Chapter Text
The water flows down the drain clear, without the slightest tint of red.
Even heaves a sigh of relief and turns off the tap. The tack room has a heater, but his fingers are still white and stiff after several minutes under cold water. Gusts of wind howl through the vents and rattle the window panes. He reaches for a cloth to wipe the sides of the snaffle bit one last time.
Ósk had nearly given Even a heart attack when he noticed that the snaffle bit was covered with a coat of blood after today’s trip. Luckily, the damage had been caused by her sharp new teeth, which was normal. Jón has floated them now, but the dried blood on the rings needed several rounds of soap and water to get clean.
He puts the bridle on the wall among the others. He grabs his anorak and looks back one last time to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything before he turns off the light, then leaves the heat behind and heads for the cold stable.
In the stable, there is no space heater and the insulation is poor. The fluorescent lights buzz, and little sounds fill the room. The horses are moving about in their stalls, breathing or slowly chewing on the hay from the evening feed. Even’s breath turns into little clouds in the cold air as he makes one last turn through the stable to make sure that every horse is in its right place and none of them have escaped.
Even puts his hands in his pockets as he checks on Fleyta; the big, unmistakable blue dun mare.
She looks up from the hay, staring him down with one dark eye before she goes back to eating. Even shakes his head at her. He takes one big step over Ella, the stable cat, who's sleeping in the middle of the aisle, and starts to head towards the exit; he’s just about to call out that everything is ready for the night when he realises that Spes isn’t in her place.
With a sigh, Even turns back down the aisle. He walks carefully between the horses feeding on the hay on the floor, and then out through the side door leading into the riding stables. Inside, the walls are even thinner, and they almost shake every time a gust blowing from the mountains strikes them a certain way.
And yet, Isak is still at work.
Spes, the nervous brown mare, walks in a small circle around Isak. Last time Even watched them, Spes was stepping closer to the outer edge of the circle; as far away from Isak as possible.
Jón once said that you couldn't teach yourself anything by only training the horses with clear potential. And that you should only start to handle those horses if you managed to train the others. It wasn't total nonsense, and it had fired Isak up in an instant. To Jón's delight, he’d declared he'd be mounting her on his own by the end of the week.
Clearly, those were not just empty words. Spes' head is lowered almost all the way down to the ground, her gait relaxed and steady. Isak has even been able to put down the whip. Now, he merely walks with small steps, angling his body in the right direction and stopping at regular intervals.
Every time he does, Spes does the same.
Even sticks his icy fingers under his armpits. Halfway hidden behind the entrance, he watches as Isak slowly but surely makes Spes come closer to the centre. Makes the distance less and less between them until she follows every step he takes. Does the same start and stops as Isak does. They go on for a few minutes: Isak first, with his back to her and Spes following, until she takes the final step towards him without any persuasion.
Several seconds pass.
A breath, a twitch of her ear. Then, she presses her forehead against Isak's shoulder. Isak slowly turns around, and his smile is so big that Even can see it from where he is standing. Isak raises his hand and scratches Spes behind her ears.
Somehow it feels too intimate just to stand around and watch.
Even clears his throat.
It really shows how much Isak has managed to do when Spes doesn't even twitch, while Isak jumps. Even can't help but smile as he goes up to the edge of the corral; he throws his arms over the side and smiles.
“Well done.”
Isak's smile fades, but he continues to pet Spes' forehead. "Thanks."
“Can I come in?”
A nod from Isak and Even heaves himself over the fence. A cloud of sawdust flies up around his shoes when he drops down on the other side.This time, Spes doesn't seem to care either. She's too busy enjoying the touch of Isak's careful hands—her eyes closed and nostrils flaring as Isak scratches her, dragging his dry, slightly chapped hands through her thick, mostly grown out winter coat.
“She's so much calmer.”
Isak shrugs and sniffs, then wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, finally. I just hope she'll stay calmer from now on.” Moving along Spes' side, his hand traces her back, index and middle finger running down on each side of her spine. “Jón said they're thinking of selling her soon. So it'd be good if she's a bit less nervous by then.”
“You've done a good job with her.” When Even puts his hand on the point of her shoulder, she doesn't even react: another proof of Isak's work. But at the same time, Even know Spes’ slow progress under Isak’s hand doesn’t play into his sullen reaction. It isn’t a part of the problem.
At that, Isak does a sort of a shrug-nod blend and smiles at the ground. He scratches his mare a little on her rump; her ears angle to the sides as she relaxes. “Yeah. I guess.”
Isak's nose is runny and red. As his ears would be, had he not put on his knitted, dark blue beanie. The cold is intrusive here, but at least Even got to clean bridles and tack in the relative warmth of a heated tack room. Isak has been working hard in the uninsulated riding stables without so much as a scarf or a pair of mittens. And although the Icelandic sweater he got from Eídunn must've kept the worst of the chill at bay, it doesn't seem to have been enough.
His naked fingertips are white with cold.
Isak looks down at the floor. “I should probably try to mount her,” he says, stroking her back. “We've had weights and a saddle on, and I've laid across her back a few times. And she is so calm now.”
“Why don't you try it then?”
“Because Jón isn't here?”
“I am.”
“Seriously?” Isak's eyes are doubtful, but laughing all the same. “I trust you, but not that much, Even.”
“Just one lap. She's used to you now, and your balance is more than enough, even Jón says so. Chop chop!” Even places a hand on the point of Spes' shoulder again. “I mean it.”
Isak raises his the eyebrows but slowly steps around to Spes' other side. He comes close enough that Even feels the heat radiating from him, senses him breathing and makes out the clouds his breath form in the air, in the light of the foggy fluorescent lights attached to the ceiling.
“You'll give me a leg up, then? She's used to me halfway mounting, but she might buck anyway.”
Even nods. “Alright.”
He bends down to get a good grip just above Isak's knee. He holds himself steady, and feels the strength of the thigh under his palm when Isak pushes away and smoothly mounts her. For a short second when he's just resting on his hands, Spes goes stiff, but as soon as Isak gets his leg over and finds his balance, she relaxes again.
For a while after, they stay completely still. Let a few minutes pass and give Spes time to realise what’s going on around her. She’s young enough to still have some trouble with comprehending the rider's aids, but somehow, Isak manages to make her walk.
Long, relaxed steps, just like Even's own.
The storm outside causes the walls and the tin roof to rumble, and Spes' inherit instinct to flee can still kick in if she's spooked.
Even looks at him. “She performs the tölt just fine, right?”
“This one tölted before she walked.” Isak strokes his hand over her mane, his mouth soft and warm. “Is this you telling me I should try it?”
Even shrugs, and Isak's laugh clouds the air.
“Only if you catch me when I fly off.”
And when Isak pulls the right corner of his mouth up into a smirk and raises an eyebrow, a new sort of dizziness washes over Even in a way that he knows it shouldn't.
Not here, and not now.
But it's too late for that.
It’s only been a few weeks since Jón declared that Even would be getting some company in the living quarters of the stables again.
All summer he had lived there with Ninni. But after Rettír, in early September, she had returned to Denmark, so he'd had the quarters to himself for almost a whole month. And there was something to be said about falling asleep like that; to fall asleep without Sonja's body beside him, or without sensing someone else's presence inside the walls. It had been scary at first, but then a calm had washed over him as he lay down at night and fell asleep to the violent cacophony of another autumn storm.
He had just entered the tack room after a training trip with Fleyta up on the road when Jón stumbled in after him. He nodded, poured some coffee into the lid of his thermos, and then sent Even an inscrutable look over the edge of said lid.
“So, Even. Are you enjoying yourself here? Starting to go stir crazy yet?”
In a way, it was nice that Jón knew and did not care about it. People's weaknesses were something he loved to tease and take digs at. Sometimes it stung, but it was also relieving.
Even breathed out a laugh and shrugged.
“No. I like it. It's peaceful here.”
“It is, isn't it?” Jón scratched his beard and looked out through the window, across paddocks and the fog. “So, you'd rather not let another kid from Oslo join you?”
Stomach tied into knots, Even tried his best to keep it from showing on his face; to not give in to the cold feeling of losing control and let it slip out through the corners of his mouth. Why Oslo, of all places?
“It's fine. Do you know where they keep their horse? Which stables, I mean?”
Jón shook his head. “No, I have no idea. Sveinn said Oslo, that's all I know.”
“Okay.”
“It's another city kid—Sveinn's sister's grandson or something else neither here nor there. He was going to work over at Sveinn's, but Sveinn has now discovered that he has too little to do, apparently.”
His lungs inflated again. It was true that it was lonely at times, being the only guy, but he didn't know any other guy hanging out in the same stables he did. “Too little to do? Is it because he's hasn't got any new horses to break in this season?”
“Yeah,” John said. “We'll place him with you, in the quarters. We do have ten horses who either have to work off all that lard they got this summer, or need to be broken in, so it’ll be good to have some extra people around. He’s going to be leaving when you are so in a way, it's perfect.”Jón downed the rest of the coffee and stretched his arms over his head with a sigh. “By Christmas time, it'll be just me and Eídunn again.”
“You can kick me out earlier if you want.”
“Don’t weasel out on me now, Even. You're just a little too good to let go of right now.”
They washed up after breakfast and then Jón disappeared into the riding stables again, ordering Even to collect more forage from the outhouse. Even stayed put on the couch for a while before he picked up one of the hay nets so he could carry more forage bags at a time.
As he came around the corner and out on the courtyard in front of the stables, something caught his attention. Sveinn, the horse farm owner ten kilometres further down the road, was leaning against his blue pick-up and talking to someone—
Someone who laughed.
Even stopped. Not entirely, but everything slowed down for a few seconds—brain, heart and his feet’s connection to the ground. It had not been momentous, but it had been so long since he'd had such a raw, physical reaction to a laugh.
The guy next to Sveinn tipped his head back, hand around his own throat as he laughed. It had been a rainy day, and the fog had not yet retreated.
Nevertheless, Even could not have seen him more clearly.
Pretty.
In that way that changes your worldview for a while.
“—and look, there he is. Even!”
The sudden call had made him connect his feet to his brain again. Had made him pull his scarf over his chin to hide the fact that he did not care that the horses saw his embarrassing attempt at a beard.
Sveinn beamed about him, teeth white through his thick, grey beard. “How are you? Lonely now that Ninni has gone?”
Even smiled back; Sveinn made it almost impossible not to. “No, not really. It's pretty nice to be by yourself,” he answered honestly, shaking Sveinn’s hand.
“Oh, that's a shame! You know, Isak's here to keep you company.”
“Yes, Jón just told me.” Even didn't even think before sticking out a hand to the guy, who now stood next to Sveinn with a reserved expression on his face. “Even.”
“Isak,” he said, and looked at Even, and that was where it had started, with those green eyes with something behind them that made his stomach drop in a way that he had not known since he first saw Sonja. He had to force himself to swallow.
Sveinn smiled again and patted Isak on the shoulder before opening the car door. “And don’t let Jón get to you. He’s a strange one: he's going to go hard at you, thinking it builds character or something. And remember to speak to your grandma once in a while too!”
Isak had nodded. “Yeah. I promise.”
“Good. Take care!”
And with that, Sveinn got into his car and drove up to the road, heading for his farm. The sound of the drizzle filled the silence between them while Isak seemed to think, his eyes stuck on the road and the shoreline running along its side.
It was a great opportunity to just take in the sight of him: blond, curly hair sticking out from under his beanie, a dark green gallon jacket that made it impossible to see his build.
Not that it mattered.
Even had Sonja.
He broke the silence, for both their sakes'. “Do you want the tour of the place?”
Isak jumped at his words. And maybe it was the wind or something else, but his cheeks were red when he turned around. “Sure.”
So Even brought him down to the paddocks, where the fog made it impossible to distinguish either horses or sheep and see where they were grazing down by the shore. Isak's face remained neutral, and they went back, quietly, to the stables.
“A question—you're from Oslo too, right?”
He couldn't stop himself—wondered why he hadn't seen Isak before, neither at competitions nor otherwise, because he would have remembered him—as they walked through the aisle where that day’s horses waited in their stalls.
Isak nodded. “Yeah. Can't you hear it?”
“Oh no, I can.” Even couldn’t help laughing. “Which stable do you ride at?”
His question had caused Isak to make some strange grimace before he shrugged his shoulders. “I mean. I haven't really stayed at any proper stable-stables, really.”
“No?”
One of the horses—a black mare that would later become Isak's favourite—had chose that moment to satisfy her curiosity. She put her black head on the edge of the half door and uttered a deep sigh. And Isak—and his entire face—softened as he gently held out his hand to let her greet him, get to know his scent, before he scratched her behind her ear.
Even put his hands in his pockets, warmth and cold marbling his insides. “So, what are you here for?”
“Work?” Isak said, smiling with one side of his mouth as he combed his fingers through the mare's mane. “Was supposed to stay with Sveinn, but he sent me over here. He had too little to do, apparently.”
“Jón told me. But it's just fun to know what sort of background people come from.” Even shrugged “If you've grown up on a horse farm, or just handled horses in your spare time while your mother cheers loudly from the sidelines.”
He had pointed to himself, coaxing another laugh from Isak, all suppressed and hoarse. Still, all too much like a shock; a sense of vertigo “No, nothing like that. Grandma lives in Drammen and keeps two—no, three now. I ride a lot with her. After school from time to time, when I wanted or just—needed to escape for a while.”
“You're not hanging around any stables around Oslo, then?”
“No. Didn't feel like it was my kind of place, really,” Isak said with a snort, wiping his hand on his thigh. He was wearing a pair of clunky, laced-up riding boots—probably newly purchased at the airport—but otherwise, did not look the part, dressed in a grey hoodie and short raincoat. "A little too—I don't know. Too many girls. "
He shrugged, but Even knew what he meant. Most of the girls in his riding group were used to his company, but still, he never managed to fully relax. Especially not after the rumours began to spread about what he'd done last spring. So, it felt good that Isak had no idea. That he didn't keep in the small circle of people in Oslo and its surroundings interested in Icelandic horses.
That Isak most certainly had no idea who Even was.
Or Sonja, for that matter.
“So you came here for a change of scenery.”
“Yes, something like that.”
Isak accompanied him to the house to get the feed and Even was pleasantly surprised when Isak helped out without even questioning it. With two of them it took half the time, and Even showed Isak how to walk around the stable to get to the door of the seasonal workers’ living quarters.
“They needed new paddocks; that's why you have to make this detour.”
“Doesn't take much longer,” Isak had said and dumped his 60-litre backpack on the hall floor with a thud. “Wasn't that bad.”
“You say that now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, after three months, it gets annoying. Especially if you just have to go down to Jón and Eídunn and fetch breakfast,” Even had said, and toed off his paddock boots and brushed off the worst from his jodhpurs.
“Fair enough.”
Isak took a small tour of the common room—dragging his fingers over the knobs on the old radio and the minuscule screen of television balancing on the windowsill—before turning to Even again. “Where am I going to sleep?”
He hadn't planned on it, but when the chance presented itself so neatly, Even couldn't but take the chance to escape the lumpy mattress on the bottom floor bed. The room was warmer, which was a disadvantage in summer, but with winter around the corner, it seemed like a reasonably fair exchange. “You know what. I think I'll move. You get the bed down here, and I'll take Ninni's upstairs.”
“And you didn’t change beds before because?” Isak said slowly, clearly suspicious.
Even winked at him as he gathered his belongings. “See it as a privilege because of my status as a long-term employee,” he said. “Ninni stayed upstairs since she stayed here before me. It's just the way it is.”
And Isak had laughed, accepting it as fact.
The alarm goes off at half-past six.
It's October, but winter is already upon them. The winds make the waves beat against the black shore in the fjord, and it rains more frequently—it falls horizontally here—and the raw cold slips in through gaps in scarves and sleeves. Snow is not an unusual thing. It usually melts away during the day, but the cold still seeps up through the floorboards.
This makes it even harder to rise from a warm, toasty and pleasantly warm bed.
Even turns onto his stomach, exiting an arm from under the covers and fumbling for his phone to turn off the alarm. The chill of the room bites at the bare skin of his arm, causing the hairs to stand up in defence. He quickly retreats to the warmth under the covers, the phone still in hand.
A new text from Mom, a promotional one about language courses abroad—and a message from Sonja.
He bites his chapped lower lip. Catches a piece of died, dry skin between his teeth and tugs at it with his teeth, accidentally pulling it clear off. It's a little too thick, because it stings like hell, and suddenly his whole mouth tastes of blood.
Even swears, and marks the text as read.
With his tongue against his destroyed lip, he tosses the duvet to the side and sprints across the icy floor. In front of the window there’s a chair that substitutes as his wardrobe, and Even pulls off the t-shirt he wore to sleep. Quickly slips a clean t-shirt and the Icelandic sweater over his head plus some woollen socks on his feet to shield himself from the insistent cold.
He keeps his pyjamas pants on, and then slowly heads down the stairs, with its creaking fourth step.
They built the extension sometime in the eighties, and it shows. The walls of the common room, serving as a combined kitchen and living room, are covered in pale grey, granular wallpaper. The striped sofa bed along one wall is wonderfully outdated, and the small television balancing on a tall stack of books on the window sill even has an antenna.
Even rubs the last traces of sleep from his eyes, goes to the counter by the window and pours himself a large glass of water. Takes two pills from the blister pack behind the coffee tin, swallows them, and hides them in the same place again; without the folding carton, they go unnoticed if you're not looking at them from the right angle.
He turns on the coffee maker.
While it's running, Even takes out spreads for the remaining pieces of rye bread. Eídunn had baked it when she was ill and restless last week, and Jón had given it to him, saying he was sick of it and that they still had three loaves left. The fridge is almost empty, but there’s still some left of the sweaty block of cheese, butter—and also the smoked horse meat, which, even after four months here, he'd rather not eat.
The coffee maker clicks. Even turns it off. Pours coffee into the chipped mustard yellow mug before looking out through the window again. In the short while since he woke up, the fog has lifted, has retreated steadily towards the mountains. No one can predict how it'll act throughout the day, but a retreat this early on usually indicates sunshine later on.
His mug of coffee is already half-empty when he hears sounds from the room opposite the kitchen. A few drawers move, something goes thump, and a quiet curse travels through the air before the silence returns. A few minutes later, Isak comes out. He has pulled the drawstring of his grey hoodie tight, and his eyelids are puffy.
He stifles a yawn behind the hand. "Morning", he murmurs and goes straight to the fridge. He seems confused for a while before he finds that what he is looking for is already laid out on the bench.
The gentle sunlight from outside slants in through the window. It falls over the lower half of Isak's face—the sun-bleached freckles like sprinkles on the bridge of his nose, sharp cheekbones, the dip in his chin, the cupid's bow on his soft upper lip—
Even swallows, and takes the pot to pour the rest of the coffee into the chipped mustard mug's twin. “Morning. Slept well?”
Isak pulls a face. The grimace rolls like a wave across his mouth, from right to left. Then he shrugs. Still, a small smile appears when Even hands him the mug.
“Yeah. It was alright.”
“You don't have to lie. That mattress is not fun in the slightest.” Even shrugs. “I slept there all summer while Ninni stayed upstairs, so believe me, I know.”
It makes Isak laugh, and it shouldn’t make Even feel as much as it does—as if a glowing drop of lava drops down and burns itself into his diaphragm—but to deny it will only hurt him more in the long run, that's for sure.
No matter how wrong it is, it keeps happening. Over and over again.
Isak smiles into his coffee and shakes his head. “Okay. Fine. Perhaps it's a little lumpy,” he says.
Even winks at him. "If you can't handle it, nothing’s stopping you from coming upstairs and sleeping with me."
Isak looks at him—one, two seconds pass—before he rolls his eyes and keeps his eyes trained on his feet. “Oh, fuck off, Even,” he says, but it there's a smile playing in the corners of his mouth.
They drink their coffee in silence.
Eístla pants heavily under him. Her breath turns into clouds in the clear air, and the gravel comes up in sprays around her hooves.
They’ve been at it for an hour now and Even is just as tired as she is. The fatigue isn't tangible. Not like the one you get after a day of cleaning out muck or herding the horses down from the mountains, but it's still there. Steadily seeping into his bones.
And she still hasn’t found the tölt.
Even takes a deep breath and asks her to halt. As soon as the reins give her permission, she lowers her neck and snorts.
He rolls his shoulders and squints at the small streak of sunshine that’s fought its way through the clouds. The wind from the mountains has numbed the lower half of his face, and his fingers ache. Until he goes back home in time for Christmas, he’ll need to accept that the frost-bite on his fingers is permanent—just an addition to everything else.
It's unavoidable; the condition for letting him travel here in the first place was that he’d find something, anything, to help him find the will to live again, despite everything he’s been dealt with. The frostbite wasn’t included then, but it is now.
He pats Eístla's neck. “Okay. One more time.”
Collecting her, they take off cantering down the narrow dirt road. Even glances at her front to make sure she is on the right rein, before asking her to take shorter and shorter leaps. Her back rises, her hind legs are beneath her, and then—after forty-five minutes and almost two weeks of work—she finally falls into the unmistakable rhythm of tölt.
And Even cannot help it: a little cry of victory escapes him.
He lets her hold the tölt as long as she's able to, and then allows her to canter back to the farm. They slow down to a walk just as Isak is heading back from the corral with Uða. They enter the courtyard at the same time; Even with the panting Eístla and Isak with Uða beside him; both looking tired but content.
Even dismounts and nods towards Uða. “How was she?”
Isak pats the pinto's neck. “She’s loosened up enough; kissed the left stirrup just now, so a lot of progress. You?”
He loosens the cinch and Eístla gives a deep, satisfied sigh. “She's practically a master of all five now,” he says, stretching his arms in the air. Even can hear his back crack and a smile takes over Isak's face when he understands what it means.
“She managed her tölt?”
Even nods and scratches Eístla's mane. “Finally.”
Suddenly the door to the stable slams open, revealing Jón. He's got one of the colts in an improvised halter of rope. It has its ears pointed forward, but otherwise, it's calm.
Jón shakes his head when he sees them. “Are you just lazing around here?”
Isak's shoulders tighten, but he nods. “We're just finishing up. Having breakfast soon.”
Jón nods and squints, looking up the road, before turning to them with a smile. “You do that. Don't want you to work yourselves to the bone. But then I have something for you.”
Even raises his eyebrow. “Oh?”
”I took a trip down to the fence down at the fourth paddock yesterday, and it needs some repairs,”Jón says, squinting towards the beach. “Just a couple reinforcements to the boards should be enough. Ýr and Fleyta need to run off some energy, so take them with you.”
Isak nods. “Roger that.”
“Anyhow, get some food in you first. I had a coffee in the tack room just now. It should still be warm.”
Without a helmet, and without saying another word, Jón takes off. The colt follows without a thought; tölting behind him towards the corrals further up the hill.
Even and Isak watch them as become smaller and smaller in the distance.
Isak shoots Even a glance, and then they just start laughing. It's one of those laughs that bubble up from within, that you have no control over, but that have to come out in some way.
“He's so weird,” Isak says when he's composed himself, and shakes his head. “So weird.”
Even shrugs. “Jón's—special,” he says for lack of a better word, coaxing one last snort of laughter from Isak.
“True.”
They release the horses in the paddock closest to the stables—Eístla immediately drops to the ground, effectively covering her grey-white body in a thin layer of mud—before they take shelter from the sudden rain in the heated tack room.
Things are very different from the way it is at home. Not just the horse-keeping itself— herding instead of getting the horses one by one from the paddocks, the fact that everyone seems to have some farrier skills, the general attitude towards everything to do with horses—but some things are still the same.
Like the tack room.
Just like in the stable at home, it’s small, but heated. The scent of leather and saddle soap sticks to the wallpaper like smoke. An old sofa with a dirty, colourful wool blanket sits under the window, against the only wall that’s not covered in tack.
On the little counter, the coffee maker is waiting for them as promised; drops of condensation coat its inside. The window is all fogged up, so Even puts his knee on the sofa and wipes his forearm across the pane to let the thin grey light enter. Isak finds them two cups from the cabinet under the counter and pours some coffee. He pulls out the sandwiches waiting in the same cupboard.
Before Even has a chance to react, the sandwiches lands in his lap. He shoots Isak a sharp glance—but there’s no venom in it. He can’t be annoyed when Isak smiles at him; he tries to purse his lips, but they keep twitching.
“What was that for?”
Isak slumps into the couch with a relieved sigh. “You have to be more alert.”
Spending all morning outside in the cold has given Isak's cheeks some colour, makes him look a bit more alive, less hollow-eyed. Even can’t tear his eyes away from the sight. Not only because he is so beautiful that sometimes it's hard to keep looking, but also because of the way he sits; drinking from that chipped coffee mug, he looks so much like Sonja after a day on the slopes that it gets difficult to breathe.
So, Even doesn't.
Just takes a bite out of his sandwich instead, ignoring the burning sensation in his chest.
He knows things haven't been good between him and Sonja for a long time. That she’s been getting on his nerves more and more; that her obsession with keeping a constant eye on him makes him feel trapped. As if he's a child, not a twenty-one-year-old who’s capable of making his own choices. And at the same time, he understands why. Once upon a time, he appreciated it—the fact that, even though she might not think highly of him anymore, she didn't leave him.
That she stayed through it all; that she's still here.
But.
At the same time, it's also that very thing that isn't working anymore. The thing that stops him from replying to her messages until a week has passed. He knows that he has to answer them because otherwise she will call and start interrogating him again. And in whatever way he tries to explain, she'll think he's lying.
Not to be mean, but as a means of protecting them both.
He understands that much. But it's not that easy to be rational when it comes to himself; when it becomes personal, no matter which way he turns it. When everyone else seems to think he himself, his whole being, is the most prominent cause of the problems.
As if he’s too blind to see it for himself.
"Do you want to try Ýr today?"
Isak's voice cuts through his thoughts like a razor.
“What?”
“Do you want to try riding Ýr today? Down to the fence.”
Isak has a strange look on his face. Even stares back before clearing his throat. When that fails to get rid of the dryness, he takes a swig of coffee instead.
“Why would I want to?”
He makes sure he's smiling. The last thing he wants is Isak thinking that something is off. Because nothing is.
Isak shrugs, his gaze fixed on the toes of his boots, and Even realises what's going on. “You'd rather ride my horse? To see if she's faster?”
At that, Isak snorts. “Faster? I’d like to see that.”
“Fleyta is currently the fastest horse on the farm.”
“You sure seem to think that.”
“Ha! So that's why you're willing to practice the trot with my lady. To see if it's true?”
As predicted, Isak laughs. It forces the coffee down his windpipe and Even pats him on his back to help him breathe again.
Isak just shakes his head. “Your lady?”
“Yes. You know how she is.”
“You sound like one of those crazy horse girls,” he says.
Even raises his eyebrows. “Crazy?”
“Okay, not crazy. But you know the type,” Isak says, rolling his eyes. “Your lady, Even?”
“Fleyta is a little lady,” Even says, and trying not to let the word get under his skin. “With a big ego. So, I'm just wondering why you'd rather struggle with her than with Ýr, who yields like a dream.”
“Just a change of pace,” Isak says. “But if you want Fleyta, I have no problems with Ýr. I like her a lot.”
Even leans forward to get a better look at Isak's face. “You know I'd trade with you, right? If you want to know if Ýr is the slower one.”
“Fuck off! We're so much faster than you!” Isak's voice is sharp, but the elbow that hits Even between the ribs is gentle. “You'll see.”
Even nods. “I can't wait.”
Apart from the fact that the horses are always dirtier than at home in Oslo, everything runs more smoothly here. Even doesn’t have to check in with ten people before he does something. It only takes five minutes to pack a backpack with the tools and pieces of wood they need, and they’re ready to start riding.
The rain from the morning has turned into a light snowfall, the flakes melting as soon as they hit the ground. The wind softens, but the temperature seems to drop with every step away from the stables. The land belonging to Eídunn and Jón is about five hundred acres, and the fourth paddock is furthest away, where the property borders Sveinn's.
Isak and Even stay close so that they don’t lose each other. Sometimes so close that Even feels Isak’s legs brush against his. The wind bites at his cheeks, and he pulls his scarf slightly higher up his chin.
“How do you think she’s doing?”
Isak draws his attention back to Even from wherever it had wandered and looks at him with dark eyes. “Good. She's connected and relaxed.” While he is talking, he collects Ýr, who snorts, and struggles to work her hind legs beneath her, let them take the brunt of her weight. “It's just the flying pace. Jón says I have to make her lower her neck because she holds her head too high.”
"Jón's strict," Even says as Isak gets tight lines around his mouth, and his shoulders slump beneath his raincoat. “He went to Hólar. Most people wouldn't think about whether or not she keeps her head raised. The most important thing is that she's keeping it in flying pace. Ruthless. "
Isak bites his lip as if he's holding back a smile. “Fine,” he finally says, before speeding up, and Fleyta struggles to keep up with the other tall mare.
The sounds of gravel crunching under their hooves and clicking from the snaffle bits fill the air. Ýr starts chewing on the bit as they fall into a trot. The snowfall stops as the clouds open up behind them, and from both his own and Fleyta's nostrils, warm breaths become visible in the cold air. Naturally gifted with the tölt, she's struggling a lot with the extended, relaxed steps of the trot that Jón wants her to master.
Even can sense the beginnings of a stitch in his side, telling him that it's time to slow down soon.
“Hey. Should we race to the fence?” Isak asks.
Their shadows stretch out on the gravel road. Even smirks. “Flying pace, or what?”
Isak shrugs. “If I'm to have any chance at beating the two of you—”
“Ready, set, go!”
Without warning, Even touches his calves to Fleyta's sides—and she takes off like a bullet down the road.
Gravel and clay spray up behind them, hitting Even’s back while her hooves thunder against the ground. The air above the yellowing, snow-spotted fields is clear, making the snow sparkle when the sun burns through the last bit of fog. Ýr and Isak are not far behind, but Fleyta is, despite her ugly form, faster than any other horse on the farm.
She runs so fast that her hooves barely touch the ground.
The meters disappear beneath them, almost out of control. But as the wind tears through his hair, Even can't help but laugh. The sunlight makes him squint, and the whole world’s contained within him, sparkling and warm.
Perhaps he should be careful, pay more attention, but he couldn’t care less.
Just as they reach the last turn before Sveinn's, something black appears in the corner of his eye. And then, despite his best attempts, Isak overtakes him on the inside. Ýr, who must have run as fast as possible, fumbles for her balance as they cross the border. Isak parries by leaning in the opposite direction, and they avoid tipping over.
When she's steady again, Isak drops the reins, puts both arms in the air and roars, “Gotcha!”
There's a glow to him as he sits there, panting, cheeks red from the wind, astride his black mare. A revelation of ruffled hair that sticks out from under his beanie and a boyish smile that forces something vital in Even to shift a few inches to the right.
And he knows it will never fall back in place.
He makes Fleyta halt, and she flares her nostrils so loudly that she drowns out his heartbeat. He combs through her mane as he leans forward over her neck. She reaches her head back, rubbing it against his leg to make him scratch her forehead.
“That was fast!” Even beams.
Isak tips his head back and laughs. “Without a head start, too.”
“We started like half a second before you.”
A water droplet runs down Isak's neck and into the collar of his raincoat. “Still cheating,” he says, then leans forward to pat Ýr's neck. “Good work, girl! I didn't think you had it in you.”
Ýr closes her eyes and breathes in reply.
A comfortable silence settles, and they let the horses rest for a minute. Isak rubs at the spray of clay stuck on his cheek and Even closes his eyes. Tries not to let similarities and differences and everything else fill him up too much, even though it’s much too late for that.
You can't go back once you’ve stepped off the ledge, he thinks. Once you've let go, there’s no turning back. Even swallows. Allows the realisation to take root and wind its thick vines around his ribs before he opens his eyes again; he has to squint against the light of the sun.
“Shall we patch up that fence?” he says, turning Fleyta around on the spot. “We missed the path.”
Isak nods and collects Ýr again. “Yes, otherwise I’ll get scolded for that,” he says, letting out a short, mirthless laugh.
“It's nothing personal, Isak.”
Isak snorts and comes up next to Fleyta; the mares are standing side by side. “I know. But sometimes, it feels like it.”
“I know,” Even says, and he can't stop himself from putting his hand on Isak's shoulder. It causes Isak to go a little rigid, but then his tight smile changes into something softer, slightly younger.
They turn down the narrow path along the fence. The grass on either side is long, yellow and covered in frost. It crunches when Fleyta walks through it. Ýr's breath is audible behind them, still loud because of the racing.
It's easy to see which parts will need repairing. Along the bottom row, no less than three of the boards are broken. Two have been kicked, but the third break might be due to the storms, judging by the frayed edges. This far from the farm, the wood is old and easily breaks if it gets hit by something travelling with a gust of wind.
Even dismounts and loosens the saddle-girth a notch. He unfastens the clasp around one of Fleyta's snaffle bit rings, looping the reins over the fence before clasping it again. She won't run, but better safe than sorry.
Isak does the same thing to Ýr's reins, before nudging one of the broken planks with his foot. “How do we fix this?”
“Temporarily.” Even squats down to rummage through the backpack. “We take two of the smaller pieces, put them on each side, and beat a nail through it for support. I've only done this once, but it went well. We'll be fine now too.”
At that, Isak shakes his head and smiles. “If you say so.”
Isak squats beside him, and Even ducks under the fence to face him from the other side. “Hold it still.”
The first bit goes quickly; Isak holds the two-by-four, and Even puts the nails through from the inside. Luckily, all the horses are too far away to notice what they're doing. Curious as they are, they'd make a cute but annoying audience. But given the size of the paddock, there’s nothing to worry about. The fence stretches all the way down to the sea, and the whole paddock is two dozen hectares, more or less.
The wind had picked up down by the shore when they stop, causing the clouds to disperse, and making it possible to see the entire the fjord.
Beyond the rocks and further out, all the way to the horizon.
They change places when the wind reminds Even that the frostbite on his fingers never truly healed. Even hands over the hammer and the long nails he was keeping between his teeth. Isak takes them carefully and Even distracts himself by looking towards the sea.
It’s greyish blue, now that the sun reaches it; the horizon is a straight line, seeming almost within reach.
“You know, according to old Norse lore, there is a fence at the end of the world. And if you’re powerful enough, you’ll be able to break through it and end up in space. Did you know that?”
The sound of hammer against wood halts for a moment before Isak continues. “No. Not really.”
“Not a fan of trivia?”
That coaxes a laugh from Isak. He shrugs and drives in the next nail through with three precise strokes. “No, Even. I don’t read up on that sort of stuff. No one even believes in those stories anymore.”
“Hey. You’d better think before saying that out loud here. I think like one percent of Icelanders say they still do. That's a lot.”
“You're kidding?”
“No, I swear, it's true! I promise.” Even puts his hand on his chest, leaning forward to try to interpret the expression on Isak's face. “And if you don't keep up with that, what do you keep up with, Isak Valtersen?”
Isak shrugs, but he smiles that sloping grin again. He is very cute when he does. “I don't know. Progress in scientific research, maybe? Astrophysics, pharmaceuticals and stuff like that.”
“You took Science, didn't you?”
“Yes. You clearly didn't,” Isak says, and Even cannot help laughing at his tone, even though he realises what this undoubtedly will lead to. There's a pressure over his chest, but it doesn't hurt. Not at all.
“No, you're right. I took the General course, but then I passed my exams privately.”
“You didn't graduate?”
Didn't graduate, but stopped it all. Sewed himself back together. Took the time to get to know himself again; all new stitches and folds that held the pieces in place. Studied that parts of the curriculum he'd missed, all with Sonja's help, under her watchful eye.
He peeks between Fleyta's muddy legs to determine how tall the waves are.
“Yes. But from home. It was easier.”
Without looking at him, Even can feel Isak's eyes on the back of his neck. Heavy and filled with so many questions. “Where did you go before? Because you went to school in Oslo, right?” Isak asks after a while, his voice careful.
Even looks back at him. “Yeah. I went to Bakka.”
“Oh. Right. Not Nissen?”
“Pretty sure it was Bakka.”
And the rest of the world is pretty sure too.
Isak swallows and takes out one of the nails from between his lips. “Because I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
Even draws a breath that gets stuck in his throat. His heart starts to beat faster for more than one reason. “Maybe you have. But I think I would've remembered you.”
Isak stiffens; the hammer goes still in the air, as if he’s a statue. Then he twists his head and strikes the last nail through the board. “Good with faces?”
The breath comes out and Even feels his lungs relax. “Something like that.”
Together, they shake the fence to make sure that patches hold. Nothing breaks or makes a noise. Out at sea, the clouds are gathering again; an omen of another incoming burst of snow and rain.
Even pulls up the hood of his anorak, then puts the tools back into the backpack before mounting Fleyta again. They set off, and just as they get back up to the road, the first raindrop lands on his shoulder. He sends a quick glance at the dark grey sky. “They’ve had a bit of rest now. Race me back?”
“Why not?” Isak says, and without warning, Ýr sets off in a gallop.
And Even follows.
His phone vibrates on the nightstand just when he's switched off the light. This far from the nearest urban area, the darkness is impenetrable, and his eyes sting as he swipes away the home screen.
Immediately, he sees the message from his Mum. It's the usual one, asking how it's going, if he's home-sick, how much snus he has left. It's easy to answer—good, no, even though it's strange seeing snow in October, he's used to just about all of it—and gets a thumbs up right back.
Mom is easy to talk to. They'd had a rough patch right after she'd found him in the wardrobe, but it had been a rough time for all of them. She and dad had taken those months to learn how to talk to him again, and after all the long evenings she'd spent just sitting beside him on the floor of his room, he'd forgiven her.
And she’d forgiven him.
It’s different with Sonja.
He takes a deep breath and opens the message he’s been ignoring for the past two days.
From Sonja <3 08:34:
Could you please answer a little faster? Are you sleeping well? Miss you.
It's short. Cool. Controlling. Even though, somewhere—someplace that’s not controlled by the small emotional monster claiming it’s right every minute of every day—he knows she cares, but it's so hard to see. Especially when she finishes the message with a period; it's evidence enough that this, all of him, is something she's doing out of duty.
Even closes his eyes, conjures her up in front of him. Her blonde hair, the slightly slanted front teeth, her sparkling blue eyes. The long throat, the birthmarks on her cheek. But what had previously been enough to make his heart rush in his chest—that thing that made his whole body light up, throb, turn into a pulse, made his toes curl—isn’t there anymore.
Instead, the thought of her makes a black, disgusting mix of anger and bad conscience spread through him.
It’s nothing new. right. Doing this over and over again, that is. But Einstein’s definition of insanity never quite seemed to fit. Especially not when it comes to feelings and how to act on them when faced with reality. He rolls onto his side. The splits creak as he folds the pillow under his head and looks at the blinking cursor.
In a different universe, it's so easy. There, he's just as rotten on the outside, as he pretends he isn't inside here. And he writes to her—right now, in the middle of the night on a Saturday in mid-October—that he doesn't want her anymore.
In a different universe, he does the right thing; tells her that he wants someone else.
In this one, he just stares at the screen until it goes dark again. Until the world turns black, and only the stars outside illuminate the night. He exhales a breath that he didn’t know he was keeping in and puts his phone—screen facing down—on the nightstand again.
It takes him two hours to fall back asleep.
Herding the horses back from the paddock is usually no problem.
The weather has been awful all day, the mist like a thick, dull blanket, keeping even the tiniest hint of sunlight out. From the time they woke up, today has felt like infinite dawn. When afternoon starts to turn into night, it starts to pour, the rain steadily increasing.
Even puts the pitchfork back on the hook when Isak and Spes return from the riding stables. Their eyes hardly meet before Isak just shakes his head and sighs.
“No success?”
“No.” He sighs, but still scratches Spes on the forehead. “She's—I'm doing something wrong, I know, but she's also not the sharpest.”
The frustration shines through and Even musters up a faint smile. “See what Jón thinks? Maybe ask him to watch you?”
“Yeah, right.” Isak sighs. The wrinkle between his eyebrows and the downturned corners of his mouth say it all.
Even clears his throat. ”Or Eídunn. She can help you at just as much.”
Isak pulls the harness off of Spes' head before he lets her go into the stall and closes the door where she can reach the hay. "That’s true."
Even nods, and puts his hands in the pockets of his anorak. “Ready to take in the rest?”
Drops of rain whip so hard against the small windows that it sounds like continuous gunfire. Isak’s shoulders rise, but then he nods. You’re forced to have an odd relationship with the weather here, Even muses. On the one hand, you have to recognize the dangers that come with it; on the other, you can't shy away from venturing out into what’s practically a small storm.
Isak has learned quickly, and Even smiles, opens the door and they brave the gusts of wind and rain.
The path leading down to the paddocks is almost a groove by now, worn out by hooves and boots, the rain and the wind have made it turn into streaky mud, causing the underlying clay to show. The beams from their flashlights travel back and forth over it, showing where it is safe to walk. Not that it helps. When Even goes to close the gate behind them, his foot loses its grip, nearly making him slip. Isak manages to get a hold on him at the very last moment—arms around him, his chest against Even's back—and his eyes glitter with suppressed laughter when they let go of each other.
Then they trudge on without talking about it at all.
But it doesn't prevent the burning sensation from igniting inside of him. Heat begins to spread from his stomach—only to be instantly replaced by the black, oily feeling of guilt.
Even swallows, and redirects his focus to opening the paddock to get them in.
With their arms in the air to make themselves as big as possible, repeated yells and flashlights wavering, they alert the horses that they are on their way. The horses gather together, and from there it is relatively easy to make them walk through the narrow aisle formed between the paddocks.
The light from the stables shines through the darkness. The string walks in front of them between the fence against the gates; hooves beat rhythmically against the ground, the horses' breaths cloud in front of the flashlights. When they're just outside the stables, the horses usually stay in the corral which you then have to cross to open the stable door and let them in one by one.
Today that doesn't happen.
The horses amble along—straight through the open gate that Even, at that very moment, realises that he forgot to close behind him.
“Fuck!”
His feet are stuck in the ground, even though, until now, his most primal instinct has always been flight; to flee, from everything and everyone.
But now, he's unable to do anything.
Only able to just stand there, and watch as thirty or more horses disappear farther and farther into the dark.
“Even. Even!”
Isak's hectic voice breaks through the fog, causing him to twist his head from the opening in the fence that should not be there.
“Even, what the fuck do we do?”
Isak looks at him with big eyes while the herd disappears up the road leading towards town. Every part of Isak's body shows that he wants to do something; act now and think later. Run after them. But everything is so different here and it makes it difficult to take any decisions.
Even throws a glance into the stable, following the first track his brain wants to take.
“Get Fleyta. Don't bother with a saddle, just get her bridle and one of the stallions'. I’ll get Fagrí.”
Isak nods and disappears into the stables while Even runs back up to the other paddock where the stallions stay day and night. The rain falls horizontally now, and it's hard to open the fence since he can't see anything, and his hands slip on the wet wood. The only thing that works in his favour is that Fagrí and Stjerní are standing just inside the fence.
So Even only has to herd the flock leader out of the paddock and back to the stables.
Isak has already mounted Fleyta when Even gets there. He has put a headlamp around his beanie and tosses Even the promised bridle as soon as he gets within reach. Fagrí is wet and cold with rain, but cooperative and calm when he takes the bit Even has warmed against his neck for a minute. Then he stands still while Even takes hold of the mane at his withers and thanking whoever’s in charge that Fagrí isn't very tall; a well-timed jump is enough for Even to smoothly throw his leg over Fagrí’s back and pull himself up.
Turning the horses around, they then take off after the herd. Paddocks and fences flank the road, so there aren’t many places the horses can have disappeared to. He's not used to riding without a saddle, and although he usually has the stirrup leathers as far as they can go, it is something entirely different to not have that support at all.
“We'll herd them back around?” Isak shouts through the rain and Even nods.
“Yeah. Try to get in front of them!”
They know what to do, but it's still tricky. The rain makes it hard to see and more than once a horse sneaks past and fall on the wrong side of both Fagrí and Fleyta. It's only when Isak succeeds in planting Fleyta across the road in front of them that things start to work out for them. As soon as they've made the string turn around, the horses decide to follow Fagrí instead of the road.
Isak is quick on the uptake, and he and Fleyta come together as the rearguard. It's pitch dark by now and Even feels the adrenaline rushing through him. They’ve never done anything like this without Jón or Eídunn. In spite of that, they succeed in getting the horses back into the corral in front of the stable. One of the geldings tries to break away in the last turn down towards the stables, but with an impressive move, Isak rides Fleyta close and pushes it back into the string before anything can come from it.
Even slides down from Fagrís back, sweat and rain water trickling down from his hair and into his mouth. Raises his arms above his head to make himself bigger, and then pushes the horses back into the slightly warmer stables.
Their hooves clatter against the stone floor, and he closes the gate about them with a click
Even leans on the gate and takes a moment to breathe. Tries to calm whatever it is that is moving in his chest. It's jumping and spitting, falling into an uneven rhythm that he’s not comfortable with. However, taking a few breaths of the cold, clear Icelandic autumn air makes it subside.
Something moves behind him, and he turns, expecting to see that it is Fagrí. Instead, Fleyta's soft muzzle gently nudges him behind his ear. Isak’s still mounted on her back.
“Nice work,” he says, and although it's grey and the rain is pouring down, Even can see his sparkling smile. He leans over Fleyta's neck and Even bumps their fists when Isak holds his out. He's unable to hold back his smile.
“You too.”
Isak shakes his head.
“Fuck,” he says, stretching the vowel as far as it goes, smoothly sliding down from Fleyta's back.
Even can't help but laugh.
They fetch Fagrí again, who is obediently waiting around, and Even leads him back to the paddock.
When he comes back—shaking off the water and stomping to get the worst of the clay off from his boots—Isak’s already led the horses to their right boxes, and put up Fleyta in the aisle. He is bent over, struggling with the mud and stones caked up inside her hooves and in the feathering at her fetlocks.
He comes up, breathless and red in the face when Even closes the door. He sends Even a strange look over Fleyta’s spine.
Even raises his eyebrows. “You don’t have to do that, you know. It'll fall off by itself.”
Isak shrugs. “You said she tends to catch mould,” he says and disappears down again. “Thought it better to get rid of what’s in her feathering.”
“True,” Even says, although he knows he's never told Isak that. And he knows that Isak knows that too. He takes one of the brushes from the bucket on the wall and starts working on Fleyta's other leg, carefully getting all of the mud out.
They remain in the illuminated part of the stables until late, grooming Fleyta long after she’s clean and dry. And being the horse she is, she just hangs her head and nearly falls asleep where she stands; leaning on one hind leg and breathing slowly.
They turn off the light and close up before heading out again. Without headlamps or flashlights, the darkness is overwhelming as they walk back along the stables to the extension; Isak in front of him, leaning against the wind and the rain. Even resists the urge to hold on to his shoulder when a gust of wind from the sea causes the wet drawstrings on his anorak to whip him across the chin
At the door, they have to lean on one another so Isak can get the key out of his pocket. When the door opens, they almost fall into the kitchen, giggling from fatigue and the absolute absurdity that this evening has been. For a moment, they just stand on the doormat, an arm around each other's shoulders, merely looking at each other. Isak's eyes are big, and he's still panting; looking ruddy and so much alive. He bites his lower lip, and the pressure makes the skin white before it gets even redder when he lets go.
It feels like a hand takes hold of Even's aorta, cutting off the blood flow, the life force, before letting go, lets one single heartbeat reach every crevice of his body.
Devastatingly strong.
Isak clears his throat, and they both jump and start peeling off their wet clothes. One of them turns on the ceiling lamp, and Even takes out hangers to put their soaking wet raincoats on while Isak—with bare legs, boxers and his still dry base layer shirt that defines his sculpted shoulders—find the small heater that Jón's hid next to the closed fireplace.
It takes a few attempts, and a well-placed kick before the old thing coughs and starts up.
The sound fills the air between them.
Isak doesn't seem to be able to stand upright anymore, so he plops down next to the wall. Studies how the hot air from the heater makes their coats and Icelandic sweaters move back and forth.
Even knows that he shouldn't. He can no longer feel his toes. And in fact, what he should want to do is to just crawl into his bed upstairs and leave this behind him.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he slowly sinks down in front of Isak. Within the radius of his body heat.
Sits there and takes him in.
Faint freckles over the bridge of his nose. Curly hair lying sweaty, damp and flat against his forehead. Dark eyebrows, his eyes and his mouth. With that cupid's bow, and his lips slightly parted. Small puffs of breath pass between them—it tingles where they pass Even’s cheek and bottom lip.
They generate a voltage, like a battery, and Even can't help it.
It is as if Isak is a singularity—a black hole with an inherent, indisputable gravitational pull that Even is helpless against—and everything becomes an indistinguishable mass as soon as you get too close.
Time is protracted. Minutes last for hours. Every sound is distorted and amplified.
The light refracts and the fall looks shorter from here.
And even his perception of thoughts and morals regarding his existence and identity distorts this close to Isak. In most instances, Even would have moved by now. Pulled away as to not be the cause of something bad—not to ruin something that should have been left untouched—that he won't be able to take back. Something that can't be undone. Because as long as the stone is left unturned, there is always something to come back to.
Instead, he leans forward. Focuses on Isak's smooth eyelids—his downcast eyes—and his long eyelashes. Looks for a sign, from the universe, profane or holy doesn't matter, that it’s time to stop now.
That it's time to give up; time to stop pretending he’s God.
Time comes to a halt, vibrates with all its contained energy until he decides to let go.
He's just about to close the small distance between them and open his mouth, when Isak suddenly twists his head. His neck is all blotched with red, and his Adam's apple bobs a few times as he swallows and Even tries to not think about the hole that has just opened up below him.
“I should—I should probably go to bed. Now.”
White noise fills his ears. Isak draws a shivering breath, and uses the wall to stand up. His thighs shake from the effort. They are so close that Even can see his muscles play under the thin skin.
Slowly, Isak goes to his room. For a second he stops, halfway between Even and the door. But before any of them can say anything, he takes the last few steps and closes the door behind him.
It shuts with with a thud, but then it goes as quiet as it possibly can with a storm wailing around the house.
Even stays for a while—hypnotised by the drying clothes, the warm air from the heater, his own heartbeat—before he finally gets to his feet. Goes up to the sink and swallows his medication, sipping the water straight from the tap before walking up the stairs.
He doesn’t even remember falling asleep.
A three-day blizzard rolls in the next day. It's raw and violent for the beginning of November, and it prevents them from doing anything but feeding the horses and letting them exercise in the indoors corral.
Isak doesn't say a word. And it's impossible to know if it's a punishment or a sign.
When they get back into the living quarters after the evening feed, Isak peels off his outerwear and disappears to his room. Even doesn't see him until the following morning; his face is ashen, silent and withdrawn.
Either it's out of humiliation or because he doesn’t want anything to do with Even ever again.
The latter seems the most likely.
But it doesn't explain the way Isak keeps looking over at him; starving and quick, followed by a twitch of his jaw.
The signals he keeps sending contradict each other so much that Even has no idea how to respond. Doesn’t know if he is to risk it and venture out on this thin ice that cracks with every step, leaving no opportunity to redistribute his weight or increase his pace.
Or if he is to turn back, abandon this whole thing.
The blizzard rages on, causing the window panes to rattle. The wind yanks at the tiles, hard enough that it sounds like they're about to fly off. It’s worse upstairs and Even almost gets a little claustrophobic, lying in the dark, his face illuminated by his phone. He deleted social media long ago, so it's not even that much fun. His fingers are a stiff with the cold, and he is quite hungry.
He tosses his duvet to the side and goes to find a clean wool sweater from the pile that has accumulated in the armchair by the stairs.
The thick clouds obscure the night sky, and no stars are visible. It’s impossible to make out the fjord, even from up here. The darkness has a different quality to it when wrapped in snow. Almost as if it’s covered in cotton. On an impulse—coming from the same place within him that wants to experience the world without a filter and jump without a parachute—he leans his cheek against the window; watching with crossed eyes as his hot breath spreads like a cloud over the cold glass.
How it forms a blurred spot, makes it hard to see.
When his cheek goes numb, he pulls his sweater over his head and goes down the stairs.
The kitchen is dark. The porcelain pendant lamp above the kitchen table is turned off and Even has to grasp in the air until he finds the switch on the cooker hood’s light. Once lit, he locates the smallest of their three pots. Fills it with water and places it on the stove just as the door to Isak's room opens.
Even jumps and spins around on the spot. Isak has his towel slung over his arm. The light above the stove feebly tries to illuminate the room, but it only makes it halfway, causing Isak to look like a ghost; eyes wide and shoulders tense.
Even scrapes the words from where they're stuck at the back of his tongue. “Hi.”
Across the room, Isak visibly swallows. “Hey.”
Even nods at the towel. “Taking a shower?”
“Did you also want to—?”
“No.” Even shakes his head. “No, I'm good. I'll do it tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
The clock on the wall ticks away. Isak’s eyes are fixated on a point over Even's right shoulder. Perhaps he's looking at the granular wallpaper. Maybe at the window behind him.
Even clears his throat.
“I am—was going to make tea. And something to eat. Do you want anything?”
Isak hesitates. Then he nods. “No tea. But, yes to the food. That—thank you.”
“No problem.”
He disappears into the bathroom with a half-hearted two-fingered salute. Even turns on the oven, and when the water boils, he quickly pours it into one of the mustard-yellow mugs. Adds a tea bag, watches it turn from clear to red. Takes cheese and butter out of the fridge and the last two slices of toast from the bag on the bench.
He doesn't turn around once. Not even when the bathroom door opens, and Isak's quick step pass over the worn, wooden floorboards.
Instead, he crouches down and basks in the warm orange light from the oven. Here, downstairs, the gusts of wind don’t rattle the house as much, but their whining is worse. High-pitched, whistling sounds that will not let anyone forget how cold and harsh the conditions are outside. Even closes his eyes. Basks in the warmth radiating from the oven, heating up his face. Then he opens his eyes, fascinated by the way the temperature causes the cheese to melt and spread out, sink into the bread before it eventually begins to bubble.
Just as he's pulled out the tray and put it on the kitchen counter, Isak comes back from his room. He’s put on a pair of worn joggers and is in the process of pulling a dark blue hoodie over his head as he walks—something that makes his t-shirt ride up.
Showing off a glimpse of his hipbones and the pale, soft skin of his stomach.
Even looks down at his hands. Picks up the kitchen roll and tears off a pair of sheets to put the greasy toasties on. "Do you want to see if there's anything on?" he suggests and nods towards the small television that’s precariously balanced on the window ledge.
Isak's head reappears, popping through the neckline; hair tousled and wet. “What about the news? Might be a bit hard to understand, though.”
Even shrugs. “The images might help?” he says, a bit sheepish and hears Isak breathe out a soft laugh.
“That's true.”
In silent agreement, they sit down at each end of the sofa. Isak takes the remote and zaps between the only two channels they're able to tune into here—it's a tie between a handball match and something that looks like a talk show.
There's a crunch as Isak takes a bite of his toastie. “Handball, or?”
To Even, it doesn't matter, but something in Isak's eyes makes him nod. Isak throws the remote on the table, then sinks so far down into the cushions that he can put his feet on the coffee table.
“Do you know what it is? What kind of match, I mean.”
Even squints at the ridiculously small screen. “No clue. A qualifying match, perhaps.”
“I watch football sometimes,” Isak says after a while and takes another bite out of the toastie. In the blue light from the television, a drop of water shimmers on his earlobe. “Not this.”
“Can't say I watch sports a lot, to be honest.”
“Hmm.”
Isak wiggles his toes. One sock has a hole in it; the edges frayed to the point where his little toe is about to protrude.
The match ends 31 - 28 to the white team, and as soon as it’s done, Isak gets up from the couch. “I'm going to bed,” he says quietly, taking Even's mug to put it in the sink seemingly on autopilot.
From the couch, Even watches as he then switches off the lamp above the stove—and plunges the room into darkness.
“Oh shit. Sorry.”
“No worries.”
Even stays on the couch, listening to Isak navigate to his room. A thud indicates that he hits something on the way, but despite the lack of light, Even watches as his silhouette eventually emerges from the depths of darkness in the kitchen's end of the room.
Even swallows. “Good night, Isak.”
Isak stiffens; twice, there is a sound of knuckles rapping against a door frame. Then, he answers.
“Good night, Even,” he says, as he steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him.
On the third day, when Even once again wakes up to the walls shaking with the gusts of wind from the sea, he wants to draw a deep sigh and burrow back into his duvet. Every rattle of the sheet tin roof kills his ears, hammers at his skull, even though he hasn't had a drink in several months.
Nevertheless, every bang makes his brain hurt.
Last night, he had fumbled his way up the stairs, only to receive another message from Sonja.
It doesn't exactly help with what he's trying to forget, and for every message he ignores, another layer of black, oily anxiety sticks to the inside of his chest. And it will only get worse the longer he keeps lying around in bed thinking about it.
He rolls out of bed, dresses in the same clothes he wore yesterday and heads down the stairs.
Isak sits at the kitchen table when he comes down. The mug of coffee he’s downing is definitely not his first. He’s looking over at a package sitting on the other end of the table.
When Even steps on the creaking fourth step, he looks up and smiles.
“Good morning.”
Even smiles back. “Good morning.”
Isak takes another sip from his mug. “Jón came by with that. For you.”
It might not be anything, but considering what kind of box it is, it's not good. Had he read the message yesterday, he might have known what was to come.
It's a relatively new shoe box, and if he looks at the label, he knows he will be able to tell what shoes came in this box. Sonja has never been good at taking off labels, whether it is cutting them out of her shirts or scraping them off of Christmas presents. Even used to remind her, and she'd laugh at him and thank him for having such a keen eye for detail.
Now he only takes it. Swallows.
Isak smiles a little. “Who is that from?”
Fortunately, the address on it was written by Mum. He breathes and smiles back. “Mum and Dad.”
Isak walks across the room, dragging his sock-clad feet over the floor before he falls on the couch. Even sits beside him. Not close enough that they touch each other, but with them facing each other like this, it still feels intimate.
“Assorted junk,” he says, absentmindedly, while taking one of the kitchen knives and wedging it under the tape. The edge is rather blunt, so in the end, he rips through the packaging rather than cutting it to remove the lid.
“Stuff like this!”
He grins and holds up the row of snuff boxes. Isak raises his eyebrows.
“Snus?”
Even rolls it in his hand. Turns the kitchen knife in the right direction and cuts through the packaging with a quick move. The tape loosens and falls away, and with a rattle, half of the boxes jump out onto the floor. Two of them land with the lid down on the floor in front of the table, but the rest are upended and roll away.
He doesn't stop to think. Falls on the hard, wooden floor and succeeds in catching two boxes with one hand, the third rolling under the sofa bed. Quite slowly, but fast enough for him to not catch it.
It lies there, mocking him, just out of reach.
He can feel the smooth lid at his fingertips, but with his shoulder stuck on the edge of the sofa, it's still out of reach. With a sigh, he rolls onto his back. The floor is cold, but not enough to seep through his sweater.
Isak looks at him, still perching on the couch. Even can't help but smile at him.
“You don't know what snus is worth in this country?” he says, laughing, and Isak shakes his head. But he's smiling too, and that's always something.
Even closes his eyes.
“No?”
Even opens one eye to look at him; to watch how his hair shines golden in the warm light from the lamp above the kitchen table, how he bites his lip and is so beautiful that it almost hurts.
Beautiful—and forbidden.
“It’s illegal.”
“Illegal?”
“You're holding contraband in your hands.”
Isak wrinkles his nose. “You're kidding?”
Even shakes his head and throws one of the rescued snuff boxes at Isak, who catches it with both hands. It sounds like it hits his nails, but if it hurts, there wouldn't be a way to tell.
“No. It's too cheap abroad, so they only allow domestic snus, you know, that stuff you have to stick up your nose. Which, incidentally, is as unpleasant as it sounds,” Even adds, when he sees Isak's grimace. “And mom would rather I didn't smoke, so she agreed to become a smuggler.”
Isak laughs at him. Takes the box that Even threw at him, and opens it. The smell of cold, fresh tobacco fills the air, and Even takes a deep breath. He took the last pouch from last month's ration yesterday morning, but the last two weeks, he has had to stint himself.
In a way, the package couldn't have come at a better time.
“You got a package of snus?”
“Not only. Let’s check out the rest of the stuff in there.”
Isak opens the package again, and suddenly a bag of seigmenn lands on his stomach, along with a small white rectangular box.
“Candy, and what's that?”
“Medication.”
“You're ill?”
And that question, posed in that particular way, makes his insides hurt. It's a feeling he didn't know he wanted, but realises, suddenly, that he's longed for. It's like nicotine withdrawal: wanting something so badly, it’s like your whole body is hungry for something, but it's not until you take the next hit that you realise what.
Even swallows and takes the box; puts his thumb over the revealing name - Lithionit - and forces his face to remain relaxed. Forces himself to relax, as if nothing has happened.
“Just allergies.” The lie falls off his tongue, light and unobtrusive. “I used to be allergic to horses when I was younger. And then I'm allergic to the kind of medication you can easily get hold off here, so she sends them too.”
Isak nods, and looks convinced in a way that makes Even want to curl in on himself and disappear.
But it's for the best.
To have something to do, he throws back the snus, but holds on to the medication. Puts them in his back pocket and searches for the opening on the candy bag, while Isak continues to go through the packet. Puts away the bubble wrap that must've been mom's idea, and picks up one thing after the other that Even's asked for, or Mum thought he needed—whether it has practical or sentimental value.
A little more Norwegian candy. A t-shirt because he wears them out so quickly, and it's almost impossible to find them in his size so far out in the country.
He doesn't even think about the fact that sometimes disaster zones are the size of a postage stamp until Isak picks up the postcard.
“Who is Sonja?”
It's as if the whole world screeches to a halt.
Time stretches out. All sounds become distorted—their wavelengths extend to the point where they end up beyond the audible spectrum—and the whole world turns grey. And he just wants it to stop. Wants it to end. But he's only met with Isak's questioning, green eyes, that hasn't changed.
Green and questioning, with no judgement nor suspicion.
While he could save the situation just a few minutes ago, this lie doesn’t roll as easily off the tongue. He clears his throat and tries to loosen it up while he gets up and takes the card out of Isak's hand. Makes sure to smile all the time while doing it. Slow movements, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Just a friend,” he says. “She was the one who made me go here in the first place.”
The reason that the lie is stuck is that it's too close to the truth. A version of it, at least.
Isak puts his head down, but the grip he has on the postcard is light. Even takes it and puts it in the pocket of his hoodie.
“So, she's the one I'll send thanks to then?”
“For what?”
Isak is just about to open his mouth when there's a knock on the door. Before any of them can get up and open it, it's yanked open, and Jón sticks his head in. His nose is red, and he’s put on a hat that mostly resembles a dead animal.
“Boys. Do you want to go into town for a bit?”
Isak straightens his legs. From his place on the floor, Even hears his knees pop.
“Why?”
Jón steps inside and stomps off the snow sticking to his shoes before closing the door behind him. The cold follows him anyway, and Even crosses his arms over his chest when they start getting covered in goosebumps .
“Well, it would be a day trip. Sveinn and I are looking at some horses. We'll stay overnight, but he's already there, and Eídunn is going to a competition tomorrow. So I need one of you to drive the car back, either after dropping us off or tonight.”
They look at each other. Even shrugs. Since the weather is as it is, they've got nothing to do. And when you have fallen into something resembling a routine—albeit very, very much like mañana mañana —of always having something to do, it’s the days off that are hard to cope with. Restlessness is inevitable, and it’s already started to seep into his body, slow and steady.
He looks back at Isak. “I'll come with.”
Isak nods before he can answer. “Yeah. Me too.”
Jón nods gently at them. “Thank you, boys. I'll leave in fifteen. If you want to change into something else.”
Without another word, he slips out the door again. They go to their respective rooms to put on something warmer than hoodies and sweatpants, and after that, Isak meets him by the door.
It's only then Even realises that he's never seen Isak in anything besides sweatpants or jodhpurs. Not that he's complaining, but something causes his blood to rush a little closer to the surface when he sees Isak in a pair of blue jeans, but still in his clunky, lined riding boots all laced up.
Isak's green eyes rest on him for a moment, before he clears his throat. “Ready?”
Even takes his woollen mittens off the shelf and pulls them over his hands—protection against the temperature and himself—before he nods.
And when Isak opens the door and the cold floods the room, Even barely feels it, flushed as he is.
The backseat of the Subaru is so lumbered up with riding equipment that there’s barely even room for one of them. Even sits in the front seat thanks to an unspoken longest legs-privilege, while Isak folds away the horsehair-covered rug—making Jón chuckle.
The smile Isak returns is only a bit forced.
Despite there being a thick and ever increasing layer of snow on the road, Jón drives like carjacker. Occasionally, the sturdy car drifts, but considering that the way is all but empty this at this hour and time of the year, Even isn't half as scared as he should be. Instead, he looks out the window—squinting to see through the fog and look out towards the sea, or to glimpse the contours of the mountains surrounding them; keeping them shut-in and safe at the same time.
Once they arrive in the village, the white light slowly shifts into a grey-white glow. Jón parks outside the stable in the middle of town.
“You can enjoy yourselves here, or drive home now. Your call.”
Even casts a glimpse at Isak through the rearview mirror. He nods and Even looks at Jón. “Think we'll stay for a while, then.”
Jón pulls the scarf tighter around his neck. “Good. Sveinn wants to have a beer after, so if you want to drink some Icelandic draught with us old men, you can just show up at the pub later.”
“Nice. Which one?”
Jón’s already put the keys in Even's hand and is about to close the car door. He peeks back in and winks at Isak. “Impossible to miss it. There's only one, boy.”
And with that, he slams the door shut and steps away to the other big car that just turned up in the parking lot.
“Let's go.”
Although it's early November, the Christmas lights above the pedestrian street are up. They’re not lit yet, but the little lamps flutter in the increasing wind. The fact that horses are a part of everyday life here is quite apparent in this little street. Most window displays showcase some riding equipment, and Even can't help but laugh at Isak's face when they see a pair of old men ride along the pedestrian street—each drinking from a beer can while they argue in Icelandic.
The fog slowly envelops them and only the horses' clopping can be heard.
“Fuck, that looks nice,” he says after a while.
Even bumps him with his shoulder. “Beer and horses?”
Isak smiles that sloping half-smile of his and kicks a loose pebble in front of him. It goes off and strikes a lamppost with a ping. “Yes. Or, it's probably not safe at all. But it's chill.”
“Most see horses like a mean of transport here. Jón and Eídunn are unusually careful with theirs.”
“Yes, I know.” Isak sends him a long look. “But you can do both. Like, it's not mutually exclusive.”
“Yeah, you're right.”
The snow falls more and more quickly, and a layer is rapidly forming on the ground. It creaks under their shoes as they walk, until Even feels how his knees begin to protest from being too cold. He did put on his base layer, but the cuts through it anyways.
So when they pass by a small grocery store, he touches Isak's shoulder. “Want to warm up a bit?”
Isak nods. His nose has gotten quite red in the short time they’ve been out here, so they quickly disappear into the warm yellow light that spills out onto the snow-covered street.
For a while, they’re content with strolling among the shelves that reach the ceiling because it's so low and reading the ingredients of different items. Icelandic is a strange language. Even though he has been here for almost half a year, it’s still difficult to understand. Spoken, it’s easier to understand—mostly because Eídunn speaks almost exclusively in Icelandic with them, unlike Jón, who relies entirely on his Icelandic Danish—but in writing it is different. It seems deceivingly easy to understand at first glance as some words and letters are almost identical to Norwegian.
But as soon as you try to read a sentence, it just doesn’t work at all.
“What do you think of this?” Even holds up a chocolate bar once they've reached the candy shelf. “It's an Icelandic speciality, it says.”
“To compensate for your patriotic seigmenn, you mean?”
Even flinches and reads a little more of the ingredients. “Exactly. Chocolate with salt liquorice filling.”
Isak wrinkles his nose. “What?”
“Sounds delicious!”
“No, it sounds disgusting!”
Even laughs, and stuffs the chocolate into the pocket of his anorak. “You have to try it before you say that.”
“Fair enough.”
At the checkout, Even remembers that they're almost out of coffee. Isak pays for the chocolate and then sits down on the bench between the entrance doors. Even turns back around, finds a pack of coffee—looks one extra time to make sure it's the right grind—before he jogs back.
The small shop also seems to function as a pharmacy as well. They have a small collection of assorted painkillers, but also a jar of Vaseline. The combination of lithium and the cold, incessant wind has made his lips more chapped than ever, so he takes it to avoid more of those cracks in the corners of his mouth; those sting like few other things do.
He's about to take the last step and pay when his eyes zero in on something at eye level.
His heart starts to beat a little harder in the chest. They have been inching back to closeness, but Isak still hasn't made any advances of his own after that night when the horses ran off. But, on the other hand, he hasn't pulled back either. He lets Even touch him—put his hands on his shoulders, brush their fingers together—without shrinking away.
A look through the glass doors confirms that Isak is still there. He has his back towards Even and doesn't seem to be in a hurry.
It has to mean something. Not enough, surely. Not enough to justify it. He doesn't even know if he wants to try it out but at the same time—
At the same time, it would be such a defeat, and a wasted opportunity if the occasion indeed arose. He expects nothing—nothing even close to what he projects on the inside of his eyelids before he falls asleep every night, that which always makes him tip over—but it would be like such a waste of a chance.
The girl at the checkout has picked up her phone, so he takes the chance. Grabs the condoms before he begins to regret it. The cashier doesn't even look at him when she scans them—is a bit too dead behind the eyes to care, if Even were to guess—and he goes back out to where Isak is waiting; playing some game on his phone.
“Ready to go?”
They continue along the short pedestrian street until they reach the pub that Jón talked about.
Inside, there’s a mix of people. Three older men are sitting at the counter speaking to the bartender, and at one of the long tables, a group of younger women is talking loudly amongst themselves while sipping beers, surrounded by a bunch of big backpacks.
He and Isak sit down in a corner near the window and try to get blood to flow into their fingers and toes again. The temperature seems to have fallen in the last hour, and it’s noticeable. Isak takes off his hat; his blond hair is curling with sweat and static electricity.
Even swallows and puts his mittens in the pocket of his coat.
“What do you want?”
Isak wrinkles his nose. “Do you think they have Tuborg?” he says with a smile while fingering at the menu on the worn wooden table.
“They have to. It's Danish.” Even opens the menu and quickly scans through the list of beers. “You don't want to support the local breweries while you're here?”
“No, not really—” Isak fidgets; raises his hands to pull off his red scarf while talking. Then he sighs. “I'm not really into, like, trying new stuff.”
“Why not?”
Isak shrugs and starts playing with an abandoned beer cap lying on the table. “Haven't psychoanalysed myself that deeply, Even,” he says, and something harsh and uncomfortable makes its way across his mouth; moves from one side to the other before it fades out.
“You know what?”
“No?”
The beer list is laminated and tied with small, fraying laces. He opens it again and puts it in front of Isak. “Let's share. You'll have a Tuborg, and I'll have—I don't know, choose one. One that looks exciting.”
Something sparkles in Isak's eyes before he raises his eyebrows and gives Even a look that tells him he’s convinced Isak to take on the challenge. “Okay?” He points to one of the stouts and one that is supposed to taste of oak. “That one.”
Even nods slowly. “Hmm. Good choice.”
“Have you ever tried that one? From— Kaldí microbrewery?”
Even shakes his head. “No, but it looks interesting!”
“And what will you do if it's not any good, then?”
The look Isak sends him makes him pause. Makes him look into Isak's eyes—green in the white-grey light from the outside—after something. Anything, actually.
It is as if Isak has his eyes on him, but doesn't see him at all. Merely uses him as a mirror to look inward.
“Then I'll know that I don't like it and try another one.”
Isak leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. Drags his toe over the stone floor. “It'll be expensive if you keep on doing that.”
Even shrugs. "Maybe. But get to figure out what I like," he says, and gets up to go to the counter.
Isak's eyes burn into the back of his neck.
Even though it’s the middle of the afternoon, the queue is quite long. The bartender is talking to some tourists now, guiding them through all the different beers, while two young women in front of are involved in a discussion in Icelandic about what they can afford and whether they should grab something to eat later or if the food is good enough here. Even pretends to let his eyes fly over the blackboard behind the counter.
In the corner of his eye, he can still see Isak. His arms are still crossed over his chest, and he swallows. There are a few red spots on his throat, and he looks embarrassed as he stares out through the window.
The bartender gets ready and serves the two women. He talks with them while he pours two beers, and he seems cordial. One of the women throws a glance at Even before turning to her friend again.
Then she spins her head around and looks straight at him.
She is tall and broad-shouldered. Dark hair frames a smooth, freckled face and one slanted front-tooth shows when she laughs; kind, brown eyes that glow with something deeper as she does.
Pretty.
Out of pure reflex, he smiles back. And her eyes widen before she looks down; her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheekbones.
The bartender calls for his attention, and Even takes her eyes off her. Grabbing the beer glass and the bottle, he turns around and starts walking back to the table.
It would have been another thing if Isak had been angry. If his eyes had been narrow and his jaw sharp, like it goes when Jón goes too hard at him; pushes and pushes where it's a bit too sore, a bit too close to what Isak can't handle, no matter how much he tries. A suppressed side of Isak that is as fascinating as it is scary.
Anger is something that Even knows he can handle.
Now he's got no idea what to do.
He comes up and puts down the glass and the bottle on the table. It spills over the edge of his glass, but he successfully catches the drop with his index finger while he sits down.
Isak is still staring down at his hands. Fingers at a loose piece of skin by the cuticle, and in the increasingly dulling light, Even watches his jaw work. How it tenses and relaxes, tenses and relaxes.
“So, want to try mine?”
Isak doesn't answer. Just looks at Even before his gaze moves over to the women at the counter. They're talking to each other, but then the dark haired one looks up and smiles at Even again. Beaming, with her eyebrows slightly raised, she bites a bit in her lip before looking away.
“Did you ask them to come over here, or what?”
The question is quiet. Definitely intended to sting. Even ignores the women at the counter and just looks at Isak again. At his tense jaw and the wrinkle between his knotted eyebrows. Barely noticeable signs, but its still enough for Even to feel his bad conscience sinking in his stomach like a stone.
“No. Why?”
“She's looking at me all the time.”
“She's looking at me, I think.” Even feels a strange sort of nervousness, and takes a big sip of beer. The bitterness bites the back of his tongue, and it has a tar-like texture. “But that doesn't mean that I want them to join us.”
In the corner of his eye, he watches Isak pick up his beer. Watches him put his lips around the neck of the bottle and take a swig.
Under the table, out of sight, a knee slowly, slowly presses up against his.
Even feels it in his entire body, and stops breathing.
Isak is still not looking at him. Just exhales a long breath by his side. It makes a small, whistling noise as it passes through his teeth. It quivers slightly. Just like Isak's thigh does.
It's more a reflex than anything else to put his hand there, in an attempt to still the panicked tremors that play through every coil in the muscles. Even knows that it's impossible to stop them, that like with chattering teeth, the tremors will only get worse the more Isak relaxes.
But he still wants to try. Take some sort of responsibility. Knows that he's probably a catalyst for a want and maybe, perhaps, even a desire that has been simmering in Isak's bones for a while now.
And when Isak takes his eyes off the table and the beer cap, it's a confirmation.
Isak's eyes are inscrutable, but the look they give him can’t really be mistaken for something else. He keeps his eyes fixated on Even, making it impossible for Even to turn his eyes away; impossible to deny that this has happened.
Even's continues to stroke along his thigh. Wipes his sweaty hands on the coarse fabric, and tries to assure Isak that this—the wait, the insecurity, everything—is okay. Continues with the movement until the worst tremors start to subside beneath his palm.
Until the thigh goes still.
“Okay?”
Even cups his hand around the angular kneecap. Feels the protruding knobs against the palm of his hand. Isak nods. Fingers at the cap in front of him again, before he sneaks a nervous look at Even and scoots unnoticeably closer.
When he sees Even's smile, it's as if something drops within him. His shoulders relax, and he smiles back. Red blotches appear on his throat before he lets out a nervous laugh. It's more of an exhale than anything else, but the smile that follows and the shoulder that bumps into his turn it into what it's meant to be.
Even takes him in. Uninhibited. The dimples, the pale freckles, the long dark eyelashes. Can't help but do it, although it's all so big that it feels like the world wants to fit inside him, it doesn't work.
That he’s too small and insignificant to have something so beautiful inside of him.
It doesn't prevent him from trying.
Isak clears his throat. Looks down again, even though something is tugging at his lips. Tugs and pulls; a restrained smile that wants out.
“More than alright.”
They sit in a corner, and after a while, he feels how Isak's hand comes to rest on his lower back. Slowly, and with a cautiousness that speaks of inexperience. The aftershocks of the anxiety are palpable through the fabric of his shirt, but so is the warmth from Isak's arm. Strong. Safe.
And without thinking, Even leans forward. Hit by the impulse that he wants to be enveloped by the scent of Isak, take him in with all of his senses. As unobtrusively as possible, he tilts his head and leans in to nuzzle the tip of nose behind Isak's ear; inhales a breath of sweat, horses and Isak.
Breathes him in instead of kissing him.
Isak pulls back and looks around with wide eyes. “Even, you—”
It’s disappointing when the arm behind him disappears. “Sorry. I just wanted—”
Under the table, Isak puts a hand on his thigh, clinging to it with his nails buried in the thick inseam. “I mean. It's not that I don't want to,” Isak says after a while and looks straight into his eyes. “It's just—” The arm comes back, and a hand squeezes his hip for a short moment. “Not here. It's just—I've never done this before. So.”
“Done what?”
Isak looks away. His gaze flickers until it catches the streetlight outside. He sighs. “Everything, I guess?”
“Nobody knows at home?”
Isak makes a grimace and nods. “No one.”
Even gently shakes Isak’s shoulder, lets his hand stay there a little longer than necessary, before letting it drop down again. “I'm not going to tell. Not that I know who I would tell, but I promise I won't say anything until you want me to.”
That, at least, makes Isak laugh. Then, so fast that he almost misses it, Isak fingers come up to play a little bit with the hair at his neck. It causes the hairs on his arms to rise in a strange sort of expectation before Isak slowly retreats.
Looks at him with both eyes, smiling. All warm and soft. “Thanks.”
Even throws a quick glance over his shoulder, then rubs his thumb over Isak's cheek. “No problem.”
They down the two beers, and as soon as they’re ready, Isak orders another one. Even is just about to pick up his wallet and pay for his own, when he feels the car keys against his fingers. He sends an apologetic smile to Isak, who just shrugs and orders one for himself.
He is on his third beer when Jón and Sveinn bring in a gust of cold as they step in through the door. They're talking Icelandic with each other, and when they spot Even and Isak, they come over.
“I see you've made yourself at home,” Sveinn says in Danish while unwrapping his scarf. He pulls out the chair opposite Isak and pats him on the shoulder before he sits gets down. “Have you had a good time in town?”
Isak shrugs. “Can’t complain. How were the horses?”
“I think Jón wants to take a gelding back with him? Incredibly nice tölt, but the trot is weak.” Sveinn turns around when Jón begins to gesture at him by the counter. “It's good for the tour company, though.”
“That's true.”
Jón soon returns and puts the beer glasses on the table. “There we go! Well deserved, this,” he says, raising his glass. Sveinn meets him, and after an encouraging look, Isak clinks his glass with theirs.
He smiles into his beer before taking a sip.
Jón and Sveinn fall into a discussion about how to bring the three new horses back to the farms and Even feels himself drift away. They are deep in conversation, but all he can think of is Isak's thigh against his beneath the table. The shivers from before have faded away, but despite that, he still wants to stroke it with his hand; feel the muscles work beneath his palm, let his fingers trail across the bony knee.
He looks out the window. It's four o'clock, but outside, it has gone quite dark. Night is already upon them.
“It's a long way, yes, but she likes it best in Reykjavik. So, this works for us,” says Sveinn, taking a swig from his beer. “We see each other once a month, and that's all good. Would not force that woman to move up here; she would go stir-crazy.”
Jón shakes his head. “Yes, I just don't know how I'd do this without Eíddunn. What do you think, Even? Your girlfriend's back in Norway, isn't she?”
And that's how it breaks.
His field of vision narrows down to a sliver. The knee that has been pressed up against his all night pulls away at once. Blood roars in his ears. He scrambles for the words, for something, anything to say.
“No—no, we're not together anymore.”
It doesn't fall out of his mouth before Isak has already gotten up and left the table, disappearing towards the toilet.
Jón nods. “Yes, it's not for everyone. But how—”
Even gets up from his chair. “Wait,” he says, and follows Isak through the pub with long steps.
Isak comes out of a stall when Even lets the door shut behind him. The music from the pub seeps in through the gap under the door, and Isak doesn't look at him. Just walks up to the mirror and begins to wash his hands with jerky motions.
A few drops of water fall onto the floor.
Even swallows. His whole body yells at him to turn, run from this situation. But he can't. Isak has his eyes trained on the sink, his shoulders are tense, and even though it had yet to be defined, Even knows there was something there.
Something there, between them that is going to be stretched to its breaking point if he doesn't try to salvage it now.
Isak shuts off the water. Stares at him through the mirror.
Even has never felt this small.
“Is it true?”
The question shoots like a ping-pong ball between the walls, and there is nothing to do. So, he shakes his head.
“No.”
“What isn't?”
Anyone who has ever thought of Isak as shy or a coward has never been on the other end of his dark eyes. “That you have someone, a girlfriend, in Oslo? Or that you don't?”
Even bites the inside of the lip. “That I do. But it's probably over now.”
Something about the way he says it seems to knock the air out Isak. Not enough to lighten the tension inside this small bathroom, but just enough to breathe without hurting with every breath.
“We were together. But, then, things happened here. And I realised that it wouldn't be possible to continue as usual when I got home. We were already drifting apart before I left.”
Isak spins around. Draws in a breath through his teeth, and when he looks up, Even sees that his eyes are bloodshot and blurry. He only had a light beer in addition to what they ordered before, which made the horsemen back at the table laugh.
Now he is happy about it.
Because Isak has had a lot more and seems to have fallen victim to the cascade effect when he stood up.
“What do you mean by 'probably'?”
Even bites his lip. Doesn't mention how everything at home was like living in an aquarium that became smaller as the years passed. Constantly supervised, lots of shoulds and musts , but with less and less space for him to actually move, live. And the people around him who thought he had everything he needed. Despite the fact that he was suffocating, slowly but steadily.
Isak nods when he doesn't answer. “You don't have a backbone at all, do you?”
Then he scoffs. Harsh and cold, and it stings somewhere far inside of Even. Behind the sternum, inside his liver; somewhere, where he hasn't felt anything before.
“No,” Even says, voice low. “I do. And we're going home now.”
The headlights are the only light sources for miles. Even heaves a sigh, looks at Isak in the seat next to him, staring into the nothingness. As soon as they got into the car, his anger had died like two fingers closing around a match. Now, he stares in front of him with red-rimmed eyes and looks like he's about to tear a chunk of flesh from the inside of his cheek with his teeth.
Even fiddles a bit with the radio; tunes into a station with Icelandic music, and soft guitar tones fill the Subaru. It's not like there's a risk of crashing or getting into an accident with another vehicle this far from the village. Out here, only farm owners or lost tourists move about, and even they don't pass by more than once a week.
So, no Even doesn't feel guilty that he spends more time watching Isak than keeping his eyes on the road.
Three or four songs, plus an advertising jingle later, Isak turns to him. Not fully: it's just a glance in the corner of his eye before he turns his head and looks at Even with such an intense look that Even knows that now, now he gets to see Isak without any kind of filter.
The alcohol has washed away the fear, and now the aftertaste has peeled off the layer that shielded the anger that has been simmering underneath.
“What do you think you're doing?”
It's a mistake to look away. But even here, in a car, surrounded by darkness which is only broken up by the headlights that glow in the nothingness, he still can't handle it.
“What do you mean, Isak?”
In the passenger seat, Isak squares his shoulder and scoffs. “Don't play dumb. I know you're not stupid, Even.”
“Okay. So which of all the mistakes I've made is the one you're angry at?” he asks, and with a deep breath, he manages to look at Isak thoroughly.
His expression is closed off, though his eyes are sad. It's a tragic combination and Even gets angry at himself, really fucking pissed off because he's let everything come to this.
“You received a postcard from her, Even.”
“Yes.”
“You got a care package from her. You were together when she sent it.”
There's nothing to do but close his eyes against it; hope and pray that nothing shows up on the road now. “Yes.”
Isak draws a breath beside him. “Why—”
“It just happened, okay? It just happened, Isak.”
“That's the worst excuse I've ever heard, Even.”
The air feels so thin. They won't be able to move on from this unless he gives Isak something more. They both know that. It’s come to a point where his apologies are no longer enough. His excuses haven't been enough since he sank down in front of Isak and considered kissing him.
He should have made the call then.
Told Sonja that what they had was over for real.
They’ve spent some lovely years together. It's true. But it’s been a long time now, and he would be lying to himself if he said that the thought of going home after Christmas doesn't turn his stomach. Because he doesn't want to return to her.
And he knows she doesn't want him and his problems back either.
Actually, it's not that complicated; she wants out, and he doesn't want her anymore. Although, they could probably have sex again. There's nothing wrong with their chemistry in that department. It was the thing that drew them to each other from the beginning, the thing that allowed him to love another person. He loved her for a long time but everything else, everything surrounding them, has been left a charred wasteland after what they both went through and endured from each other.
He loved her. But not anymore.
“She—it's been a long time coming.”
And Isak's breath hitches in the passenger seat. It calms him down, just like being calm around the horses also makes them calm down. But Even keeps that thought to himself while Isak's breath returns to normal.
“And it makes the fact that you've been cheating on her ok?” The words could have been harsh, corrosive even. But instead, it just sounds like Isak's bone-tired. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Even?”
And that's the core of it all. Isak doesn't know.
And at the same time, he knows everything.
And it's not like this Even had hoped it would go down. Everything was supposed to be mutual, he was supposed to know Isak—know what to say to make him feel better, know what's the most important thing in his life, know what scares him, what made him leave Norway and come here right after his graduation from high school, what put that hollow-eyed fear in his eyes—before Even chose to expose himself.
Not because he has any problems with people knowing. Not when it comes to ordinary people or managers like Jón and Eídunn. People who may need to know so that he can call in and say that he should try and calm down today; stay inside and maybe keep to the stables because he feels that something is fizzing inside of him like a bottle of carbonated water. Because everything, from the bridles to the coffee pot in the kitchen, sparkles and shines in a way it should not.
Then it's no problem.
But this is Isak.
And Isak doesn't know. It's the charm of being with him. When he's with Isak, Even is no one else but Even. Not Even, the unfaithful, not Even, the dude with bipolar who destroys the lives of the people around him, the Even that attempted to hang himself in his closet—
So, there is only one thing left to say.
An eternity with the Icelandic radio station chatter passes. The beams of the headlights fall on the well-known gravel path leading towards the farm and Even steps a little more on the gas. He just wants to get there. Wants this eternity to end. Wants time to contract instead of elongate and trap them in this unbearable, inevitable moment.
He slams on the breaks, and the darkness engulfs them at once.
“I'm bipolar.”
In the complete silence surrounding them, he can hear Isak's breathing. Hardly audible, but fast, and superficial. And perhaps that says everything, even before any actual words come out.
A part of him is prepared for it. Always steels himself for a reaction that isn't very good. A bad response comes in many different forms: like the one Isak is currently displaying. His eyes go big, the pupils widen and his breath stops.
Then his eyes go dull.
"That's not an excuse. Are you kidding me?"
It's so dark around them. Completely pitch black, in that way it only gets above the Polar circle and far enough from any light pollution that the stars shine as brightly as any street light would.
Still, Even has to shut his eyes for a second.
“Why would I lie about it?” he says, almost inaudible.
Isak shakes his head. He’s pale, and where Even thought he would find anger, he finds something much worse.
“I can't do this, not you too—not fucking again!”
The car door’s torn open, and after leaning back in to grab his jacket, Isak steps out into the night; he walks across the courtyard and rounds the stable. The gangly silhouette has its shoulders drawn up to the ears, until it disappears around the stables.
Only when he's out of sight, does Even unfold himself and get out of the car. The wind from the sea snatches at him immediately, and it's a miracle he doesn't follow, being the empty shell that he is.
On the other side of the stable, Isak slams the front door shut with a bang.
Even rests his forehead against the car door and hates himself.