Archive of Our Own ^beta

Edvin has been watching the whole evening in slow motion. Yet, the blur gains crescendo now, as the group barges outside, into the frosty Stockholm air, and the wind prickles at his cheeks immediately. The burn does nothing to dissipate the fog; he still watches.

His object of silent admiration is lively as ever today. Animated, Omar is explaining something to Alva as he tries to check the Uber app for the ETA. The cold, however, is cruel on both fingers and devices alike. It is, perhaps, the kindest on the heart.

The shadows cascade down Omar’s ever-lovely face in the dim midnight gloom. Why did they even hurry outside? Right, somebody wanted to smoke. Edvin did, too. But he just can’t will his eyes to wander away from the curve of Omar’s lips — he hasn’t been able to, once, this whole evening. Uninvited, his mind wonders what it would be like to press his thumb against them, softly, somewhere much warmer.

He still hasn’t ordered a ride; Alva’s place isn’t that far from Edvin’s own, so he contemplates a walk. Yes, his ears hurt from the cold, but he needs the movement, if only to metabolize his thoughts faster. But he’s stalling. Because he’s scared.

He chances another glance at Omar and his reddening cheeks. When will they see each other again? The small, restless thing behind his ribs doesn’t like it that Edvin doesn’t know. His own plans are lowkey this year — in light of his recent breakup, he doesn’t really want to celebrate. A quiet family dinner will suffice, coupled with a weekend bundled up in his apartment rewatching his favorite Christmas movies. Omar might have something much more fun and summery coming to warm his heart. These are the kinds of thoughts that have kept Edvin up at night for weeks, jolting him each time.

Omar looks back and shoots him a small smile.

How much longer? a voice in his head begins. He knows the perpetrator, it’s made itself at home in the shadowy chambers of his mind. What else must happen for you to open your mouth?

Omar is his friend. It sucks being afraid of talking to a friend. But the slow unraveling that has plagued him all evening must be taking its toll — there are bigger fears Edvin can think of, ones he would hate to see materialized.

Slowly, he takes a couple of steps to the side and tugs at Omar’s sleeve.

“Hey,” Omar turns around, casually, and disengages from the group without blinking an eye. As if Edvin wanting Omar’s attention only to himself is a completely normal occurrence. “When’s your Uber coming?”

Edvin shakes his head as the frost bites harder. “I think I’m gonna take a stroll.”

Omar’s eyebrows shoot up adorably. “You’re crazy.”

“Want to tag along?”

Omar hates the cold more than anyone Edvin’s ever met. He asked if only to indulge himself in Omar’s inevitable exasperation.

For some reason, Omar looks as if he’s considering it, so maybe there’s an opening Edvin didn’t infer.

“Come on, I’ll show you my place”, he presses, nervous, “That I moved into six months ago. That you still haven't seen.” He blabbers; it’s a bad sign. If there was ever a time he needed to stay composed, it is now.

Omar must sense something, because he doesn’t put up a fight. He gives a short nod, eyes locking on Edvin’s for a second, before tapping the cancel button on his phone and tugging the beanie down a little tighter, “Well. I haven’t received any invitations.”

After taking a moment to say goodbyes — amid everyone’s faint, surprised exclamations — they start their cold, miserable climb up the street. Edvin tells himself it will feel a little easier once they’re moving. It’s fifteen minutes at most anyway.

They fall into step and silence. Not comforting, exactly. There’s so much on the tip of his tongue, so much pressing against his fingers, but whenever he tries to speak, a lump drags down his throat. He’s bound to ruin everything.

Snow squeaks under his sneakers, punctuating the ache in his chest. He has only ever known longing. Maybe he shies from what he wants because part of him fears he might deserve it.

In February, so many insane theories swirled online, but none felt true. The moment had been desperate and impulsive, a flash of lightning — but it’s love for a friend, he tells himself. That is what he believed. Yet when everyone waxed lyrical about his “boyfriend behaviour,” or — worse — when Omar looked at him, starry-eyed, like he promised him the world, or — worst of all — when Edvin himself suddenly realized how badly he had wanted to be kissing Omar right then and there, fear gripped him. He did what he always does: pulled away, even though every part of him ached to succumb.

Something colder than frost and deeper than sadness presses into his chest.

Omar walks a few paces ahead, then turns, puzzled. “What’s wrong? Can we just go, Edvin? It’s freezing.”

Impulsivity has always been Edvin’s style, the only way his pent-up feelings can run wild. And tonight, it feels like a decision has formed: half-formed, uncertain, yet certain enough.

He closes the distance in a few quick steps and gathers Omar in a hug. A muffled “Huh” escapes him, but then Omar goes completely still, letting him. Omar has always granted him that grace, always been too patient.

A beat of silence passes, swallowed by the empty, nocturnal street, before Omar exhales, “What’s up with you and a surprise hug?”

“I miss you,” Edvin murmurs, words caught in the lump in his throat.

Slowly, Omar disentangles from the embrace. Avoiding Edvin’s eyes, he turns away, gaze fixed on something distant at the far end of the street. He’s glowing in the dimmed light.

“I’m not doing that again,” he says, clipped and resolute. “I’m not. You can’t keep jumping me like that. It’s— No.”

“I’m sorry,” Edvin replies, stepping back. He would hate to impose, but the rejection weighs a ton in his chest. He’s been missing him for ages. Ever since New York. Ever since London. “But it’s true. Always.”

The fact that Omar is still here, in the cold with him, not tapping for an Uber or striding back the way they came, is a fragile hope padding the chaos in Edvin’s heart.

Omar snaps his body around to face him, then takes a few daring steps closer. He looks menacing, like he wants to smack him.

When his face is up close, Edvin sees how tight Omar’s jaw is, the narrowness of eyes usually so soft, the frown between his eyebrows, the trembling lips.

“You never want to do anything about it. I can’t help you.”

This isn’t how Edvin imagined the night. In his mind, he’d already been making them tea as they waited for some stupid game to load. Something of the light, easy caliber, the familiarity they’d shared countless times before.

Omar doesn’t pull back. His face hovers near Edvin’s; the last time he felt Omar’s breath on his own cheeks was on set, filming.

There’s only one thing left he hasn’t tried.

Edvin’s lips are cold when they press against Omar’s in the chilly air. Omar can’t help himself, never could. He fastens onto Edvin as if stitched. Becasuehe wants him desperately. The intensity terrifies him. His restraint, or the attempt at it, crumbles. Perhaps for good reason; Edvin has never kissed him before. Despite skirting that line countless times, neither has ever given in — be it thanks to fidelity, circumstance or self-control. Now it’s all Omar wants and all that makes sense. He’s desperate in the face of passion, and his life obeys the only rule he makes for himself: there is no shame in wanting. Wanting good things, good people, all for yourself. Edvin is the best person he’s ever known.

The cold recedes; the heat of their mouths meeting is enough to warm him, for a bit. The kiss breaks as abruptly as it started.

Omar spins slightly, head reeling. The street is still empty. He looks back at Edvin, chest heaving, the pleasant buzz overtaking the cold, chasing it from every cell. He wants to continue. Just maybe somewhere warmer.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” Edvin says, wiping at his mouth, eyes darting anywhere but Omar. “I shouldn’t— ‘cause you’re— you have—” He gestures vaguely, presumably somewhere in the general direction of the United States.

Shit. The image Omar’s crafted, the half-truths, the vagueness, the way his latest escapades all looked serious just to get a reaction out of Edvin — funny how it never really worked. Funny how now it’s a problem.

He leans closer, shaking his head, unable to stop the smile tugging at his lips. “No, no. It’s over,” he hushes. 

Edvin freezes. “Since when?”

Since today. Since right now. But Edvin doesn’t need to know that. Besides, it was never exclusive anyway. Even if Edvin hesitates again, Omar thinks bitterly, it’s still a litmus test — the way his defenses crumble at Edvin’s touch. He already knows the answer. He doesn’t want half-truths anymore.

“Been over for a while.”

Edvin stares at him, eyes glazed with that strange trance of terror and want tangled together. He licks his lips.

The cold begins creeping back, and Omar feels the brush of Edvin’s icy fingers against his own. “Let’s go.”

This isn’t a movie, of course. Not the one where they tumble into bed five minutes after breaking the long, simmering tension. But it still feels cinematic — soft, glowing, intimate. They shed their coats, make tea, and settle into the softness of Edvin’s brand-new couch, the one Omar has only ever seen on FaceTime calls. The air between them is thick with a gentle promise, a newer, softer care, where every glance, every word, every subtle touch is the next best revelation yet. They both know this is it. This is love, standing at the door, finally let in.

Omar rests his head in Edvin’s lap and stretches the full length of himself like a cat. His shirt rides up slightly, but Edvin doesn’t notice; or if he does, it’s none of his business. To distract himself, he runs his fingers through Omar’s soft curls, feeling the warmth under his hands.

It’s always been normal for them, neither thinking it anything extra or strange. When you reach that level of comfortable, casual intimacy with someone, it’s only natural to want to cling each time the chance appears. Touch is good for the soul. Edvin always hugs his friends unprompted. Would he gently pat their hair while looking into their eyes dreamily? Probably not. Probably his own argument is bullshit. Probably he’s always been quietly, acutely dying for exactly this, without the asterisks.

“I don’t know what you want out of this, Edvin,” Omar says slowly, settling into a position convenient to meet Edvin’s gaze. He can shoot very piercing looks when he chooses. “But I want everything. If we’re not on the same page, better tell me now.”

Edvin bites his lip. Of course he wants everything, whatever he is given or allowed. Deep down, he doesn’t doubt a thing. Omar has been his undreamt dream since they met years ago: the gorgeous boy older than him, the one he got to kiss and be paid for it. Yet it was Omar himself who taught him to dream big. And there’s this undeniable, incandescent fullness that radiates through him whenever he basks in Omar’s presence, a warmth he carries long after they part. Something inseparable, ancient in him, like a birthmark.

He owes it to himself not to fear, or at least to overcome the fear while still letting it linger. 

He allows his knuckles to trace gently along Omar’s stern face. Omar lets him. Edvin doesn’t think he’s ever been more in love.

Then he needs a little boost, another sacred bit of physicality to spur him on. He leans down and presses an awkward kiss to the corner of Omar’s mouth. It twitches with a smile that is immediately reined in. But that’s okay.

“We are on the same page,” he swallows, nervous but happy, truly putting his whole heart where his mouth is for the first time in forever. “I might be a couple lines behind, but…if you could just wait for me?”

Omar’s smile blooms full force then, and he doesn’t even seem to want to hide it. He shakes his head, maybe at Edvin’s stupid metaphorical bullshit, maybe just because.

“You’re ridiculous,” he whispers through the smile, his body unburdened, one hand lifting to wrap around Edvin’s resting atop his chest, squeezing it.

Edvin looks at him and looks at him and doesn’t know when he could ever stop. He slides his arm away only to interlace their fingers, skin melting into skin. He knows that if he ever lets go, he’ll never forgive himself for it.