, his legs shakier and clumsier than any professional athlete should ever freely admit to. He focuses on steadying the ragged cadence of his own breathing as he reclaims his seat at the edge of the bed, fingers twisting into the sheets below as he stares out at an empty room. He is acutely aware of the sounds of Even moving around behind him – the squeak of mattress springs, the rattle of an untidy drawer being opened and the rustle of a hand rifling through it.
Isak can’t be certain that the sight of Even with a condom held between his long fingers won’t cause him to spontaneously combust. He makes the sensible decision to keep on facing forward, vindicated entirely in the necessity of this choice when he hears faint noises that likely mean Even is beginning to shed clothes.
A gentle hand lands on his shoulder, curling carefully around bone and meat, and Isak cannot help but jump, just slightly. A soothing touch quickly follows, the press of Even’s warm, naked chest to his still-clothed back, and Isak’s breath leaves him shakily when Even leans forwards and lightly skates his mouth across Isak’s hot, sweaty temple.
“Hi,” Even murmurs.
Leaning back into Even’s warmth, Isak huffs out a soft laugh.
“Hi.”
“I found the stuff.”
“And all on your own,” Isak teases. “Very impressive.”
Even hums, his arms looping around Isak’s middle, sneaking beneath his t-shirt and fitting nice and snug. His hand splays out wide over Isak’s waist as he pulls him in closer, nuzzling his nose along the edge of Isak’s hairline and tickling his skin with soft, even breaths.
“I thought so too.” His fingers trace along the rise and fall of Isak’s ribcage. “Now it’s time for my reward.”
“What reward would that be?”
“You,” Even breathes against him, and Isak shivers. “C’mere.”
The t-shirt is dragged from Isak’s body by the insistent tug of Even’s fingers, Isak lifting his arms instinctively up into the air to help him along. The summer night is still so warm all around them, the air trapped in this room still so stuffy as it sticks to his naked torso, and Isak knows that he cannot blame the season or the temperature for the instant rise of goosebumps across the planes of his bared flesh.
Together, they move and settle on top of the bed. Isak only allows himself a glance at Even from the very corner of his eye, cheeks burning immediately red as he takes in Even down to just his black boxer briefs, the easy curve of his smile more innocent than this moment should at all permit. Isak looks quickly away again and crawls to assume the usual position.
His knees and forearms sag into the mattress below, his eyes screwed shut and his head dropped to rest against the cool pillow in front of him. He flinches again when Even’s hand settles cautiously in between his shoulder blades, eyes fluttering open once more to find Even leaning down just beside him, looking him right in the eye.
“I was thinking,” Even begins to say, pushing softly, softly, softly until Isak gets the hint, until he rolls over onto his back and blinks up at the white ceiling, the hovering shadow of Even’s kind smile above him lit up almost golden, “we could do it like this.”
Isak’s pulse spikes. He licks his lips and tips his chin a slow, shaky nod.
“Okay,” he whispers.
“Yeah?” Even raises both eyebrows as he shifts to fit in between Isak’s legs, curling his hands around Isak’s thighs and tugging until Isak wraps them around Even’s slim hips. His eyes shine bright and blue as Isak slides his hands along the flat of his chest. “You want it like this, too?”
“Yeah,” Isak echoes without thought, without needing to think, too cracked open by that look on Even’s face to temper his foolish honesty right now. “I want it like this.”
Even dips down to catch Isak’s mouth in a kiss. Once, twice, simple and soft, and then more and more and more, again and again and again until it bruises, until it’s breathless, until Isak cannot run his tongue along the gaps between his own teeth without tasting the sweet, lasting impression of Even still there.
“You are so fucking beautiful, Isak,” Even rasps.
“Please, Even,” Isak whimpers, and he doesn’t know if it’s hearing the sound of his first name on Isak’s tongue for the first time, or the way that Isak’s fingers are pulling desperately at his hair, but Even moans, hot and wild, directly into Isak’s mouth. “Fuck me.”
It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the best fucking sex of Isak’s life. There is no contest.
Every movement is easy and unrestrained, every moment somehow perfect, almost instinctual, as though they have known each other for eons and eternities instead of little more than an hour. Eager hands roam and frantic hips rut and through it all Even never stops kissing him, never stops licking the helpless sounds right out of Isak’s mouth, their foreheads pressed solidly against one another as they race towards that edge in tandem, tipping over it together.
Afterwards, once they are done and sated and cleaned up, Isak is too fucked-happy to even protest when Even gathers him against his chest. Even’s lips are practically glued to Isak’s temple as Isak pillows his head near Even’s bony shoulder, the soothing scratch of Even’s nails raking through his hair, all together amazing enough to have his eyelids drooping and his hand tracing lightly up and down Even’s side.
The night is late, Isak registers vaguely. It was late already when Even first arrived, and it can only be even later now, of course. And yet… Even is not rushing up and out of bed, is not rushing back into his clothes and out of the door. He seems content enough to lie here with Isak, their sweaty bodies tangled together, the sheets a rumpled mess all around them. Strangely enough, Isak finds himself pretty content too.
His heart pounds an unsteady beat in his ears as he carefully clears his throat.
“Hey,” he says, the first words shared between them in a while, “how did you get here tonight?”
“I took the bus,” Even murmurs against him. “Why?”
Isak chews at his bottom lip. He taps absently at the juncture of Even’s shoulder, skimming down along Even’s smooth, warm skin, dipping low enough to draw slow, lazy circles at Even’s hip.
“Will it… will it still be running?”
Even’s hand stills in Isak’s hair. A beat passes, then two. The hand begins to move again.
“Probably not,” he answers. “But I can walk home from here. It’s not too far.”
Which… sounds like a lie, actually. Isak might not know precisely where Even calls home in this big city, but from the way Even just said that, he doubts very much it’s anywhere within reasonable walking distance. And, besides, even if it was… Isak still thinks this same offer would be slipping from his soul, anyway.
“You could stay the night,” he says, and the words taste entirely foreign on his tongue. “If you wanted to, that is.”
The instant smile that he can feel stretching wide and bright against him is enough to calm any and all of his climbing anxieties in an instant. Even’s arm, wrapped solidly around his shoulders, hugs him in that little bit tighter, and he tilts his still smiling face so that he can press a soft, sweet kiss to Isak’s forehead.
“Okay,” Even says. “I’d like that.”
A word like forever is not a word that Isak can ever be allowed to consider. Still, for this one night only, he lets that silly notion take over his tired mind, the pull of sleep tugging at him until he drifts fully out of consciousness, cocooned happily in a pair of warm arms.
***
Isak wakes up the next morning feeling completely well rested. He can’t quite remember the last time that actually happened.
It is sort of odd, too, he cannot help but think. He’s not exactly used to having another person in this bed with him – for sleeping the night through, at least. Part of him expected that he would be startled awake on occasion, probably a couple of times or more, unconsciously disturbed by the presence of a foreign body beside him. He imagined himself getting overheated by the feel of arms around him, or agitated by the sound of soft, snuffling, sleeping breaths being snored directly into his ear.
None of that is what happens, though. Instead, when he blinks himself awake to broad daylight streaming through the window above his head, it is the very first time that his eyes have opened since Even’s deep voice lulled him off to sleep with pleasant, mindless chatter the night before. He stretches lazily as he takes stock of everything.
His chest feels looser than most other days, his limbs relaxed even as his muscles ache, and the usual cacophonous disorder of his brain is quieter, more content, than he can honestly ever remember it being before. He twists his head on the pillow to squint across at the space beside him and instantly wishes he wasn’t waking up to it already empty. The bitter pang of rejection stirs low in his gut even as he scolds himself for wishing anything of the sort.
Blearily, he gazes at the mess of nothing there. Even has already left, then.
A hand slides over the creased sheets before Isak can put a stop to it. They are warm beneath his palm still; only recently deserted. Without pausing to think too much about it, he throws the duvet from his legs, clambers out of bed and into the nearest clothes, and heads quickly for his closed bedroom door.
He is only really half shocked to find Even in his kitchen, dressed again in the same clothes from last night and wearing an expression that can only be described as sheepish when Isak catches him. He freezes in the same moment that Isak stutters to a stop, hunched slightly over Isak’s kitchen island with what appears to be a pen in one hand and a scrap of paper flat on the counter in front of him.
For a moment, they simply stare at each other across the silent room. A barely perceptible ripple passes along the broad stretch of Even’s shoulders, just a moment before he straightens up to his full, impressive height. The smile that lifts up one corner of his mouth looks almost nervous as he brings his free hand up to rub at the back of his neck.
“I was just.” He cuts off there for a second to clear his throat, gesturing vaguely at the still unmarred paper. “I was just about to write you a note.”
“A note?” Isak repeats, both eyebrows flicking up.
“Yeah,” Even sighs, mouth twisting around it. “I – I have to go, unfortunately.”
“Oh.” Isak bites at the inside of his cheek. “Okay.”
“And you just… you looked so peaceful when you were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.” Even huffs out an awkward breath of laughter. “Hence the, uh – the note.”
Biting his lip, Isak tips his chin in a short, jerky nod. He shuffles from one bare foot to the other and then back again, the wooden floor cold beneath his soles and the blush that spreads across his cheeks warm beneath his skin.
“Sure, makes sense,” he says, and then, “Where do you have to go?”
He cringes as soon as the question is out. This is a hook up, a casual fuck, nothing more than a one night stand. He has no right to ask this guy, this veritable stranger he shared a single – if mind-blowing – evening with, what his life will look like the second he walks out of that front door. It’s none of Isak’s business, and more than that, he shouldn’t fucking care.
Even doesn’t seem quite so concerned about the invasion of privacy, though. He simply ducks his head and gazes over at Isak with that crinkly-eyed smile of his again.
“I think I mentioned – Mikael, last night? My flatmate slash best friend?” He pauses there, waiting for Isak’s faint nod of confirmation. “Well, I’m supposed to meet his girlfriend today for the very first time. Brunch. We’re going for brunch.” His expression wrinkles slightly. “And I know that probably sounds like the lamest excuse in the world, but… Mikael never lets me meet anyone he’s dating. Seriously, anyone – ever. And we’ve had this stupid brunch planned for weeks, and he will genuinely kill me if I blow them off, and –”
“Even,” Isak interrupts, and he doesn’t even have to fake the sincerity of his smile. “It’s fine, really. You don’t have to explain. I don’t expect you to blow anyone off.”
A tinge of red stains the tips of Even’s ears as he laughs softly, the flush of colour starkly obvious against his pale complexion. Isak’s stomach swoops at the sight of it; at the idea he might be able to affect Even in the same way Even has affected him so many times already.
“Oh, believe me,” Even says, one eyebrow arching up. “If these were literally any other plans, they would already be well and truly and blown. Honestly, you’d have a real hard time getting me out of that bed today.”
“Yeah,” Isak snorts. “It’s a comfy bed, right?”
At that, Even pauses. He rears back, just a little, in what looks like it might be surprise. The smile does not waver from his mouth as he lifts his other eyebrow to join the first, cocking his head to one side.
“I mean, sure, it’s pretty comfortable,” he says. “But I was more talking about the ridiculously hot guy I was sharing it with, actually.”
And – there it is. All is right with the world once more. Now Isak is the one blushing again.
Pure, palpable glee takes an instant hold of each and every one of Even’s features. Isak can only remain stuck in mortified place as Even snatches up the paper from the counter and stalks swiftly over to him, shoes smacking against tiles and then wood until he is close enough to capture Isak’s still burning face in his big, warm hands.
The pen stuffed between his fingers is slightly scratchy where it is smushed against Isak’s cheek, but Isak can’t really find it in himself to care too much. Especially not when Even leans quickly in to press a series of hot, insistent kisses to Isak’s still sleep-pliant mouth. Morning breath and all.
“You are so cute,” Even tells him.
“I thought I was hot,” Isak mumbles.
“That, too,” Even laughs. “And beautiful. All of it, really.”
Letting out a loud groan of protest, Isak counts himself incredibly lucky that Even can’t sense the butterflies swarming stupidly inside of his stomach right now. His fingers stretch and flex uselessly at his sides as Even dives forwards to kiss him again, curling loosely in towards his palms when Even eventually pulls back and releases his face. A moment later, Even lays the paper flat to Isak’s chest and poises the pen just above it, catching his tongue between his teeth as he begins to jot something down.
It is only once the paper slides into Isak’s palm that he understands what, exactly, Even intended to include in his note. A series of digits, black lines of artfully tidy handwriting, exists now in front of Isak’s slow, blinking face. Isak’s gaze flicks back up to Even to find him grinning cheekily.
“My number,” Even says. “In case you wanted to do this again sometime.”
Instantly, Isak’s heart sinks. He can only assume that his face does too, from the way Even’s happy, easy smile also falters and drops barely a moment later.
Again… is just not something that Isak can offer. No matter how much he might want to, no matter if that is the case here. His career comes first, and footballers aren’t gay. The danger of a repeat, the risk of feelings, is simply too much in something as tempting as again.
He says nothing. There’s nothing he can say. Even hears him loud and clear, all the same.
The room is quiet as they stare at one another for a little while longer. Isak knows that he, at least, is trying to steal just those few more seconds in Even’s presence, as long as he can get away with it. Their shared silence breaks only when Even starts to lean forwards. Slowly, more hesitant and uncertain than any action before now. He pauses just shy of Isak’s mouth, close enough for the tips of their noses to touch, waiting on Isak to make the next move.
Isak could pull away, of course – but he doesn’t. He closes the final bit of distance between them, and he savours every lasting second of it. When they finally break apart, Isak’s nails bite into the palms of his hands to keep himself from reaching out and taking.
“Well, Isak Valtersen,” Even says, a rueful edge to this voice, “thanks again for having me over.”
“No problem.” Isak hesitates, mouth twisting and mind whirring. He considers his next words carefully and somehow still ends up just blurting them out brainlessly. “Please don’t… I mean, I hope this goes without saying, but… don’t tell anyone about this. Don’t tell anyone about… me. This isn’t… I’m not… It’s kind of a secret. Obviously. And I’d… I’d like it to stay that way.”
Even gazes quietly, evenly back at him. The curve of his smile is stiff when it twitches up.
“Sure,” he says. “You got it.”
He is gone before Isak can come up with any sort of adequate reply. Isak simply stands and stares after him, watching the whole time as he crosses the length of the house, pulls open the front door, and disappears beyond the closed snick of it. He doesn’t look back even once before Isak finds himself alone all over again.
The scrap of paper, the sketch of a number, lives still in Isak’s hand. He could – he should – walk straight over to his kitchen right now so that he can dump it immediately. It’s not like he’ll ever be needing it or using it, after all.
It ends up in the drawer of his bedside table. He tries not to think too much about it.