Chapter Text
“Are you absolutely sure you know where you’re going?”
A blast of hot, thick air blows the battered map up into Eskild’s face as another train barrels past the platform. He sputters at it, offended, and Linn groans, holding her phone out and shaking it as though it can be coaxed into life by violence if nothing else.
"There’s no signal in this cave,” she growls.
“Oh, and here I thought my little creature of the night would be feeling right at home down here.” He drops one edge of the map to pinch her cheek. Linn grunts. “Cheer up cherub, look. Will you -- hold this a minute, I just need to --”
Eskild shoves the map at her, spreading it out between them and pouting at it, one finger tapping against his lower lip as a dozen or so harried looking Londoners elbow their way past.
Isak keeps what he hopes is a discrete sort of distance from the pair of them, wrapping his arms around his chest, and mentally running through every terrible life choice that’s led him to this point.
After all, there have been a few.
And Eskild is probably the star of most of them, which is why Isak really ought to have known better than to agree to travel via Oslo with them, but Eskild had insisted that he knew London like the back of my hand, little one, you’ll see, let your guru guide you.
In Isak’s experience Eskild’s idea of guidance has never, ever ended well. Not for him, anyway.
There are a couple of teenagers perched on one of the narrow benches set along the curved wall of the station, spotty under their heavy eyeliner, their clothes artfully ripped in that way that makes Jonas scoff. One of them makes eye contact before letting their gaze drop to Isak’s feet, their makeup pale lips curling into a smirk as they take him in. Isak hasn’t really kept up with his English all that much since his days at Nissen, but he doesn’t have to understand the words to recognise the sound of the sneer behind their teeth.
He can’t even blame them. He looks ridiculous.
He’s done his best to work with what he’s been given -- he’d refused to put the frankly enormous grey moleskin hat on for a start, pleading to be allowed to carry it because it’ll give me hat hair Eskild, you want me to bring shame upon you? And despite Esklid’s scoff of you, concerned with your hat hair? Really, Isak? he’d been allowed at least that small concession to his dignity.
But the trousers are stripy and weirdly high waisted, and the shirt collar’s too tight, and his coat spins out behind him when he moves like some sort of ungodly vampire cape -- and the shoes , the shoes are pointy, mirror-black, and he can see the red stain of embarrassment spreading across his own cheeks as he focuses on them.
Or maybe that's just from the heat. It's hot as Hades down here.
It could always be worse, though. He’d straight up refused to carry a walking stick, Jesus, no matter how much Eskild insisted it would make him look dapper and it’s a cane baby gay, you can use it to fight off all those rich closeted --
Yeah, okay, no. For all his insistence that he’s not interested in dating -- not anyone, Eskild, not even him, no, not that one either, no matter how cute he is fuck -- he’s not at the point where he’s gonna start wielding a weapon.
Still, Eskild had delighted in his, twirling it between his fingers the whole trek from their shitty little hostel to the Underground station, and now he’s holding it out, the golden grip pointing toward the escalators as he wears the same expression of grim determination as he had this morning whilst wrangling Isak into a cravat.
“This way, okay we go up… then through… then -- down? I think? Anyway. This way, come on don’t waste time, come on, come on --” He makes for the escalator, walking stick held aloft like a flagpole, while Linn and Isak exchange the look of the hopelessly damned before his back.
“We could go back,” Linn offers, lifting her handbag and giving it a little shake. “I have vodka in my bag.”
She thrusts the bag toward him as though daring him to take a peek inside, and Isak would be lying if he said he doesn’t consider taking her up on her offer.
He could leave. After all, he’s not entirely sure how he ended up here in the first place.
He can connect the dots well enough if he thinks back -- the invitation on thick ivory card, his previous Oslo address scored through and the redirect to Trondheim written in Eskild’s looping cursive -- the phone call that had followed it, and the easy, delighted way every last one of his excuses had been brushed aside like the flimsy things they were. Distance, lectures, exams, cost, all had fallen beneath the churning wheels of Eskild’s enthusiasm.
Still, it’s been years since he’s lived with Noora -- if sleeping in her basement without her knowledge can really be called living with someone -- so he was surprised, to say the least, that she’d not only invited him to her fancy London wedding, but also -- for reasons unknown even to Eskild -- insisted on his coming to the point of paying for the hire of the bizarre penguin suit he now finds himself in. It speaks of a generosity he doesn't know quite how to deal with, one he knows for certain he doesn't deserve, and proof, certainly, that Eskild has good reason to loudly and reguarly proclaim her the very nicest of all his miscreant children.
He thinks that was nice of her, anyway. Right now, sweating his balls off and dressed like he's in some fucking Bridgerton shit, he's kinda on the fence about it.
Still, he considers her a friend, he supposes; remembers her as a friendly enough face at various high school parties, and maybe that ought to be enough reason to stay, but Linn is still holding up the tiny, beaded thing that she’s apparently managed to stash the good stuff in and -- and maybe Noora’s more of an acquaintance.
Surely she won’t notice if he makes a run for it?
The end of Eskild’s stick is surprisingly sharp as it digs into his ribs. He drops his hat with a yelp.
“Ow -- what the fuck?”
Eskild scowls. “What the fuck he says? We are late and you two are --” he narrows his eyes, looking between Isak’s faux-innocent expression and the suddenly tight grip Linn has on her handbag. He jabs Isak again, harder this time. “Don’t you dare.”
“It was her idea,” Isak mutters mulishly. “I don’t know why you’re poking me.”
Linn just shrugs. “We’re never going to make it there anyway. We’re going to die down here. Like rats.”
“Oh ye of little faith.” Eskild wraps his arm around Linn’s shoulders and shepherds her toward the escalators. One of the teenagers starts sniggering again as Isak turns his face up toward the tiled ceiling. “How hard can it possibly be?”
---
Really, really fucking hard as it turns out.
The interchange between their platform and the distant hopeful prospect of Bank Station is a labyrinthine mass of disgusting, fluorescent lit tunnels that stink of piss and sweat. It’s late on a Saturday morning, hardly rush hour as Isak understands it, but the place is packed with roving hordes of chattering teenagers slaloming between the lost, traumatised looking tourists with their tendency to stand stock still with absolutely no warning at the worst possible moments leaving the sea of humanity in their wake to buffet up against their oversized backpacks, coffee and invectives spilling freely on all sides.
“It’s this one, I’m sure of it,” Eskild mutters with the certainty of the completely and utterly lost.
“You were sure the last three times --”
“Do you have the map, Linn? Would you like it, huh? You want to lead us from the darkness and out into the light, you’re some sort of messiah now?”
“--no.”
“No, I didn’t think so -- Isak! Stay with us!”
Eskild reaches out to drag him away from the stream of people pushing their way in the other direction and presses him to his chest. Normally Isak would protest -- because he can look after himself, seriously Eskild -- but there’s something about this ungodly place that has him burrowing a little closer even though he must have four inches on Eskild by now at least . On Eskild’s other side Linn shifts her weight from foot to foot, her shoulder bumping against Eskild’s own. Eskild gathers them both close, lowers his voice as far as he ever does.
“We are getting out of here together, we are going to watch our darling Noora commit her life to a man none of us like, and then we are getting shit-faced, okay?”
“Okay,” agrees Isak. Linn hums, and takes hold of the end of the walking stick. Eskild nods, solemn, and looks up at the various grubby signs pointing -- somewhere.
“This way,” he says, nodding again. “This way.”
Isak just clings to his hat with one hand and the back of Eskild’s jacket with another, closes his eyes and hopes for the best.
Finally, with Eskild leading and Isak tripping along at the rear, they emerge from the choking fume laden heat of the underground and into the bright London sun.
It’s barely May, but already the city is sweating, the glass fronted office buildings reflecting heat out onto the pavements, the off white blockwork of the older buildings almost blinding after the false fizzing glow of the underground.
Without saying a word Eskild hands his walking stick to Linn, drops to his knees and enthusiastically appears to make out with the scorching asphalt.
“My god,” he murmurs as he looks up, dirt on his chin and blinking into the light as though he's receiving some kind of benediction. “My god.”
“Are we in the right place now?” Isak looks around him, a little frantic at the thought of having to return to the depths, “You know where it is?”
Eskild stands and brushes gravel from the knees of his sharply pressed pinstriped trousers. “Of course, it’s right there. I knew it all along. Absolutely.”
He points to the building immediately opposite the station exit-cum-rabbit-warren they’ve just emerged from. It’s a huge building, nine stories or more, built of that grey-white stone and edged with hundreds of arched leaded windows. Outside, by the entrance, there’s a smartly dressed doorman guarding a red carpet that drapes over the stairway. Isak’s hands start to sweat against the rim of his ostentatious hat and even Linn lets out a low whistle of approval.
“I guess William does have more going for him than his dick after all.”
"Behave," Eskild hisses, which is ironic really because Isak can count the number of positive opinions Eskild has ever expressed about William on one hand with fingers to spare. Linn must agree, because she rolls her eyes, opens her bag, and downs most of the contents of a little plastic travel bottle without so much as a twitch. Eskild grimaces. "Not even a mixer?"
Linn blinks up at him. "I am a woman on the edge," she says bitterly, and Isak turns away just as Eskild’s eyebrows furrow.
And then they're bickering again, the way they seem to nowadays whenever Isak remembers to facetime them. Eskild's voice pitched lower and Linn's louder than Isak remembers them being back when he lived with them full time. It makes him feel a little odd, a little off kilter, in a way that's both sickeningly familiar and too strange to name. He tries his best to tune them out, focuses instead on the shadow the doorman casts against the stonework. On the man with the armful of equipment cases who's rucking up the edge of the red carpet as he juggles with their weight.
Isak's always sort of had a bit of a hero complex if he's honest, and if saving this guy's ass saves him from witnessing further evidence of his ex-roommates’ floundering friendship then it's a win all around as far as he's concerned.
He's over the road before he knows it, half a glance right when he should have looked left, the blare of a horn and Eskild's squeal fading out to nothing as his toes edge bloody velvet, his hand held out to grab at the closest tumbling case and --
Fuck.
Well.
Fuck.
From over the road the guy had just been a wildly wobbling pile of equipment topped with a swoop of fair hair, from up close he’s what Eskild would describe as trouble . And this time Isak would not be inclined to disagree. The top case finally loses the battle with its friends and slips free of the tower just in time for Isak to catch it, and revealing in its place a bright smile and eyes that crinkle at the corners, the tip of a tongue that peeks over full lips.
“Ah, my hero! Thank you!”
Isak swallows and tries to shrug. The shirt sticks to the hollow of his back, sweat prickling along his spine, and looks down at the thing in his hand. It’s a camera case -- solid and weighty and bound in fine leather -- and the guy’s gaze dips down to where Isak’s grip on both case and ugly hat is a little tighter than absolutely necessary.
“Nice hat.”
His eyes sparkle , his smile seems to shine and it’s like something from a cheesy fucking romcom, every single nerve in Isak’s body screaming retreat! before the musical number starts.
His legs don’t seem to be getting the message though, and neither does his brain because his mouth is opening and words are coming out.
Casual. Chill. This is chill.
Keep it fucking chill.
“Noora made me. The hat. Noora -- yeah. I don’t --”
The smile fades, just slightly, and Isak’s traitorous heart lurches. “Noora? The bride?”
“Yeah, I’m --” Fuckstruck, actually, how are you?
“Even,” the guy -- Even -- says, and he’s shifting the pile of equipment again, thrusting a large hand out for Isak to take even as his nails press half moons into leather and moleskin. “You must be William?”
Isak snorts. “I must not ,” he splutters, outraged, before trying desperately to school his voice into something a little more casual. “Isak. Valtersen. I’m Noora’s --” ex-roommate, acquaintance, very very gay acquaintance actually if that’s of any interest to you, “guest? One of -- a guest."
“Oh!” Isak tries very hard not to read too much into the sudden reappearance of his smile, or the way his eyes flicker over Isak’s face. “So, then --”
“Isak! What are you --” Eskild skids to a stop, his leather soles slipping against the carpet, and gazes upon Even like a starving man presented with an extremely attractive banquet. “Oh, hello .” His eyes narrow meaningfully as they turn to Isak. “Never mind.”
“Are you also friends of the bride?” Even says brightly. Eskild’s lips curl dangerously.
“Darling, I’m whatever you want me to be.”
“What’s happening?” Linn still has her phone in her hand, her bag hanging open, travel bottle on full display. “Did you not get us lost after all?” She purses her lips at Isak, disappointed. “I thought you were on my side.”
Eskild clutches at his chest as though he’s been stabbed. “Betrayal! I cannot believe --”
Even lets out a choked sort of snorting sound, and Isak wonders if he closes his eyes and wishes hard enough the ground will open up and swallow him whole.
“Guys,” Isak pleads, “guys, can we just --”
Someone clears their throat. Loudly.
“Excuse me, Sirs and Madam,” the doorman steps forward, just slightly, and though he’s addressing all of them it’s Isak he looks at. “You are with the Magnusson wedding, yes?”
“What gave us away,” grumbles Linn, and the doorman looks at her a little blankly.
Right. Norwegian. Right.
All the words that have escaped him with absolutely no permission and not one of them was English. But --
That means the guy -- the guy speaks Norweigian. Not just any Norweigian either, but the casual, slurring speech of a native. This, Isak thinks, is information worth retaining. But now the doorman is looking at him and Linn is drinking and --
Focus, Isak. Focus.
Isak opens his mouth -- he only graduated two and a half years ago surely he’s retained something from his English lessons -- but Even beats him to it, turning that sunshine smile on the doorman and answering in barely accented English.
“We are, would you be so kind to direct us? You have a very beautiful building here, but it’s a little --” he looks up, gestures with an arm full of really very expensive looking equipment, “how do you say? Daunting?”
The doorman’s face cracks into a smile. “Yes, of course, please --” He beckons them inside, allows each of them a moment of awe as they look up, up, up into the cavernous room beyond.
Isak feels his jaw drop. He’s never, not in all his life in Oslo or beyond, been anywhere that feels quite this grand. The vaulted roof is held up on dozens of green stone pillars that glitter like crystal in the light from the leaded windows, and below it are half a dozen bars, tables, cosy looking sofas and hidden nooks. The people sat at them are middle aged in the main, sitting with stiff expressions to match the stiff drinks in their hands at 11am on a sunny Saturday, and --
“This way, please.”
He directs the four of them to cram into an elevator that could probably hold twice that number, had Even not apparently brought most of a television studio along with him, and presses the button for the sixth floor for them before sending them on their way with a twitch of a smile. Isak intends to stare at his feet for the entire trip up, tries to focus on the upside down small print of the equipment case resting against his toes.
“I’m the videographer,” Even says as they pass the third floor, though no one asks, “I’ve never been to a wedding in London before though, you?”
It takes Isak another floor and a swift elbow to the ribs from Linn before he realises Even’s speaking to him.
“Uh, no?”
“No?” Even’s eyes twinkle in the overhead spotlights, and that’s probably one of the least straight thoughts Isak’s ever had. Going by his reaction to spending ten minutes in Even-the-Videographer’s company that really is saying something. “Okay.”
He lets his eyes close for a moment. Get a grip get a grip get a -- “Okay.”
When he opens them again Even is still looking at him. Still twinkling. Still fucking inconvieniently pretty. He smiles again. Isak wonders if he might actually hate him. Maybe this is some form of torture for a crime he’s no memory of commiting. Perhaps this whole thing is Noora’s idea of taking out extremely complicated vengeance against him for all the times he stole the last of her pasta back in high school. “Good conversation.”
Isak tries to look away before he embarresses himself any further, but that’s a mistake because he immediately meets Eskild’s shrewd eyes. Isak recognises that look, recognises that Eskild’s absolute silence so far is as terrifying as it is out of character. Eskild has scented blood, and this is dangerous.
Don’t. Don’t you dare, Isak silently pleads.
One eyebrow quirks up. I dare.
“I think what the lovely Isak is trying to say is --”
“No, Eskild. Leave him alone.” Isak jumps slightly at the ferocity in Linn’s voice. Eskild’s expression drops.
“I didn’t even --”
“Ah!” The lift bell rings, and Even rocks back and forth on his toes as though vying to be the first one of them through the doors. Isak doesn’t blame him, in fact he’s pretty hot on his heels, dragging cases out of the lift while Linn and Eskild continue to hiss at each other under their breath. “Thank you. I’ll see you later?”
He sounds almost nervous, and that makes absolutely no sense at all really, not one bit. Not when he looks like that and Isak is sweating his balls off and about to put on a hat that looks like a stovepipe.
“Uh, yeah?” Isak nods at the camera hanging around his neck. “Seeing people’s kind of your job, right?”
Even’s smile is small now. Private. Prettier, somehow; and there’s a tug behind Isak’s breastbone that he doesn’t know what to do with.
Except he does. He does, and Even’s voice is half whisper, half promise because, god. He knows too. He must.
“Lucky me.”
---
The room is split down the middle, William’s family and -- presumably -- friends on one side, and Noora’s own much smaller guestlist on the other. Isak finds himself sitting in the second row, crammed in between Linn and Eskild while they begrudgingly pass each other tissues and sips from the vodka bottle over his head. He keeps one eye on Even, who flits in and out of the room always carrying some camera or tripod or both and yet always seems to look in Isak’s direction just in time to catch Isak looking away.
It sends a nervous little thrill down his spine, a tremor of excitement that probably ought to be focused on his old friend’s imminent marriage but instead is busy coming up with traitorous ways to ensure she has absolutely no video footage of anything that happens from ten minutes after the bar opens.
Who knows, he might develop a taste for weddings after all.
He still hates the hat though.
“You too?” Magnus drops heavily into the seat behind him, punching Isak in the shoulder for good measure and then grinning brightly at the scowl Isak throws back at him. “It took me like two hours to get dressed this morning, man! How did people used to do this every day ?”
“Lack of anything better to do?” Jonas slips in alongside Magnus, and leans over to offer Isak a one armed hug. “How you doing, man?”
Isak narrows his eyes. “What the fuck? How did you get out of it?”
Jonas blinks, the picture of innocence. “What do you mean?”
“Yeah man, did you forget this was supposed to be a costume party?” Magnus flicks at the end of Jonas' slightly off centre burgundy tie.
“Advantage of not banging a bridesmaid.” Jonas shrugs. “I’m not expected to be in the pictures.”
“The hell, I’m not banging a bridesmaid,” Isak grumbles. “I don’t even know why I’m here, honestly I’ve got finals in --”
Magnus groans, rolling his head back dramatically. “Yeah, yeah we know you’re like the world’s gayest and most studious student, Jesus Christ.”
“Oh, that’s what he tells you is it?”
Isak has to do a double take. Sana glows in gold and pink, her smile small but genuine and her eyes brighter than they have any right to be considering Isak knows she had a lab until 6pm the night before and can't have arrived in London much before midnight.
He still, if he’s honest, doesn’t quite understand how being paired up with a practical stranger for one biology project had led to one of the most lasting friendships in his life. Still can’t grasp how of all of them, Sana was the one to follow him to Trondheim. Still has no idea how to express how grateful he is for it nonetheless.
She hips checks Jonas, and the boys shift down a seat to make room.
“When did you get in?” she asks Isak, her dark lined eyes narrowing as they land on the monstrosity on his head. “And what bet did you lose?”
“Thursday night, and you tell me.” Isak scowls. “I look like one of them.”
He nods toward the other side of the makeshift aisle where the rows upon rows of William’s guests sit. Their hats are bobbing about like a flock of ugly birds, and a low bray of laughter rises up from the crowd. William sits at the very front, top hat and all, Penetrator Chris alongside him in a military dress uniform that Isak admits makes his shoulders look especially good.
“Don’t be a perv,” Sana says, her mouth ticking up, “Eva’s already got her sights on that one.”
“Not interested,” Isak states, folding his arms. Nor’s Eva, he doesn’t say, because if he knows anything at all, and he’s pretty sure he knows a lot about that particular closet, he’s painfully aware that that’s hardly his secret to tell. Plus it’s starting to feel like he might have his own to protect, especially when Eskild drops the swiftly emptying plastic vodka bottle from his lips and leers at him like a hyena spotting a particularly juicy corpse.
Sana with the take down, Eskild with the killing blow.
Fuck his life, honestly.
“Not in him, hmm baby Jesus?”
Sana’s smile turns knowing. “Oh?”
“No,” Isak insists, but his eyes are already searching for a glimpse of blond above the crowd. “I’m not --”
From somewhere there’s a click and the high pitched hum of electrical equipment and then --
The music starts.
---
Noora is beautiful, of course she is, she always has been, and Isak might not be interested but he isn’t blind. Even William manages to force his face into an expression that might generously be called ‘fond’, and Isak still isn’t one of those rushing to hammer their fork against the rim of his untouched champagne flute but he does at least half listen to the speeches. Some of them -- Eva’s, Vilde’s, Noora’s own, even sound heartfelt.
Perhaps, he wonders idly as Penetrator Chris starts on a bawdy russ tale that has William’s grandmother growing greyer by the second, there is some truth to it after all -- love. But it isn’t held in the tight vice of a cravat or dependent on the obligatory feeding of the almost five thousand. But perhaps it’s in the way Chris Berg helps Noora gather up her skirts as she leaves for the bathroom, in the way Eva is the first to dip her face to kiss William’s cheek even if Isak, maybe more than anyone, knows how hard her skin must crawl.
“I hate him,” Linn says, and reaches over to drain the contents of Isak’s glass. “His hair looks like a wig.”
“Don’t be rude,” Eskild drawls. “Wigs are much less greasy. More stylish too.”
Linn narrows her eyes. “Do you think he dipped it in the soup to get that look or --”
Isak blocks them out. Not because he disagrees with them -- no one in their friendship group has ever quite believed that William is as wonderful as Noora insists he is, after all. It probably has something to do with the way she’s spent the last four years insisting on his wonderfulness via Facetime. No visits, no time for them. But still no hobbies to share, no friends to introduce them to, only work and William and it’s all pretty sad even if it seems to be allowing Eskild and Linn some best-bitches bonding time.
Isak has other things on his mind. Other people.
One, specific, other person.
Even’s good at his job, or, at least, what Isak understands his job to be. He’s everywhere and nowhere all at once, always there to capture a particularly bawdy joke or an aging aunt wiping away a tear and then slipping away silently to somewhere no one would spot him unless they were looking.
Isak is absolutely looking.
He’s at the edge of the room now, backed up against the oak cladding as caterers bustle past with silver trays bearing dessert, and Isak watches with a sort of morbid fascination as he plucks a morsel from one of the plates and lifts it to his mouth with long, slim fingers just as his eyes meet Isak’s.
He licks his lips, eyebrows quirking up in question and Isak squirms.
He is in trouble here. Serious trouble.
Across the table, Jonas clears his throat and Isak’s attention snaps to him, his cheeks warm with guilt.
“Everything all right man?” Jonas' tie is undone, and he leans back in his chair, an arm around the back of Sana’s as though he hasn’t a care in the world. “You look kinda out of it.”
Isak shrugs. “Just tired -- how much more of this shit are we going to have to listen to do you think?”
“Almost done,” Sana says, looking up from her lap, the glow of her phone screen lighting up the embroidery down the front of her salwar kameez. “No one likes William, so unless you want to make a speech --”
“I want to make a speech!”
The problem with Linn and Eskild making up, is that Linn apparently has more than one bottle of vodka in that tiny little bag and she’s been magnanimous enough to share. Eskild staggers to his feet before running his hands over his outfit as though double checking he’s remembered to keep it on.
“Noora! My darling!”
Isak is pretty sure he can hear the swoop of Even’s camera toward them even over the sound of Penetrator Chris’s groan. But Noora’s face brightens, and Isak can’t begrudge her that. Not today.
“Since the day you came into my life, a child , I have wanted only the best for you,” his voice wobbles slightly, and something catches against Isak’s ribs. There have been no speeches from Noora’s parents. No loving reminiscing about her youth. And suddenly his eyes are burning. “Because you -- you have always deserved this. This beautiful wedding, like a dream come true, yes, but more than that -- all these years I’ve known you, and all you’ve wanted is to be loved, and to love in return.” He pauses, swallows hard, and Isak wonders for a second exactly how much he’s had to drink. “So I say: Look around you, Noora,” Esklid says. “And see how very loved you are.”
He sits, sudden and without any of the dramatics Isak might have expected, and stares at his hands as a smattering of applause rings out, led by their table and the bridesmaid’s where Eva is patting at her cheeks with the edge of the tablecloth.
“That was very kind,” Sana says softly, reaching over to place her hand over his. “You didn’t have to.”
Eskild looks up, and his eyes are damp. “Of course I did,” he says. “It’s true.”
---
They clear the tables away for dancing, and Isak escapes to the bar as Noora and William take to the floor to some Bieber cover played by a music student with a guitar and a lisp.
He’s far from the only one with that idea, though he is probably the most horrified by the prices the sour faced young barmaid quotes him for two beers and a white wine.
“This cost more than my rent, Holy fuck,” he grumbles as he presses the wine glass into Vilde’s hand, wincing as she throws herself over to hug him. “Jesus, Vilde be careful! That shit’s liquid gold.”
“Aw, you’re so lovely to me,” she drawls, patting vaguely at his cheek with her free hand and batting her lashes over her shoulder at Magnus. “Isn’t Isak so lovely, Mags?”
Magnus wrinkles his nose.
“Yeah, Mags, aren’t I delightful?” Isak grins, turning Vilde until she flops back against Magnus' chest with pink cheeks and happily glazed eyes.
“She’s wasted. How is she so wasted?”
“Eva,” Magnus says, leaning forward slightly as Vilde giggles. “She had two bottles of gin under the table in gift bags. She’ll hook you up, man.”
Isak sips at his grossly overpriced, oddly warm beer and grimaces slightly. “Did everyone think of that other than me?”
Magnus shrugs. “Wedding bars are crazy expensive, everyone knows that.”
“Well I didn’t know that,” sniffs Isak bitterly. “How am I supposed to know that?”
“Haven’t you been to a wedding before?” Isak just looks at him. Magnus' eyes go wide. “Serr?”
“Whose wedding am I going to go to, huh? Everyone I know in the world is here and only Noora’s gullible enough to --”
“Are you having a good time?”
Vilde stops giggling, her jaw dropping slightly as Even appears at Isak’s elbow. The cameras are gone, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone.
Isak, trying for suave, manages a sort of squeak of greeting. Even smiles. Isak imagines it smacks slightly of pity; it's still the loveliest thing in the room.
“Only I noticed none of you are dancing so --”
Vilde’s bleary eyes sharpen, and she digs her elbow back into Magnus' solar plexus.
“We should go dance, Mags. I love dancing!” She slips slightly sideways in her enthusiasm and very expensive wine sloshes alarmingly against the rim of her glass.
“Are you sure?” Magnus says, looking from Vilde to Isak and back with a furrowed brow. “We were talking to Isak and --”
“I’m fine!” It’s too quick, too high pitched, and he tries to clear his heart out of his throat before he tries again. “I’m fine, go. You know I won’t be joining you.”
“You don’t dance?” Even asks, and tuts. “That’s a shame. I’d love to see it.”
“Uh no, you would not,” Isak manages, catching the way Magnus' mouth forms a perfect little ‘o’ of realisation, “but Mags, he’s a great dancer.”
“I am?” Magnus looks unconvinced.
“The best!” Vilde trills, and then she’s tugging him away with admirable strength and throwing a sloppy wink over her shoulder at Isak as she does so. “Come on!”
Even says nothing, only hovers, warm and solid and frightening in his proximity.
"Aren't you supposed to be --" Isak gestures vaguely toward the dancefloor. “Filming the bride and groom or something?”
Even screws his face up, considering.
"You think he might pull another face? I’m good, but even I can only do so much with ‘constipated’ you know?"
Isak clucks his tongue. “That’s not very polite.”
“Me? Impolite?” Even laughs shortly before pulling a cigarette packet from his pocket and tapping the bottom to offer Isak one. “Don’t tell my mother will you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good,” he smiles again, and this time Isak feels his own lips curl in reply, Even’s happiness tugging at his sinews like a magnet. “Come outside?”
He turns, leaves the party behind, and Isak -- drawn helplessly forth like a magnet -- follows.
They step out onto a long broad balcony that stretches perhaps half the length of the hotel’s facade, and Isak takes the proffered cigarette and turns slightly to look out over the city below, above, around.
The London night isn't dark, exactly, but nor is it the same sort of dusky, dusty red of summer nights back in Trondheim. There, the sun barely grazes the horizon, Isak's terrible sleep schedule enslaved to half a dozen ready set alarms and the thickest blackout blinds he could afford. Here the sky glows with the burnished yellow of the streetlights, the air humming with the sound of traffic, heavy with the throb and thunder of the city beneath. The smoke from Even's cigarette curls out over the edge of the balcony, and Isak watches, fascinated, as it slips away.
"Do you actually --" he takes a breath, watches Even blow smoke rings into the still summer air. "Do you actually like weddings then, or what?"
Even scoffs. It's a funny little noise, half laugh half snort, and Isak feels his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He wants to hear it again, over and over and in places far more familiar to him than this. It’s terrifying. Wonderful. Everything. "Do you not?"
He shrugs, watches the way his fingerprints leave smudges on the chrome safety rail. "First time."
"Ah," Even nods knowingly. "A virgin."
Isak chokes on his next breath, lungs seizing entirely that he barely manages to wheeze out a, "Uh, no. Not --" he coughs hard into his fist, then holds onto the railing for dear life. "Fuck no."
"Okay," says Even, grinning. "Noted."
He feels more than sees the way Even's eyes settle on him, a weight to them he can't ignore.
"I like eating," he says, softly casual in a way that makes Isak peek at him when he feels the heat of his gaze lift. "And I'm pretty keen on keeping my roof over my head so -- sure, I like weddings. Not that many people willing to pay for portraiture at a funeral."
"Duh," Isak snorts. "That's different "
"Is it? See, I like telling stories." Even shrugs, grinding his cigarette out against the railing before draping his arms over it. They look longer now, in his shirt sleeves. Ghostly white against the glass.
"Weddings, funerals, they're all based around stories. How we met, how we lived. Who we loved." His eyes snap up to Isak's, moonlight bright. "Just depends on whereabouts in the story you happen to be."
Isak shakes his head. "Weddings are supposed to be happy though? There's nothing happy about a funeral."
One corner of Even's mouth ticks up. "Guess it depends on the wedding. Are you happy?"
Isak blinks. "It's not -- I'm not meant to be happy though? It’s not my wedding. Not -- not that I want to get married or whatever cause I don’t -- I think it’s all bullshit, really."
"Marriage?"
"No -- well, yeah." Isak leans back against the railing and kicks his heel against the glass balustrade. "Love. It's all just hormones, you know. Hormones and like, social conditioning or some shit."
He shrugs one shoulder like this is just some casual half formed thought and not the basis of his entire life philosophy for the past almost four years.
"Hormones." Even deadpans. Isak nods.
They stare at each other for a moment. Two. Isak's heart thudding unsteadily against his ribs and Even, Even , with his upper body hanging half over the rail, the reflection of the night in his eyes.
Hormones have a lot to answer for.
"Oh Isak," he says, his voice dropping all low and soft, so soft that Isak isn't sure, isn't ever sure, he's meant to have heard it. "That's far sadder than any funeral could ever be."
"No? What the fuck?" Isak shakes his head sharply. "It's not sad?"
"You don't believe in love, that's the saddest thing ever."
Isak splutters. "The saddest thing? No. No way. Don't you watch the news? And I didn't say I don't believe in it, I know it exists --” Exists and throbs and aches until it doesn’t, until it’s gone and you’re just left hollow. Hollow and rotten, right to the core. "I just don't think it matters, or is necessarily good, like -- how much did this cost?"
Even settles his arms on the edge of the balcony and looks up into the night sky, a tight little furrow between his brows.
"Hell if I know, a lot?"
"Couldn't more good have been done with that money, don't you think? Rather than spending it on some crazy display of -- whatever the fuck this is?"
"Hormones and social conditioning?" Even drops his gaze to Isak's.
Isak shrugs. "Call it what you want, but Noora's been with him since she was sixteen," he says, as though it explains everything. To him, it kind of does.
Who ends up with their childhood sweetheart, really? No one. It’s a lie. Fake. A made up story for the children they won’t stay together long enough to have, or the ones who will be born only to drown in the flood left in the wake of their parents' disastrous choices.
"Ah." Even nods. "So you don't think this is love, then? Not even your version? Not even hormones and shit ?"
"If it is, it's shit. That's all I'm saying." He tosses his hair out of his eyes and drops the filter of his long burnt out cigarette to the ground below. “It’s just a load of shit.”
"You really believe that, huh?"
Isak shrugs. "No one I know has ever proven otherwise. It's just science."
"Okay." Even stands back from the balcony edge, stretches one arm over his head, other hand on his elbow, twists his head from side to side. "Okay." He drops his hands to Isak’s shoulders, and Isak jolts as though he’s been electrified, nerves screaming. His heart hammering against his rib cage -- frantic in a way his brain doesn't know how to explain. "You ready to get out of here?"
Isak's mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Even's eyebrows dance across his forehead like some fucking cartoon character come to life and how, what --
"What?"
"You hate weddings -- and love, and joy apparently, and I can't keep filming a groom who looks at the camera like he's in an advertisement for cheap cologne and someone's just rammed his cheque up his --"
Isak throws his hands up, half choking on the laugh that bubbles up his throat. "Shit no! Enough! I don't want to live with that image!"
"No one does," Even says, terribly serious. " No one. I can't work with that, Isak. It will ruin my reputation."
Isak quirks an eyebrow. "Do you have a reputation?"
Even's solemn expression cracks, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he sways forward into Isak's space. "Wouldn't you like to know."
Isak lets himself follow Even's movement until there's barely a breath of space between them. Even swallows; Isak watches as he licks at his lower lip.
"Do you?"
Isak flicks his eyes up from Even's mouth, nervous desire roiling in his stomach. His voice cracks
"Do I what?"
"Do you." Even prods him with one finger just below his collarbone. Isak's heart keens. "Want to get out of here?" A pause, and then the finger is against Even's own breastbone, Isak fascinated by the crease of the material as it presses against his shirt. "With me?"
"Where?" It feels like a logical question, the sort of question you ought to ask when being propositioned by strange men in strange countries, but Isak already knows he doesn't care about the answer. Already knows what his answer will be, even before Even shrugs. Grins.
"Wherever."