Chapter Text
They meet on a train to Paris.
It’s early, sky bright but a little dusty. It feels like it should be warmer for late August; the south had been punishing, the kind of heat that bubbled beneath his skin, no care for cold showers or weak hostel fans. In comparison, France is hot, but it’s bearable.
For once, Even isn’t fighting for an inch of floor space. He’s not sitting on his bags in a doorway, stuffed onto overbooked trains with poor air conditioning and windows sweating with condensation. There’s no friendly Argentinian backpacker sharing wafers and travel stories, or Brit in a fanny-pack groaning about having to climb over luggage to reach the suspicious-smelling bathrooms. This time, the compartment is sparse, Paris empty while its people make their way to sunnier spots for their own holidays. There’s still hours to go before they reach their destination, before his trip is over and Even is back to the cold embrace of coursework and an uninsulated flat in Peckham.
He has his camera slung low across his chest, blankly scrolling through the pictures he’d taken in Toulouse. They’re not great, but admittedly, nothing from this trip has been anything to write home about. Holiday-wise, not bad — he’d got laid easily enough, and he’d managed the difficult feat of not exactly getting a tan, but not getting sunburnt either.
But when he thinks of the hours spent lugging film equipment around East London for a measly wage, to pay for a measly backpacking trip around Europe, searching for the lost spark that made him apply for film school outside of Oslo in the first place… it doesn’t quite add up.
And it sucks, because Even truly, madly, deeply loves film. He loves writing and directing and storyboarding, all the boring stuff people ignore down the credits roll. He loves watching movies and discussing camera techniques and reviewing and making people listen to his opinions on mumblecore and colour palettes. He even loves film school; or he does in theory. He’s not sure anymore. It’s got lost in the pulsing greygreygrey of London: the single square of blue sky he sees a week, the constant bustle that excited him at first but now makes getting out of bed every morning a battle in self-discipline. The fact that he’s two years into a film degree at Goldsmiths and he’s barely touched a tripod.
Not to mention, the water tastes like fucking limestone.
All the dreams and inspiration that used to fizz out of him like a coke can are disappearing down the drain, and now he’s here, on a half-empty train to Paris with a maxed-out credit card in his wallet and nothing to show for it.
He’s aware that he’s being a bit dramatic, but in a way, Even’s always sort of felt like his life were a movie. Logically, he knows it isn’t, and he knows people don’t always appreciate when he plans out plot, dialogue or emotion that the characters in his life can’t always deliver on. He knows it’s a big pressure for someone to expect more than you’re able to give, but it doesn’t stop him from craving it. Craving the control of the director, control over his life, control over himself.
He just wants something more.
More than this, at least.
More than sustaining himself on cornershop curry and Tesco meal deals because London is so fucking expensive; more than having nothing to talk about with his friends and family other than how tired he is all the time; more than churning out what his professors want to see instead of what he wants to make: drama and fury and explosive love. When Even writes, he writes big.
He also knows that it’s stupid to pin all his hopes and dreams on a lonely night in Paris, but at this point, it’s all he has left. Once he’s back to the usual grind of film school, it’ll be ‘gritty realism’ and short films on dealing with depression through ham-fisted metaphors. One time a guy in his class made them look at a black and white picture of a battery-farm chicken for twenty minutes while Mozart’s Lacrimosa played in the background. Nobody was allowed to speak.
He needs to find something to write about.
So he’s doing the artist thing: walking around all night, (hopefully) breathing in inspiration, living his last hours in slow motion. This is mostly because he’s so goddamn broke he can’t even afford the shittiest hostel in the dodgy corners of Gare du Nord (favourably described as ‘Dante’s Inferno’ on TripAdvisor — thanks Mike Beebe from Seattle), but his train’s at nine AM tomorrow morning, and there’s an equal chance of getting mugged as there is of finding inspiration.
Ultimately, it’s a risk he’s willing to take.
He stares out at the blurred countryside for a while longer before a bickering German couple steal his attention. He’d been planning on doing some exploring, ending up in the food carriage and figuring his way through limp train food. These two seem more interesting though, and he pulls out a worn sketchbook to try and capture their movements. The woman has wild, corkscrew curls and checks her phone like it’s a nervous tick. The man is bursting out of his trousers and trying to ignore her for a Stephen King paperback. Without knowing a word of German, he picks up that they’re fighting about a sister-in-law and something to do with a Sacher torte. He looks around again, and this time he lands on someone much more appealing.
It’s a boy, probably not much younger than he is. He’s blonde, hair falling in waves across his forehead and behind his ears, with a cute, upturned nose a bit like a pixie. He’s sprawled (rather selfishly) across two train seats, back against the window as he flicks through something dense with what looks like size 2 font. The title’s in Norwegian.
Even doubts there’s a God up there, but if there were, she’s pulling through.
Before he even knows it, he’s looking for reasons to talk to him. He could come up with a flimsy excuse, pretend he’s deeply fascinated by Space, Time, and the… Texture of Reality? And yeah, that’s not happening. The other route is to find a semi-legitimate reason, such as the Germans being too noisy, or the dust gathered in his window being so thick he can’t even see the fascinating rye fields outside and wouldn’t you know, the view from golden boy’s window is just so much better.
Ultimately, there’s no better conversation starter than the fact that they’re both Norwegian and conveniently stuck on a direct train to Paris for the next four hours.
Even makes his way over.
The problem is, it takes a little while to actually gain his attention. For all that it sounds like literal hell, the texture of reality must be a lot more interesting than he previously thought, because Even’s been staring at the boy like an idiot for almost five minutes before he finally looks away from his book. He startles, almost dropping it in shock. Even does his best impression of a winning smile.
“Hi,” he says.
The guy stares at him for a beat too long, wide eyes almost all pupil and, if Even were feeling cocky, he’d wonder if it’s because of him. There’s a faint red patch on his cheekbone from where he’s been leaning on his hand and Even wonders if he was actually using the book to hide the fact that he was sleeping. Personally, Even hasn’t felt this awake all morning.
“Uh, hi,” the boy says, kind of breathless. His head is tilted slightly, like has no fucking clue what’s going on.
Even is usually smoother than this.
“How’s it going?” He asks, still smiling brightly. Maybe too brightly, judging by how the boy winces in response.
And then he just stares. Continues to stare. Exhales. “Good, I guess… You?”
Even shrugs, settling in. “Been better, really. My window back there was all clogged up so thought I’d move to a better view. I’m also pretty hungry, but if that food trolley earlier was any indication of the food they’re serving on here, I’ll probably just starve.”
This time, the silence stretches out into something almost uncomfortable, growing heavier with the subtle rise of the boy’s shoulders as they ascend into his neck like a heckled cat. Even watches him, hoping for something, anything. But the longer he waits to speak, the more Even feels like he needs to: incessantly, uselessly, filling the air between them with noise he’ll regret later because despite what they say, silence isn’t golden and sometimes it’s louder than bombs.
Finally, he snaps. “Great conversation, though.”
It’s a stupid thing to say and he regrets it the moment it’s out (willing the seconds to rewind, for the boy to relax), but miraculously, it breaks the tension. The boy laughs, a small, helpless sound like he’s not sure he meant to make it. He peers up at Even through thick, dark lashes, apologetic.
“Sorry,” he rasps, even though he has nothing to be sorry for. “Guess I’m still a bit dead from the early morning.”
It’s eleven, but time is a construct. Either way, he finds his sleepiness intriguing: the tired circles under his eyes; the slight delay between his answers, as if his words are something worth deliberating over. Now that he’s close, there’s something generally rumpled about him. It’s more than just the creases in his bomber jacket, odd in the context of late summer but a necessary shield against the unpredictability of compartment air conditioning. More than his tousled hair and sluggish responses. Really, it’s nothing to indicate more than needing a solid night’s sleep, but a surge of protectiveness still races through Even: the desire to soothe and caress.
“Don’t be,” he says, smiling again. “I was just lonely and needed to get away from all that tension over there,” he flicks his head towards the Germans. “To be honest, I saw that the book you were reading was in Norwegian and saw salvation. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He can see the boy silently contemplating whether or not to check the book cover, as if needing confirmation that it really is in Norwegian. Even can’t tell whether he should be charmed or offended by this, like it’s something worth making up for the chance to speak to him. He’s not exactly wrong, but the boy quickly dispels these fears by nodding. Even’s going to write a thanks to whatever nerd wrote The Fabric of the Cosmos for doing him a solid.
“That’s fair,” he says, after some thought. A man of few words, then. Another beat, furrowed eyebrows. “What tension?”
Even nods at a table behind them, where the woman is sending pointed glares over the top of her phone. The man is still engrossed in his Stephen King. “See over there?” He asks, watching the boy stretch to peer behind him. He’s blatantly obvious in his staring, but fuck if his side profile doesn’t belong in the Louvre. It could be a Michelangelo.
His brows furrow, taking in the scene. They’re very nice, Even notes. Shapely and dark, but amateur enough Even doubts the boy’s ever touched them. “She looks mad,” he says, then ah’s’. “Good book, though.”
This startles a laugh out of Even. “Stephen King, really?”
“He’s good!” The boy says, a little defensive. His voice pitches higher ever so slightly. “I mean, he’s famous…”
Even scoffs, but the grin that’s fighting to take over his face (and winning) likely defeats the sound. “Famous doesn’t mean good!” he cries. “And anyway, considering what you’re reading right now looks unbelievably dull, how can you be trusted?”
Golden boy’s mouth falls open, revealing perfectly gapped teeth. He pulls the book closer to his chest, scandalised. “This is a great book!”
“It’s on…” Even studies the cover for a hint, because to be honest, he has no fucking clue what it’s on. His grimace must show, because the boy smiles indulgently, still hugging the book.
“Theoretical physics,” he says, resting back against the glass. The book lies on the table between them now. It feels like it’s laughing at him.
“It’s on theoretical physics,” Even repeats. “And I’m betting you’re reading it for fun.”
“It’s a great book.” He says solemnly.
Even gives him a look, long enough that the boy huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes. It’s a practiced move, but not malicious. “I like space,” he says simply.
“I suppose,” Even wrinkles his nose. “A bit big, though.”
“You could say that,” he laughs. He tilts his head back against the glass, the morning light catching on his hair, lighting it up like a halo. When he turns his head, Even sees double. It feels like he’s being studied.
“What do you like, then?” The boy asks.
“Anything. Everything.” His eyes narrow. Even snorts. “Film.”
“That’s cool. Do you make them or just watch?”
“Both, though right now neither.”
Even is quickly coming to learn that when the boy tilts his head to the left, it means he has a question. The look he gives Even is withering, and he feels like he should be taking notes. This one would say ‘no vague answers’.
Even sighs, dramatic, waving his arms as if to encircle all of ‘this’ (backpacking, fancy camera, stuck on a train with a pretty boy) and enjoying the way the boy’s eyes flick, albeit quickly, to the gaping collar of his shirt. “That’s sort of what this whole thing is about. I’ve been travelling all summer looking for inspiration, y’know? Cliché, but I hoped something would come to me, and now I’m heading back to London and still nothing.”
The boy starts. “London?”
“Starting my last year of film school at Goldsmiths next Monday. I’m actually supposed to have a concept for my term project already.”
The boy nods, contemplative. “Sucks.”
Even snorts. “Wow, you’re so empathetic.”
He grins something wicked. “I’m the master of empathy.”
Even kicks him gently under the table.
“What about you, then?” He asks. “What brings you here?”
“Going home,” the boy shrugs. It’s languid, like everything he does. “Was interning at a hospital in Barcelona over the summer and now I’m heading back to Oslo. I’m in my second year.”
“High achiever,” Even teases, genuinely impressed. “Gonna be a doctor?”
“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’. There’s a subtle confidence to him that wasn’t there before and Even can’t help but imagine him in that white doctor coat, holding a clipboard and explaining x-rays, or alternatively, hooking up with him (Even’s a sexy nurse in this scenario, or a sexy patient) in a supply closet. “Got a while to go, though. And a lot of debt to look forward to.”
Even grins. “I wouldn’t know what that’s like, sorry, being a film student and all. Arts really yield a profit.”
This time, he’s the one being kicked under the table, and not quite as gently.
“I bet,” the boy grins. “Maybe you could help me out when you make it big. Direct that movie about disturbing some guy on a train and mocking him for his poverty.”
“I will. In fact, I’ll call it…” In an ideal world, Even would be able to think up something clever on the spot, something so impressive the boy would swoon delicately, but deeply into his arms. Typically, in this world his brain actively hates him. “Actually, I don’t know what I’ll call it but it’ll win every award. Best Picture, Volpi Cup, Palme D’Or. 100% Rotten Tomatoes rating.”
“Don’t know what those are but glad it all works out for you.”
“Thanks, I try.”
They fall into a comfortable silence; two boys with twin grins sitting patiently in the in-between.
“I’m Isak,” the boy says.
“Even,” he replies. “What kind of doctor do you want to be, Isak?” The name tastes delicious on his tongue.
“Surgeon, probably.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious!”
“Should I be calling you McDreamy, now?” He likes that Isak doesn’t bother pretending not to know who he’s talking about, just rolls his eyes fondly. “This is bringing a whole new perspective to our movie! Maybe you’ll be on your way back home after a romantic getaway with a beautiful stranger, only to get to work and discover that she’s your sexy new intern—”
Something decidedly pointed collides with his shin. Again. “Shut up!” Isak groans, face hidden between long, pale fingers.
“I’m not finished yet! You try and stay away because you’re actually still married to your ambitious and sexy-in-a-strict way pediatric surgeon wife, who you’re currently estranged from—”
“Have you ever actually been an intern? Because it’s not sexy at all.”
“Stop lying, I bet it’s sexy as hell. You’re probably having an affair with three different doctors right now, and they all probably look like runners-up for the Spanish national football team.”
Isak peers out. “Is that right?”
“Yes, and they’re all called something like Ramon. Or Cristiano. Enrique.”
To be completely honest, at this point Even doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, but he’ll keep running his mouth if it means Isak looking at him like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or hit him.
Isak shifts one pale hand so that he’s leaning his cheek onto it, grinning lazily. “And I’m sleeping with all three of them?”
“You are,” Even nods wisely. “You’re their hot Scandinavian sidepiece. You seduce them with talk of Ikea because they think Sweden and Norway are the same place. You’re not a threat because we’re shit at football. They’re idiots but you’ll usurp them all.”
“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?”
“Lots. And they all buy you gifts, more and more outrageous as they fight for your attention. The other students hate you, but with Ramon, Cristiano and Eric on your side—”
“I think it was Enrique, actually.”
“Right, Enrique. Anyway, they don’t stand a chance. But Enrique’s wife, Carmela, who wears red and has a gambling problem, is on to you. She exposes you while you and Enrique are fucking mid-surgery—”
“Mid-surgery? Are we fucking on the patient?”
“You are; it’s scandalous.”
“That’s… so unhygienic.” He says, nose wrinkling at the thought.
“It’s also a kidney transplant.”
Isak’s eyes widen, giddy with suppressed laughter. “That’s like, the least sexy operation ever.”
“Well, you two are pretty kinky. So now you’re on the run because Carmela wants blood and Ramon and Cristiano are ready to leave their wives for you too.”
Isak sighs helplessly. “What can I say? No one talks POÄNG like I do.”
And just like that, Even’s in love.
He points a finger at him. “You’re dangerous, Isak.”
When Isak laughs it should be dainty, with his narrow hips and pretty mouth, but instead it’s hoarse and boyish. Even warms at the sound, down his throat and through his lungs, unfurling in his chest like the summer breeze.
“It sounds like you have your movie, Even.” He says softly.
And see, Even’s spent his whole life thinking his name is ordinary, one-syllable, forgettable, containing a particle of the sheer life and vibrancy Even feels in his head alone. When Isak says it, it sounds like a promise.
A comfortable silence engulfs them, miles from the raw nerves of before. Even is leaning on his forearms, having become more and more animated throughout his spiel. Isak has turned to face him too, head leaning back against the dirty window. His eyes are smiling, both in person and through the looking glass, reflected in every surface, every glance, every heartbeat. Even shivers at the thought.
“I guess I do.”
/
They chat as the train brings them closer to Paris, and it’s easy, an effortless exchange like Even hasn’t experienced in years. It hits him — in between rounds of Scum they keep messing up because they’re missing a Queen, lost in a ruin bar in Budapest; spilling salted cashews between them that Isak found in his pocket, expired but edible, still bearing a Danish logo from a field trip last spring — that this is the first proper conversation he’s had in weeks. It’s depressing to think that he hasn’t really connected with anyone in a long time, hasn’t felt like he can be himself without constantly second-guessing everything he says and does, like a nervous, toxic tick.
Maybe it’s simply being around another Norwegian. It’s what he hadn’t considered about London, how you can be at the centre of the universe and still feel so alone.
It sucks then that, in a few minutes or so, he and Isak will be going their separate ways. Or, Even will. Isak’s staying on through Frankfurt till Copenhagen, then flying the rest. Even had tried to gauge his reaction when he told him he was disembarking in Paris; hoped he didn’t imagine the dimming of his smile, how Isak’s surprise read hollow. Not that it matters — they’ll probably never see each other again, and that’s life, isn’t it? Sometimes you meet perfect boys (green eyes, golden hair, laugh that could launch a thousand ships) and you just. You just deal with it. You go back to your cold, empty room with your boring, tired flatmates and you order in greasy pizza and watch ‘Take Me Out’, pretending you don’t wish you were the one going on a mystery date to the Isle of Fernando’s.
Or. Or.
You ask them to come with you.
“Get off with me in Paris.”
Isak, mid-sentence — something about a late-night YouTube video conspiracy theory phase that his best friend took a little too seriously — stops.
“What?” He squeaks.
“Get off with me in—” Even sees the issue. “I mean! Get off the train with me in Paris, not— like, you could also get off with me in Paris, if you wanted, that would be chill, but also if you don’t want to that’s fine! But—”
Isak giggles, and thank God that cuts Even off. He really has no indication of Isak’s taste in partners, nothing to go on but a lack of reaction to several Spanish fantasy boyfriends. Potentially, the fact that they’ve been shyly but surely flirting all morning, and Even’s roughly 70% sure that Isak’s been staring at his lips just as much as he’s been staring at Isak’s.
He looks Isak in the eye. “What I’m trying to say is,” takes a deep breath, “I know we’ve just met, and I know this could be nothing but a scream in the void but, I like you, and I feel like we could have something here.” He pauses. “Right? It’s not just me… right?”
He waits.
And waits.
It’s suddenly glaringly obvious that Even is alone in this; that once again, he’s read all the signs wrong. He’s invented a narrative Isak never once agreed to and— what is he thinking? Of course, Isak doesn’t feel the same way. He’s beautiful and funny; he reads physics books for fun. He wants to be a surgeon, for fucks sake. He probably has a hot girlfriend at home who’s about to pass the Bar, sings like Nina Simone and is experimenting with paleo. She collects cactuses and can drive stick-shift and spends every summer teaching blind orphans to read. Or a boyfriend: funny, plays rugby. Isak’s family loves him and they have a designated date night every Thursday, trying dishes from around the world, even the spicy one’s Isak can’t handle because it’s cute when his face goes all red like that. They’re thinking of adopting a puppy. He’s not fucking crazy—
“It’s not just you,” Isak says, so soft Even almost doesn’t hear it over the sound of his internal monologue; a tick away from imploding. “It’s not just you,” he says again, louder, decisively. The smile he gives Even is terrified, but genuine.
It’s like Even can breathe again.
“That’s chill,” he hears himself say faintly, because he’s an idiot.
“That’s chill,” Isak repeats, blushing profusely.
They spend an untraceable amount of time just looking at each other, because they can, because sometimes there is nothing more gratifying than the simple act of liking and being liked in return.
“Come with me to Paris.” Even says again, voice soft but sure. “My train to London doesn’t leave till tomorrow morning so you can get on another train to Oslo before your Eurail runs out. And I'm broke so I was just planning on walking around and seeing the city at night. It's warm and it’s ending and it’s Paris. It’s just for a night. Keep me company.”
Isak’s stare is disbelieving, and he leaves it for so long Even can feel himself bursting at the seams, one by one, up his sides and down his legs and across the insides of his thighs. They reached Paris a while ago, but it only feels real now that he can see the uniform buildings; café’s and bistros and graffiti spilling over balconies. Gare de Lyon is visible in the near distance, and even when outside is rushing around him, Even feels like they’re standing still.
“Okay,” Isak says.
When they smile, it’s reflected tenfold.