Chapter Text
His name is Even, Isak learns that night.
Not that he was trying to find out. He just happened to overhear it on his way out of the kitchen carrying a plate of Tagliatelle Stroganoff and Crawfish tails gratin.
The name revelation was so startling -- he’d convinced himself he’d never find out -- that he nearly tripped on the expensive carpet. He could almost picture the mess, pasta and seafood spatter on the beige carpet, and the immense guilt that would follow.
Thankfully, he does not fall and successfully completes his trip to the patron’s table, depositing the food and adding a perfunctory nod and smile.
He finds the girls giggling back in the kitchen. Part of him wonders if they’re laughing at his expense, but he does not engage. He never engages.
.
Even.
Isak mulls the name over quietly on his way home. It’s starting to get cold and crisp. Perhaps he should stop his longer walks back from work and just take the bus now that it’s October.
He doesn’t say the name out loud. It feels too juvenile, too childish. But he still thinks about it.
It occupies much of his thoughts that night.
Not that he has anything else to think about.
He goes to bed after an episode of BoJack Horseman.
.
Work is alright. It’s repetitive, boring, but it’s alright. It pays the bills and he counts his blessings for miraculously securing a job at such a nice restaurant while being able to balance school work as well.
Isak is swift and detached. He fulfills orders and never takes anything personally. He doesn’t get bothered or phased by rude customers. He makes up stories for them to justify their rudeness on his way home if the incident is particularly noteworthy. He’s had years of practice being verbally and unnecessarily taunted after all. At least these are strangers. Strangers could never get under his skin.
Except maybe the part-time back-of-house worker who’s been parading as a mystery for a few months now.
Even is his name. He’s learned at last.
Isak wonders how his fellow waitresses managed to find that out. The guy doesn’t wear a name tag or a uniform after all, nor does he speak to or spare anyone a glance.
Isak doesn’t remember when he first took notice of him. All long limbs, unruly hair that covers his eyes, crumpled band t-shirts that do not comply with the restaurant’s uniform, excessive wristbands, and overwhelming but unapproachable presence. Isak had been the tallest one among the staff until he showed up, unannounced. He just suddenly appeared in their kitchen without ever being introduced or bothering to introduce himself.
Granted, he mostly clocked in the evenings to carry inventory into the supply room or to clean before everyone else went home. But still. He felt misplaced, almost forced into their space. Isak couldn’t figure out what his job responsibilities were. It seemed that he was tasked with doing everything that didn’t require interacting with another person.
Isak had once seen him pre-washing dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. It felt absurd back then, that a young man this attractive was stuck in the kitchen instead of charming drunk customers into ordering more pricey cocktails and leaving generous tips.
But this guy, Even, was probably better off in the back. He never smiled or uttered any words. He always had worn out and tangled earphones on, as if wishing to block out the outside world by any means necessary. Isak often wondered if he had any music playing at all or if it was just an accessory that guaranteed that no one would try to strike a conversation.
Maybe it was the latter. The girls, Cecilie, Emma, and Mette had tried their luck before, while Isak stood in the back and watched Even barely remove one of his headphones to mutter a monosyllabic rejection without ever locking eyes with them. Isak couldn’t hear his voice as he was positioned further away in the changing room, but he’d seen their disappointment.
“He’s so fucking rude!” the girls had exclaimed. “I hate guys who think they’re hot shit like that. We’re coworkers. The least he could do is be a little bit nice.”
Isak would have cracked a smile if the description didn’t apply to him as well, if he weren’t so busy feeling bitter and detached himself.
The thing is, Isak barely smiles either. He doesn’t reject happy hours with coworkers with a harsh “no”, but he never says yes either. He always makes up semi polite excuses, gives them the same perfunctory nod and half smile he gives customers, then heads home.
Perhaps it’s the reason he’s so fascinated with the most recent addition to the staff. The guy who managed to out-”rude” him. The guy who’s taller than him, meaner than him, more attractive than him, and overall more mysterious than him.
.
Isak drags himself to the shower most mornings. Mornings have been a challenge since he moved out, so a cold shower always helps him clear out his mind and make sense of his surroundings. Sometimes it’s a warm shower. Sometimes hot, sometimes scalding. He regrets the latter ones almost instantly, but they always pull him out of his funk.
His funk. This is what most things always come down to. His funk and the fact that he needs to constantly find new ways to get himself out of his funk. To force himself to take a shower, brush his teeth, put on clothes, go to school, go to the library to do homework, then go to work for the evening.
Isak is almost grateful that he has a long-term goal to crawl towards. He can’t wait to finish high school, get into NTNU in Trondheim, and then eventually leave the country altogether.
At least he’s managed to leave Oslo, he tells himself most nights. But the two hours separating Lillehammer from the capital don’t feel nearly enough. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes looking for him.
The mere thought leaves his chest tight with dread. His worst nightmare, someone showing up to school or to work and bursting his bubble, his facade of a semi cool guy who doesn’t like to talk much.
Jonas is probably on his way. He’s left too many clues.
Isak checks his deactivated social media accounts one more time to make sure they’re disabled. He tries not to, but ends up making his way to his friends’ instagram accounts.
It stings a bit, seeing toothy smiles, dimples, and crinkles. Seeing how life hasn’t stopped for them at all, the way it did for him.
His thumb hovers over another account for a little while. He’s feeling more self-destructive than usual tonight.
Just a glance, he tells himself. Just a minute.
He scrolls down the profile. It feels like a memento, a shrine suspended in time. Memorabilia verging on anachronism, but the other way around. Maybe.
His thoughts don’t make any sense. He thought he’d cry this time, but he doesn’t. They say that numbness goes away after a while, but it’s been months.
It’s just his reality now.
Isak watches two episodes of BoJack Horseman, then goes to sleep.
.
His fascination with the new guy eventually subdues, just like everything else he forces himself to hold onto to feign a sense of normalcy. He barely sees him anymore, barely notices him. It’s getting colder and busier at school, so he doesn’t have the energy to actively scan human faces and silhouettes.
Isak wonders for a moment if he’d have reacted differently to back-of-house guy if he’d met him at Nissen the previous year instead. Perhaps he’d have looked longer, stared harder, felt a thing or two. Perhaps he would have developed a crush and longed for him.
This Even guy was attractive after all. He had the brooding silent tall stereotype working for him. But the thing with Isak’s “funk” is that it took away even that. His ability to pine and want and yearn. Perhaps if he smiled.
He hears a rumor on a cold night in November that Even has a criminal record. Girls and boys now gossiping in the break room. They question his credentials, wonder how he got this job and whether their manager missed it during the interview process.
Isak walks away, uninterested in mindless gossip. On his way out, he notices Even hunched over the sink not too far from the break room, his earphones on, his posture oddly somewhere between relaxed and bothered. Isak wonders if he overheard his coworkers spreading nonsense in the back.
He wants to say something, but realizes that he’s never said a word to this person, that desultory empathy would sound just that: desultory. That he doesn’t even know what his voice sounds like. Is it deep? Is it high-pitched? Does he speak fast or slow?
Isak is about to turn away and carry on minding his own business when Even finally speaks for what feels like the first time ever.
“Wanna smoke?”
Isak turns around, slightly taken aback by the depth and timber of his voice. Even is still not facing him, still not looking at him. Isak finds himself looking around the kitchen to see if Even’s invitation was extended to someone else.
“What?”
Even simply unties his apron and gestures with his index finger for Isak to follow him to the back.
Isak doesn’t know what prompts him to comply, but he does.
It’s freezing outside, he quickly observes. But the strange turn of events, him following “mysterious back-of-house guy” outside, gives him another sense to focus on.
Neither speaks. They sit on a cold and wet stool while Even fishes out what looks like a joint from his jeans pockets. Isak would otherwise laugh or snort at the brazenness, if it weren’t for the numbness, for the “funk”. He always finds himself missing his older self at the most incongruous moments.
Even seems unaware of his inner monologue. Isak isn’t sure how many puffs he takes before he holds up his arm and extends his hand as an invitation to take the joint. Isak isn’t sure how many seconds go by before he accepts it.
They don’t speak a word. They sit side by side and smoke until the joint shrinks, and until passing it back and forth begins requiring touching fingers more consciously. It feels odd at first, touching the pads of someone’s fingers without ever having a conversation or exchanging names or glances. Isak doesn’t even know what color is in this guy’s eyes. But it’s so cold that it barely matters anyway.
None of this matters.
They finish the joint and Even stands up first. Isak gives himself a moment before rising to his feet. He hasn’t smoked in a while, let alone at his workplace, and doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of this strange guy the first time they interact.
The hand Even extends him after a while feels misplaced. Surely he meant to shove it in his pockets. Why is he putting his hand in Isak’s face?
Oh. Right.
Isak takes the hand and does his best to graciously stand without crashing into Even’s chest. He doesn’t.
“Thanks,” Isak mutters.
“Sure.”
Isak doesn’t know why, but they hold hands for a little longer, both of them looking at each other’s fingers like they’re pieces of an unsolvable puzzle. Even drops his hand first. They don’t lock eyes. They barely say bye.
Isak walks home with his thoughts floating about in his head. He wonders how someone seemingly so cold can have such warm hands. He wonders why it felt so nice to do nothing but sit and smoke next to a guy who holds one’s hand but won’t look them in the eyes. He wonders what color is in Even’s eyes.
.
Isak doesn’t get fired. Helga, his manager, hasn’t found out. And if she did, maybe she turned a blind eye.
He hears Mette tell Matias that she saw him with Even the previous night, smoking on the step by the backdoor. But he doesn’t engage. He never engages.
The rest of the week is bleak, cold, and wet. Isak finds himself longing for snow. He goes on about his days methodically, carefully, numbly.
He sees Even and nearly stops in his tracks. For what, he doesn’t know. Perhaps he was hoping to be acknowledged. But what is there to acknowledge about sharing a joint at the end of a long weekend night with the second most disgruntled employee in the staff? Nothing is what it is.
It begins to snow in the middle of his shift, and he smiles a bit more genuinely to the patrons after that. He hurries to the back the moment their last table has cleared out and sits on the very step on which Even shared his weed with him.
His buttocks are freezing but he doesn’t care. He needs to sit after being on his feet for so many hours. He sits and he watches the snow. He feels grateful that he can at least still enjoy things like snow falls.
A moment later, the door opens quietly. It’s Even, Isak realizes before turning back to watch the dark sky and the snow illuminated by the street lamps.
He nearly jumps when Even taps him in the back, now hovering right behind him.
“Huh?”
“Here.” Even says while handing him a towel, then dropping one for himself next to Isak.
“Oh.” It’s for sitting, he realizes.
He wonders if all their interactions will consist of mono-syllables and interjections.
Isak lifts himself up then sits back down on the now damp towel.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Isak realizes that Even is thoughtful after all, that he’s somewhat scary looking because he refuses to engage, but that he’s thoughtful.
He also realizes that Even is looking at him right now, his gaze intense but bordering on shy. Isak wonders what this is about, why this odd guy is suddenly taking interest in him, why he’s giving him weed and towels for his freezing butt.
He wants to look, to steal a quick glance. He wants to see what color is in those eyes. But just as he manages to talk himself through it, Even goes back to looking at his shoes.
Isak finds himself staring at his shoes too, at the gravel beneath them. He finds himself looking at Even’s shoes, old Converses nervously tapping against the floor while snowflakes melt into the ground near them.
Isak doesn’t know what’s happening, but he doesn’t mind it. This. The company. It’s oddly comforting having another body next to his own. They stay there until it’s time to officially close.
“Bye,” Even tells him this time around.
“Yeah, bye.”
.
It doesn’t happen every night, but they start meeting more often on the step by the back door. An appointment neither of them remembers making, but that both honor whenever possible.
Sometimes they smoke. Sometimes they watch the rain. Other times, Even listens to music through his headphones while Isak eats leftovers from the kitchen. It’s quiet and comfortable. It should be awkward, but it isn’t. It never lasts more than thirty minutes, but Isak finds himself looking forward to those thirty minutes the most.
Quiet companionship.
.
It’s a Friday night, the busiest at the restaurant, when Isak spots Jonas and Eskild walk through the door.
He turns around almost immediately, having rehearsed this scene nearly every night before sleep would finally have him for the past five months. He walks on auto-pilot, the plates he was supposed to serve still in his hands as he completed his one eighty turn. He hears the customers complain, but the noise is drowned by the fight or flight response his body is exhibiting.
“Isak?!” He hears Jonas behind him. Of course he’d recognize him from his back alone.
Isak doesn’t stop. He runs towards the back, discards the now ruined plates on the counter space, and pushes through his visibly concerned co-workers.
“Isak? What’s going on? Isak?”
How he wishes they could shut up and mind their business. How he wishes they could stop saying his name.
“Isak! Isak? Isak!”
It feels that the entire world is calling for him, coming for him. His cover is blown. He’ll need to find a new place, a new school, a new apartment, a new job. This is it.
That’s it.
He’s still spiraling when two strong hands gently but purposely pull him away from the kitchen and into the nearest closet without uttering a word.
“What-”
It’s Even, Isak realizes dumbly.
“Stay here.” Even orders sternly before shoving him in the closet and leaving the door ajar.
Isak stays there. He can’t do much, but stay there. It’s only a matter of time before Jonas and Eskild find him hiding in the janitor’s closet like the pathetic excuse that he is. It’s only a matter of time before the door is burst open and his entire Lillehammer persona is flushed down the drain. Only a matter of time before all the charades and the therapists and the visits and the “We’re here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone” bullshit.
He just wants to be left alone. Isak doesn’t want anyone to be there for him. He just wants to be left alone.
.
He is. For the most part.
Matias opens the door and tells him that the guys who were looking for him left. Isak doesn’t understand. Emma then explains that Even made them go away, that he told them that no one by the name Isak works at their restaurant. She adds that he looked very threatening, and that all the girls were swooning because it was the first time hearing him speak.
Isak can’t quite picture it. Even standing in the main dining room and kicking his friends out. How did he know he couldn’t confront them? How did he know to react the way he did?
It’s embarrassing.
Isak finishes his shift then starts to plan how he’ll resign, how he’ll find a new job, if it will be as well located as this one.
.
Even finds him outside on the wet step. He didn’t even bother bringing a towel this time around. Neither of them does.
Even sits beside him but doesn’t say a word. Isak can feel him stealing glances in between looking at his shoes.
“That was embarrassing as fuck.” Isak says, and it’s the most he’s said to Even at once, he thinks.
“A little bit,” says Even, something like a smile in his voice.
Isak snorts then, offended and embarrassed, but also grateful. The playful tone makes him giddy.
“You could sugarcoat it, you know?”
“Why would I?” Even continues, snorting this time around.
“How dare you-” Isak turns around then chokes on his own tongue.
A little bit.
Even’s hair is out of his face. The street lamps are casting a soft glow on his features, and he’s looking right into Isak’s eyes.
He’s looking right at him.
And he’s smiling. Smiling. His eyes are crinkling.
He’s breathtaking.
“Green,” Even says.
“Huh?”
“The color of your eyes. I’ve been wondering.”
Isak’s broken heart skips a beat.