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bellofthemeadow · 1 year ago

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The Road Ahead - ch 2 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

For most of your married life, you dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently awaited his return, longing for the moment when he would be by your side again. During those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, you yearned for him to open up to you, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain. And as his addiction spiraled out of control, you held onto the hope that he would recognize his problem and seek help. However, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Colombia, engaged in God knows what.

But this time is different. Determined, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 4.8K

Warning: Applicable for the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty

Chapter Summary: Frankie breaks the one promise he swore he never would

Notes: Hello again everyone! As I previously mentioned on the last chapter, this is a repost from my former blog "mywordhaven" . I will be continuing this fic, as well as all of my future work, on this blog! This chapter is where the angst truly begins, hope you all like it as much as I muahahaha

Broken Promises

You’ve never been this tired before. It’s a strange feeling like you are experiencing a sort of out-of-body experience, looking straight at your bone-tired self barely holding on. “My kingdom for a full night of sleep,” you think, before scanning the room. A rumpled bed, a mix of dirty and clean laundry scattered over the floor, and a half-eaten pack of Oreo cookies on the nightstand “Not much of a kingdom” you sardonically judge. As the minutes tick by, exhaustion takes further hold of you and your eyes begin to shut. You start to nod off, but just as your chin touches the top of your collarbone a small fist slams onto your left cheek, and a loud cry pierces the silence of your bedroom.

"Shhh, Ella, shhh, sweetheart, please be good for Mommy," you softly plead. Weary from the ongoing battle to lull your baby girl back to sleep, you slowly rise from the rocking chair nestled in the quiet corner of your dimly lit bedroom. It's been a relentless night since the clock struck 1:30 a.m., and Estrella seems to have taken it upon herself to ensure you stay awake for as long as possible.

You had hoped that the rhythmic motion of the chair, the gentle sway, and comforting whispers, would coax her back into the land of dreams. Yet the soft lullabies and soothing strokes proved insufficient in settling your little girl. The minutes ticked by, and the hand of the clock slowly etches its way into the night.

You slowly stroll around the room, swaying back and forth while cradling the warm bundle in your arms. As you gaze down at the tiny face nestled against your chest, you tiredly ponder, "Perhaps I should start calling you peanut, don't you think, Ella?" Your fingertips delicately trace the contours of her tiny, discontented face. The sight of her scrunched-up, red face reminds you of those spicy peanuts that Frankie enjoys munching on.

Frankie. It has been an agonizing seven days since you last heard from your husband. When he informed you about his departure on one of Santiago's reckless ideas (damn it all Santi), you pleaded with him not to go. You had tried everything, even resorting to playing dirty by reminding him of his promise to never leave again! And how it would surely negatively impact Ella considering her formative age. You emphasized how important it was for Ella to have her papa with her. How much you needed your husband. You had kept going until the morning, and your voice had faded to a hoarse whisper, but Frankie did not budge.

Instead, Frankie had held you close. Listening to you argue and rage while whispering reassuring words about how everything would be just fine. And as the argument heated up, he switched up his strategy. Instead, sternly stretching how thin money was right now. Like an artist, using his words as brushstrokes, he painted a clear picture of the challenges you were both facing, reminding you of the growing financial strain. Ella, remaining in the background of the conversation, both acutely aware of your responsibility as new parents. He��d coaxed, cajoled, and did his best to persuade you that his leaving was the right course of action. He stressed that, although Pope needed him for this mission, the money he would make would provide the opportunity for you to finally take time away from work to be with Ella. When he saw you start to relent at his words, he doubled down and further pressed how, upon his return, there would be enough funds for him to both appeal his drug sanction and for you to stay home with the baby.

Frankie knew exactly what he was doing. With the precision of a former military man well-versed in analyzing and exploiting the vulnerabilities of his enemies, he exerted pressure in the very areas he knew would make you yield. Nobody understood you better than Frankie, after all. He knew that the prospect of staying home with Ella would be sufficiently alluring. You had returned to work a mere two weeks after giving birth and with Frankie grounded from flying, you hadn’t been able to take any additional time off. At the time, you had bitterly thought that if Frankie had opened to you instead of falling heads first into a puddle of cocaine, he would have never been suspended in the first place. You could have stayed home with Ella, and you wouldn't be so exhausted. You wouldn’t be so sad all the time.

Estrella's piercing cries escalate, reverberating in the air, and echoing through the room. With every decibel, her frustration intensifies, mirroring your own mounting agitation. You struggle to steady your breath, attempting to reclaim a sense of calm amidst her loud wails.

"Please, please, Ella," you implore, your voice quivering with weariness and desperation. "Mommy needs to sleep tonight. Mommy has a long day at work tomorrow."

Estrella's cries momentarily ebb, her searching gaze locking onto your face, her innocent eyes reflecting what you think is a flicker of comprehension. But before a heartbeat passes, her tiny face contorts once more, the weight of her frustration crashing upon your ears like a tidal wave, each cry more piercing than the last. Desperately, you put Ella back in her crib at the foot of your bed and you quickly flee the room, the weight of your emotions propelling you forward. As the door shuts behind you, you let out your own loud sob. You are so tired of always crying.

As you attempt to regain control of your breathing and try to halt the now-intensified flow of tears, a wave of nausea overtakes you. You only just manage to hastily make your way to the nearest bathroom. Sinking to your knees, your grip on your own hair tightens as waves after wave of nausea engulf you. Dry heaves wrack your body, futilely attempting to expel remnants of a dinner that never met your lips the night before. The searing pain of acidic bile creeping up your throat only serves to intensify your desire to blink yourself out of existence, if only for a fleeting moment, escaping the overwhelming cries and suffocating anxiety. As soon as the thought arrives, however, the tears start to swell even further. What kind of mother are you, you silently question, your self-doubt echoing in the quiet corners of your soul. What kind of mother entertains the notion of vanishing from their own child's life? A wretched one, you conclude.

You rise slowly, mustering the strength to rinse your mouth, eager to rid yourself of the repulsive taste of bile. Spitting out a blob of toothpaste into the sink, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and recoil from the sight of that hollow husk staring back at you. “What the fuck," you whisper to yourself as disbelief floods your thoughts. You hadn’t found the time to look yourself over in the last few weeks, too busy with the baby, work, and Frankie’s license appeal. You kind of wish you hadn’t looked yourself over right now. You look like a ghost, an exhausted ghost at that—gaunt and fatigued, your skin stretched thin and devoid of life, bearing an ashen hue. Dark circles encircle your eyes, stained with redness from endless weeping. Your hair hangs greasy and limp, the last time you washed your hair was likely before Frankie left, you speculate.

Your mind drifts back to that night, two years ago when Frankie returned home for good (or was supposed to return for good). The unfolding reality had completely shattered the idyllic story you had woven into your mind that night. Frankie tried; goodness knows he tried his hardest. But even within the comfort of your shared home, he couldn't elude the relentless demons that haunted him at every turn. It pained you to witness his withdrawal, but he insisted, left and right, that he was fine—that it was normal for discharged soldiers to struggle with readjustment. He assured you he wasn't the first, nor would he be the last, and that all he needed was a little time for everything to work itself out. "You worry too much, mi cielo," he would say before leaving the house each morning, following yet another night plagued by nightmares.

The whole facade of “getting better” quickly lost its lustre when, in an uncharacteristic fit of rage, Frankie had aggressively confronted a young man who had set off firecrackers on your street, nearly beating the poor guy. You had seen the anger and fear contort his normally gentle features, and you were certain that if you hadn't intervened, the situation would have turned violent. Afterward, with tears streaming down both your faces, Frankie held you. With his face tucked in your chest, he had apologized and begged for your forgiveness, promising that it would never happen again. And, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Frankie quietly shared how it sometimes felt like a dark presence consumed him from within—he could be walking down the street, only to be transported back to whatever hellhole his mind had conjured especially for him.

He had gone on about how he couldn’t do any of this without you. In the end, you had forgiven him. But not before making him promise this kind of violence would never happen again as you wouldn’t tolerate it. To his credit, Frankie never exhibited any violent behaviour again. Well, at least not in your presence.

After that day, you tried your best to be firmer with him. You had pleaded with him to seek therapy, thinking that the moment he opened to you was an overture. But Frankie mostly shut it down. Always founding excuses to delay by finding new reasons for not making an appointment each and every day. The cycle persisted with you nagging and him delaying until one afternoon when you returned home to find him on the couch, a distant and ashamed look in his eyes. The mere sight of him caused your heart to plummet. It turned out that Frankie had chosen to self-medicate. At that point, you were three months pregnant with Ella, and to this day you wonder if you would not have been better to walk out that sunny afternoon.

You knew Frankie carried immense guilt from that day. You could see in his eyes how much he despised himself for what he had done. He vowed never to touch cocaine again, promising to put in the work and pleading for you to stay. He wept and wept, and in the end, you chose to remain by his side only if he finally committed to therapy. This was the last strike, you told yourself, and had decided not to give up on him. In sickness and in health, right?

But to your joy, throughout your pregnancy, Frankie's support had exceeded all your expectations. He not only tended to your needs but also went above and beyond to ensure your comfort. From keeping your favourite snacks within reach to massaging your tired feet without even needing to be asked. Yet, among all the beautiful moments, one memory stood out as the most cherished. It was when the two of you would settle on the couch, engrossed in a shared TV show. During these tender moments, Frankie would lovingly rest his head on your gently rounded belly, hoping to connect with the little life growing within. Softly, he would speak to your baby, already creating an intimate bond that filled your heart with warmth.

Those blissful months, both during the pregnancy and in the ensuing months, were magical. Despite the challenges, what mattered most was that Frankie was with you, supporting you and sharing in the journey which made every hardship feel insignificant. It was in those moments that you truly felt that Frankie had come home. As if on a rocket launch, Frankie also seemed to have gotten his mind together following his suspension. He had managed to secure a job at a garage, but the hours were minimal, and the pay meagre. But, despite it all Frankie had been determined to persevere and make the most of this opportunity, all the while preparing for his license appeal.

However, everything crumbled a week ago. Like every second Friday, Frankie joined his friends to watch and cheer on one of Benny's fights. But as Frankie arrived home late that night, his expression of guilt etched across his face sent an unsettling shiver down your spine. The following day, Frankie was gone. The only detail you could scrounge from him was that he would contact you three days after the mission concluded. Now, seven days have passed, and anxiety gnaws at your core more violently with each passing day.

After splashing water on your face, you make your way back to your bedroom, where Ella's cries have diminished, leaving behind traces of fatigue on her tiny, reddened face. Bending down, you scoop her up into your arms and begin to hum a gentle lullaby in Spanish. It's the only one from Frankie's repertoire, a sweet melody he had learned from his Abuela during his childhood. As you hold Ella close, her cries gradually subside, replaced by the comforting rhythm of her soft breath against your shoulder. It soothes your heart to witness her drifting back into slumber. So sweet and innocent.

"Oh, my poor little star," you whisper, your voice filled with tenderness as you gaze at Ella. "You miss your daddy, don't you? I miss him too, and I know he misses you just as much." Leaning in, you plant a gentle kiss on her tiny forehead. "I'm so sorry, Ella. It breaks my heart that you're stuck with me. You deserve so much more."

Placing one final kiss on her tiny nose, you carefully lower her back into her crib. As you slowly tread back to your own bed, you feel its emptiness and coldness, a constant reminder of Frankie's absence. Yet, in this moment, you're uncertain if you would even welcome his presence. Slipping beneath the covers, you glance at the clock: 3:30 am. A sigh escapes your lips. Four more hours before you must get up for work. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.

______________________________________________________________

You are abruptly awakened by a jarring, high-pitched beep. Unsettled by the noise, your drowsy eyes struggle to focus on the clock, revealing the time: 5:15 am. You hastily spring out of bed, desperately hoping that Estrella won't stir from the ruckus. Clumsily grabbing your phone, you stumble out of the bedroom, nearly hitting your head on the frame.

"What kind of deranged person calls at this hour?!" you vent, frustration mounting as you spy a string of numbers on the screen that holds no significance. "Hello? Hello?" your anger is met with silence. "Seriously, if this is some sick prank, it's not fucking funny! Some of us have babies who are trying to..." Before you can finish, a voice on the other end of the line interjects.

"Mi cielo..."

"... Francisco?" you gasp, barely able to catch your breath.

"It's so good to hear your voice, cariño," Frankie softly replies, his tone strangely subdued.

" Oh my God, Frankie are you okay?! Where are you?"

"Somewhere in Peru," he quietly responds after a pause.

"Peru?! My God are you safe?" you ask, concern lacing your words.

"I am, mi cielo," he replies, but his tone betrayed him. You know he isn’t okay.

"What happened, Frankie? Are the others with you? I was worried sick, you told me three days, it's been 7!" you cry out, your worry pouring through your words.

"I know, mi cielo, I know. I'm so sorry. Shit went from bad to worst. I never wanted to worry you like that. The others are fine, I mean..." Frankie stumbles over his words before weakly admitting, "Redfly is dead."

"What? Tom is dead?!” you interject, shock and confusion mingling in your voice. You had seen Molly just 2 days ago, she was with the girls at the grocery store. Tom’s oldest had even played peekaboo with Ella while you were confiding your worries to Molly. She had assured you that for all his faults, Tom was a devoted CO and would look after your Frankie.

"While we were making our way back through the Andes, we encountered..." Frankie begins to explain.

"What do you mean you encountered? What were you guys doing walking through the Andes?! You said it was going to be a simple in-and-out!" you interrupt, baffled.

After a weighty pause, Frankie reluctantly continues, his voice laced with culpability, "Our transport failed, it was my fault. There was an accident, and Redfly didn't make it. We carried his body so that Molly and the girls could say their goodbyes."

"Oh, Frankie I am so, so sorry,” you whisper, overcome with a mixture of grief and sympathy.

"I should have listened to you! This entire mission was doomed from the beginning, a disaster waiting to happen. I never should have gone. Maybe if I hadn't, Redfly would still be alive, and I would be home with you and Estrelita," Frankie ranted, his voice quivering with tears.

"Frankie..." you begin, the weight of his words sinking in.

"I'll make it up to you, mi cielo. I'm never leaving again. I never want to leave my girls ever again."

"You said that before..." you quietly whisper. You know it’s unfair after everything he’s been through, but you can’t help yourself. Pain and resentment have made themselves at home deep within your heart, and it’ll take more than a phone call to dislodge them.

"Cariño..."

Wiping away the tears that have started to traitorously stream down your face and with exhaustion seeping into your bones, you keep going, "Estrella is well. She still can't sleep through the night, but Mrs. Hu says she is the loveliest baby she has ever seen. She misses her daddy though." After a brief pause, you add, "We both do."

"I'm so sor..."

"Please, Frankie, I beg you, stop apologizing. Just make sure you come home as soon as you can, alright? We'll figure it out when you're home safe with us," you plead, vulnerable.

"I promise mi amor, I'll be home as soon as possible. I'll be on the first flight today and be home before you know it."

"Good. Please be careful, Frankie."

"Cariño..."

His words are cut off by Estrella's cries from the bedroom. A tightness grips your throat as a lump forms, and you speak with a strained voice, "Can you hear her? It looks like she's ready for her daddy to be home." You tightly press your fist against your mouth, attempting to stifle your sobs.

"I'll be home soon, mi cielo, I promise," Frankie pleads. "Te amo. Te amo. Te amo." He repeats it like a prayer, softly uttered at your altar.

You are unable to speak, your throat too constricted. "Me too," you weakly respond. "I have to go check on Ella. Please be careful."

You end the call and take deep breaths, attempting to steady yourself. The room spins around you, and Estrella's cries echo in the background. As in a trance, you make your back to your bedroom.

"Daddy is coming home, my sweet love," you softly coo, your voice filled with anticipation. Estrella's tired eyes meet your teary gaze, and you can't help but laugh through your tears as Ella sucks on her tiny fist. "My little peanut, Mama will always take care of you. No matter what comes our way, even though you deserve so much more, I promise to be there for you and do my best," you pour out. As Ella drifts back into the realm of dreams, you reach out to the bed and grab Frankie's worn green blanket, hastily tossed aside in your haste. Holding it close, you settle into the rocking chair in the corner, with Ella snuggled against your chest, softly snoring. You drape the scratchy duvet over both of you, the feeling of the coarse blanket bringing some comfort amidst the whirlwind of emotions. Enveloped in its warm embrace, you surrender to drowsiness, cradling Ella in your arms and gently whispering sweet nothings into her ear as you drift off to sleep.

______________________________________________________________

Frankie's gaze remains fixed on his phone, staring at the now empty screen as if willing for your phone number to appear. He yearns to hear your voice again, to hear you reassure him that everything will be okay. He longs for the warmth of your embrace, your fingers gently caressing his hair while he tenderly kisses the back of your neck. The more he stares at the phone, the more a sense of desperation and self-hatred wells up inside him. It's not directed at you, never at you. You and Ella are the only sources of goodness in his life, and he feels he's managed to ruin it all, just like he always does. He has always strived to be a better man for you, always felt unworthy of your love.

He is a man hunted by years of military service and he is acutely aware of his shattered spirit, his inability to adapt to the mundane civilian life. At the VA, he had witnessed the procession of broken men and women, who sacrificed their very beings for their nation, only to be spit out by a system that didn’t give a shit. If not for you and Ella, he fears he would have joined their ranks.

After retiring from active duty, which feels like a lifetime ago, he lived in a perpetual state of limbo. But you were there, his beacon of sweetness, compassion, and patience. For half a year, he held his breath, anticipating the day you would wake up and realize the mistake you made when you said yes and married him. You would finally leave him then and Frankie would be alone, as he deserves. But you never did. You stayed, defied his expectations, and shattered his self-inflicted prophecy. He knows you want him to open his pain to you, to unravel his sadness at your feet, but he is trapped in a prison of his own silence. Unable to be the man you need him to be for both you and Ella.

His subconscious tortures him with these anxieties every other night through relentless nightmares. In some of the worst renditions, he finds himself behind you, following you from a distance unable to touch you. As he tries to catch up, he must crawl through mud, blood, and gore, dragging him down as you seem to float away from him. He screams, but you can’t hear him. When he finally catches up to you, he reaches out his hands and notices their bloodied state, realizing how repulsive he is and how he doesn't deserve to hold you. He always lets his hands drop, watching you walk away with that radiant smile of yours that still brightens his heart, even after all these years. You always call out to him, "Come on, my love, you're falling behind." And he knows he is. But he can't take your hand, can't subject you to his darkness.

His grip on the phone tightens as the tormenting voices in his head grow louder: "She'll leave you now, for sure," "You're unworthy of her," "She'll take Ella and walk away, and you'll deserve it," "Good-for-nothing addict." He hurls the phone across the room, shattering it into pieces. The room feels too small, Frankie feels himself suffocating by the 4 walls, a perfect representation of his dark thoughts closing on him. Quickly, Frankie rises and heads downstairs. In the lobby, his eyes catch sight of the open café bar. He enters and makes a beeline for the imposing counter. Taking a seat on an unsteady stool, he addresses the man behind the counter:

“¿Todavía estás sirviendo alcohol?”

“Sí, lo estoy.¿Qué te puedo servir?” responds the burly bartender.

“Un café y 3 shots de whisky.” Answers Frankie.

“¿Noche difícil?” the bartender asks.

“Vida difícil.” Frankie replies.

“Jajaja, ¿asumo entonces que estás casado?” he queries, as he places the three shots in front of Frankie and begins preparing the coffee.

Frankie swiftly downs the first and then the second shot. Taking a deep breath, he responds:

“Ella y el bebé son lo único que hace que esta maldita vida valga la pena. Y lo arruiné.”

Shaking his head, the bartender goes on, “Dile cómo te sientes, discúlpate y ruega. Si la amas tanto como dices, al menos te escuchará.” Frankie looks away guilty at those words. He knows you and he knows he is being unfair to your love.

“Gracias por el consejo.” Frankie acknowledges.

“De nada, es un placer. Va incluido con el café.”

Frankie lets out a laugh before finishing his last shot, while the bartender attends to the bustling morning crowd. There is no sign of Will or Benny, not even Pope who lives in these kinds of places.

From the corner of his eye, he notices a slick, well-dressed man settling onto the stool beside him, promptly ordering a large black coffee. The man's gaze falls upon the three empty shot glasses before emitting a sly chuckle, locking eyes with Frankie.

"Rough night?" the man inquires, his voice laced with a sleazy undertone.

"You could say that" Frankie responds, attempting to shield himself by burying his face in his cup of coffee. He'd rather not air his problems for all of Peru to see. The lingering buzz from the shots slowly warms him from within. God, he's so exhausted. Sleeping on the cold ground of the Andes for the past week has taken its toll. He isn’t as young as he used to be, age crept up on him. Now, all he craves is to be back home, wrapped in your loving embrace with Ella between you two. Damn it, he even misses that green itchy blanket.

Unfortunately for Frankie, the man seems oblivious to his cues and continues to pry.

"Well, my friend, I think I have just the thing for you," the man remarks, reaching into his side pocket and producing a small baggie overflowing with white powder. Frankie's body freezes.

He hasn't touched that shit since the day he got busted. He promised you he would never use it again, and he has kept that promise. The only one he has kept so far. A cold droplet of sweat glides down his spine as he becomes entranced by the sight of the little baggie, its contents tempting him with the promise of quieting the voices in his head, numbing the guilt he carries for you, for Ella, for Tom, and for all the other fucked-up things he has done.

"So, you interested? You look like you need it. I'll even give you a discount, my man!" The man slaps Frankie on the back while jiggling the baggie as if to intensify the allure.

"Take it," his conscience whispers, taunting him. "You've already screwed up; what's one more mistake for the road? She won't even find out, and you know what they say, ignorance is bliss.”

Frankie shuts his eyes, and in the darkness, he envisions you—holding Ella in your arms with that disappointed frown of yours. But the moment his mind conjures your image, it fades away, replaced by the haunting sight of Tom's lifeless body sprawled on the ground. A bullet in his head.

The conflicting scenes play out in his mind, like a relentless tug-of-war between his love for you and his hatred of himself.

“Final chance, my man. If you're not interested, I'll find someone else," the well-dressed man leers, his voice oozing with sleaze. The allure hangs in the air, teasing Frankie. Should he yield to one more mistake?

Frankie's trembling hand reaches out, fingers quivering as they inch closer to the small bag before him. At that moment, a surge of regret and guilt floods his senses, clawing at his conscience like relentless demons. His heart aches with the weight of his past mistakes, the pain he has caused, and the promises he has broken. The promise he will break.

Frankie clenches his fists as he seizes the bag, his fingers tightly closing around it. Doubt swirls in him as he wrestles with the bitter truth—he wasn’t a good man and he sure as hell wasn’t worthy of redemption. What difference would one more mistake make?

So, Frankie surrenders. He abandons the fight and lets himself fall. As he pays for the chemical release that will soon free him from himself, he feels your arms holding him tightly and your mouth planting gentle kisses on his face, providing the comfort he so desperately craves. But reality sets in; you're not there to catch him. So, he makes his way to the nearest bathroom, and three words echo incessantly in his mind, like a broken record: “Ignorance is bliss”.

He fucking hopes it’s true.

Next Chapter

#reposted from my old blog #fanfic #fic #a03 #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro boys #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x you

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mywordhaven · 1 year ago

Text

The Road Ahead - ch 2 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Previous Chapter

Throughout most of your married life, you've dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently anticipated his return home, longing for the moment when he would be by your side once again. You yearned for him to open up to you during those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain with you. And as his addiction spiralled out of control, you hoped that he would recognize his problem and seek help. Yet, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Columbia doing God knows what.

But this time is the last. Resolved, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + / no minors allowed)

Word Count: 4.8K

Warnings: Applicable to the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, hard relationship to food, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty guys (more warnings will be added if necessary).

Summary: Frankie breaks the one promise he swore he never would.

Notes: Hey everyone, thank you very much for the sweet comments/reblog/liked, I appreciate it so much :D I was totally not expecting it. I really hope you enjoy this one, it's got that sweet, sweet angst that I think we all love. After this chapter, we are getting ourselves right into the nugget of the action between Frankie and his cielo. Lmk what you all think xxx

Ao3 link

Broken Promises

Instead, Frankie had held you close. Listening to you argue and rage while whispering reassuring words about how everything would be just fine. And as the argument heated up, he switched up his strategy. Instead, sternly stretching how thin money was right now. Like an artist, using his words as brushstrokes, he painted a clear picture of the challenges you were both facing, reminding you of the growing financial strain. Ella, remaining in the background of the conversation, both acutely aware of your responsibility as new parents. He’d coaxed, cajoled, and did his best to persuade you that his leaving was the right course of action. He stressed that, although Pope needed him for this mission, the money he would make would provide the opportunity for you to finally take time away from work to be with Ella. When he saw you start to relent at his words, he doubled down and further pressed how, upon his return, there would be enough funds for him to both appeal his drug sanction and for you to stay home with the baby.

"Please, please, Ella," you implore, your voice quivering with weariness and desperation. "Mommy needs to sleep tonight. Mommy has a long day at work tomorrow."

______________________________________________________________

"Mi cielo..."

"... Francisco?" you gasp, barely able to catch your breath.

"It's so good to hear your voice, cariño," Frankie softly replies, his tone strangely subdued.

" Oh my God, Frankie are you okay?! Where are you?"

"Somewhere in Peru," he quietly responds after a pause.

"Peru?! My God are you safe?" you ask, concern lacing your words.

"I am, mi cielo," he replies, but his tone betrayed him. You know he isn’t okay.

"What happened, Frankie? Are the others with you? I was worried sick, you told me three days, it's been 7!" you cry out, your worry pouring through your words.

"While we were making our way back through the Andes, we encountered..." Frankie begins to explain.

"What do you mean you encountered? What were you guys doing walking through the Andes?! You said it was going to be a simple in-and-out!" you interrupt, baffled.

"Oh, Frankie I am so, so sorry,” you whisper, overcome with a mixture of grief and sympathy.

"Frankie..." you begin, the weight of his words sinking in.

"I'll make it up to you, mi cielo. I'm never leaving again. I never want to leave my girls ever again."

"Cariño..."

"I'm so sor..."

"Please, Frankie, I beg you, stop apologizing. Just make sure you come home as soon as you can, alright? We'll figure it out when you're home safe with us," you plead, vulnerable.

"I promise mi amor, I'll be home as soon as possible. I'll be on the first flight today and be home before you know it."

"Good. Please be careful, Frankie."

"Cariño..."

"I'll be home soon, mi cielo, I promise," Frankie pleads. "Te amo. Te amo. Te amo." He repeats it like a prayer, softly uttered at your altar.

You are unable to speak, your throat too constricted. "Me too," you weakly respond. "I have to go check on Ella. Please be careful."

You end the call and take deep breaths, attempting to steady yourself. The room spins around you, and Estrella's cries echo in the background. As in a trance, you make your back to your bedroom.

______________________________________________________________

“¿Todavía estás sirviendo alcohol?”

“Sí, lo estoy.¿Qué te puedo servir?” responds the burly bartender.

“Un café y 3 shots de whisky.” Answers Frankie.

“¿Noche difícil?” the bartender asks.

“Vida difícil.” Frankie replies.

“Jajaja, ¿asumo entonces que estás casado?” he queries, as he places the three shots in front of Frankie and begins preparing the coffee.

Frankie swiftly downs the first and then the second shot. Taking a deep breath, he responds:

“Ella y el bebé son lo único que hace que esta maldita vida valga la pena. Y lo arruiné.”

“Gracias por el consejo.” Frankie acknowledges.

“De nada, es un placer. Va incluido con el café.”

"Rough night?" the man inquires, his voice laced with a sleazy undertone.

Unfortunately for Frankie, the man seems oblivious to his cues and continues to pry.

"Well, my friend, I think I have just the thing for you," the man remarks, reaching into his side pocket and producing a small baggie overflowing with white powder. Frankie's body freezes.

"So, you interested? You look like you need it. I'll even give you a discount, my man!" The man slaps Frankie on the back while jiggling the baggie as if to intensify the allure.

"Take it," his conscience whispers, taunting him. "You've already screwed up; what's one more mistake for the road? She won't even find out, and you know what they say, ignorance is bliss.”

The conflicting scenes play out in his mind, like a relentless tug-of-war between his love for you and his hatred of himself.

He fucking hopes that it’s true.

#francisco morales #frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #santiago pope garcia #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #so much angst #angst #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal characters #francisco morales x reader #pedro boys

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guessimjoiningthespidermanfandom · 4 years ago

Text

Blessing in Disguise

Peter Parker x bisexual!reader

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Peter Parker x black!reader

Peter Parker x villain!reader

Warnings: Hospitals, Explosions, depictions of pain, allusions to mania and depression, self harm/unhealthy coping mechanisms, mentions of death and the dead, gambling, potential underage drinking, theft, guns, gun violence, depictions of bullet wounds, and drunk people.

Word Count: 3.4k

Songs: All the kids are depressed- Jeremy Zucker, Everywhere- Chloe x Halle, Middle Child- J. Cole, She Knows- J. Cole, Breezeblocks- alt-J, Pussycat Doll-Flo Milli, It’s Been So Long- The Living Tombstone, Take me to Church- Hozier, Good Kid- Kendrick Lamar, Death of a Bachelor- Panic! At the Disco, Them Changes- Thundercat, Detention- Melanie Martinez, Recess- Melanie Martinez, Something for your M.I.N.D- Superorganism

A/N: I actually hate this chapter because I feel like the writing doesn’t flow. I feel like it’s to jampacked with things that don’t do anything to push the story forward. Anyway I hope you still read it anyways.

Series Masterlist Previous Part Next Part

I did the hand sign stating I’d stand. I knew I won for sure this time because I had a perfect hand of 21. The two other people playing against groaned as I was declared the winner yet again.

Swiping the chips for the 3rd time since I’d been at the casino. I decided to take my wins and make my way to the bar that our “target” was residing.

I had a hunch on where Carmen was but had no actual idea. I’d just text her. In the meantime I had this grown ass man to make a move on.

I was like 97% sure I had the right guy anyway. I looked much older than usual tonight due to Carmen being a makeup goddess and I gotta say flirting can get you a long way.

“Hey,” I spoke, sitting on the bar stool next to the man.

He looked up at me mumbling a quick hey.

“You expecting someone?”

“Nope,” He popped the ‘p’ “What about you?”

“Same as you,”

“Now I don’t believe someone as beautiful as you is here alone,” He moved his arm that much closer to mine. I pushed out a smile and giggled.

“I could say the same about you,” We made eye contact for a second “But no seriously, I’m just here with a girlfriend. It was my birthday yesterday but she wasn’t free so we came out today,” I lied.

“How old did you turn?”

“Twenty Two,” He nodded seemingly content with the answer.

“So you’re not around here are you?”

“Either you’re a genius or I’m just very bad at blending in, no I’m from New York,”

“Ah, I have some friends in New York, which part?”

“Harlem actually but I recently moved to Queens,” I lied again.

“Oh I don’t many from those cities,”

“If we're being honest I don’t know many people from Queens either my life’s been more hectic ever since I moved,”

“I hear you,” He informed me, leaning on the small backing the stools had.

We talked for about 15 more minutes, him explaining the switch between New York to Nevada. Then Carmen walked up to me and feigned drunkenness signaling she was done with her job. I made my way back. To the man who’s name I still hadn’t learned.

“As much fun as I was having talking to you, my friend is way too drunk to be out in public so we should probably head back to the hotel.” I sat back on the barstool turning my legs towards the man batting my eyes

“Could I possibly use your phone to call an Uber mine is dead?”

“Yeah of course you can…” His sentence fizzed off at the end in place of where my name would be.

“Ciara,” I filled in “And you are?”

“Jim” He started handing me the phone.

I used his phone for an entirely different reason than I’d claimed. The project Carmen had been working on was melting the wires together to fix the flash drive that works inside of phones. It hadn’t worked in years.

It took about a minute to duplicate the phone's data. I stuck the flash drive in my bra before going to give the phone back.

Just as I started moving a loud argument broke out, by the drunk accents I could tell it would soon get violent. Seeing as I had many experiences with an aggressive drunk. I wasn’t going to take my chances and began turning towards the main exit.

I heard the first shot echo followed by another. Soon everyone was shooting. Including Carmen who I think just wanted an excuse to shoot at people passing it off as “protecting her friends”.

She was closer to the exit than I was so she slid me the gun and I was able to ward off anyone shooting in our general direction. Not for long though. A bullet lightly grazed my dominant arm’s shoulder; it still dug in enough to do some sweet damage.

Fuck

What’s up with me? I haven’t been on my A game lately.

We were also out of bullets. Mostly because we weren’t actually expecting to have to fucking shoot at people. I ducked back down behind the bar trying not to get caught on the broken glassware.

“I think it would be a good time to do that thing?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes

“You know I hate doing it,”

“Well I’m literally bleeding out,” I dramatized pointing to my shoulder. “So if you want to get out of here not in body bags, do the thing,”

“Alright, just this one time,” She begrudgingly made her way out from behind the bar and away from me.

I covered my ears and closed my eyes as the glass around me rained down and the bar shook. I could slightly hear the cries from beneath my hands. Once she moved back over to me

“See that wasn’t so bad, birdy,” I scrambled up to my feet ignoring the pull in my shoulder.

I made my rounds grabbing Jim’s phone, cash, wallets, watches, and anything else that looked expensive from pockets and the ground.

I stood awkwardly staring at my feet as I slid from side to side with my butt planted on my skateboard.

“Hi,” I heard squinting my eyes looking up revealing a equally nervous looking Peter

“Hey,” I nodded at him.

The conversation wasn’t as awkward as I thought it’d be he’d apparently asked Liz to prom and he said yes. Which I was definitely super happy about because why wouldn’t I be?

Anyway who cares about that anyway. Props to Peter for not bringing up the whole ghosting everyone thing for like a week thing. Because if he didn’t bring it up I was going to act like it never happened.

We talked about everything and anything. From favorite candies or colors to our beliefs about life after death. I’d found out his favorite candy were skittles, favorite color: red and that he was Jewish but not necessarily religious and didn’t believe in heaven or hell but he believed in the eternity of a soul.

I’d told him that my favorite candy was F/C, my favorite color being pink and that I didn’t know what I believed in. I believed in a higher power but not that they were inherently good because of all the suffering on earth. I’d told him if they weren’t good and had abandoned us while alive. Why would they care or have any plan for us into the afterlife? I think that part is up to us, and what we believe. I’m trying not to think about death.

Then like clockwork he had to leave before 9 which is funny because it’s like he wasn’t even trying to hide his secret identity. He’d told me he lost the internship and normally his excuse to leave was the internship.

I just guess that means he no longer has Stark’s backup. He only had it for a while anyway he’d be fine without it again. Actually when I think about it, from his behavior he’d exhibited as Spiderman in the short few months I’d had the displeasure of knowing him as ��Thorn’ he’d be weak. He was unconfident, relied on his tools far too much. Couldn’t see himself without the suit. So maybe he was really just going home. So he’d be fine.

I’d also be fine. No matter how much it didn’t look like it at the moment. I’d be fine. I was always fine. I was fine without my mom, without Rose, without my dad, without Olivia and any one else I’d ever been stupid enough to get attached to. I’d bounce back. I always did.

It’d taken Carmen much convincing to not sit around and babysit me 24/7 because of my shoulder. She was sure that I’d do something dumb and it would get infected.

I was sitting on MJ’s bed getting ready for homecoming. My neck jerked again as Bri attempted to detangle and braid my hair.

If I hadn’t spiraled into the Vulture, Kingpin and SHIELD, rabbit hole I probably would have taken better care of myself and my hair.

“Stop moving,” She tsked.

“Stop trying to rip my head off my neck,” I hissed back.

Bri did my nails back when we were still at her house waiting for MJ to pick us up. She actually did pretty good. I think she would do great at a cosmetology school. She's pretty much into everything: hair, nails, makeup the whole nine yards. She did all of that for me.

The make up was very simple, but I was still able to get my signature winged eyeliner. Winged eyeliner is something very dear to me mostly because Rose was the first to put me on it and I wore it everyday since. It kinda felt disrespectful to stop at this point.

The only thing left was the dress MJ had gifted me. Her mom bought her a dress but she still refused to wear dresses so she returned it for this one, she opted for a very nice pantsuit she already had. Then Bri's outfit of course matched her boyfriend’s.

I’ve never really liked school dances they’re always so overhyped, but I go to them all anyways, because then I get in on all the drama. It helped me build up my arsenal of knowledge about everyone.

I was sitting at one of the round tables near the entrance with MJ, Bri, and Olivia. We had a bottle of “Gatorade” open and out for anybody who wanted to drink it. I was about to drink from it when I saw Liz enter alone.

I made my way over to her.

“Where’s Peter? I thought he asked you?”

“I don’t even know he just ditched me,” She let out a deep breath.

“Aw I’m sorry,” I wrapped my good arm around her shoulder.

“Well don’t think about that asshole, you’re way out of his league anyway,” I assured her to which she let out a weak laugh.

“Come sit with me and my friends,”

A girl with knockers dancing all along her head came up to before speaking

“Why are you crying?”

I sniffed pulling my head from my arms.

“I miss my mom,”

“I miss my mom sometimes but I like my grandma too,”

“Where’s your mom?” I asked.

“I don’t know my grandma says she’s sick,” She shrugged. “Where’s your mom?”

“Well my grandma says she’s in a better place now but I know that just means dead,”

“Yeah my dad is dead too so I know what you mean, I’m Rose. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,”

“Y/N, that's a pretty name,” She smiled. “You wanna come sit with me and my friends Y/N?”

“Y/N!”

I jumped a bit at the voice before matching it to MJ

“What?” I asked in a harsher tone then necessary.

“Jeez sorry,” She reeled back “Someone is asking for you named Carmen. They said it’s important,” She waved her phone around.

My face dropped and I hoped no one caught it.

I grabbed the phone exiting the auditorium.

“Okay what’s up?”

“You know Liz’s dad whatever her name is but yeah, He’s gonna rob that plane that’s moving everything from the Avengers tower,” She rushed

“What!?”

Holy shit

That must be where Peter’s went. So he figured it out too. Kid’s smarter than I give him credit for.

“I’ll send you the location on your phone,”

“Why didn’t you just call me from there?”

“Because you never answer it,”

“True,”

“Y/N?” She whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful,”

“Always,” I smiled.

I rushed out of the building not thinking about how I could get caught. Near the buses there was the new Shocker lying unconscious.

I took the webshooter I found next to him. Then made a run for it. Stopping to hot wire the nearest car, I sped to one of the locations that I knew Vulture’s team kept their weapons at. I was throwing everything in the same pile. Getting ready to destroy them.

Then the door creaked open.

I felt the bed dip as my brother sat next to me.

“Are you coming?”

I pulled the cover off my face

“Why should I?”

“Because you’ll regret it if you don’t,”

“No I won’t leave me alone,” I pulled the cover back over my head.

“You gotta eat something,”

“No I don’t leave me alone,”

“Y/N…”

I knew what he was going to say and I didn’t wanna hear it.

“She would want you to eat something,”

“Fuck you! How would you ever know what she would've wanted? No one here knew her and now one will ever get the chance to again so just leave me alone,”

“Y/N-“

“Don’t Y/N me, get the fuck out of my room,” He sat there for a second, stunned “NOW!”

As soon as the door closed and I flipped back over

I was shaken back into the present only to find that I was pinned under the man who’d entered the room before I zoned out. He reached for the nearest weapon. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. Which is rare. I have a whole weapons catalog in my brain. Unfortunately for him he couldn’t grab it without giving me leeway to get from underneath them.

Unfortunately for me I put too much pressure on my arm in the seconds I took to grip my shoulder recuperating myself. The man had fired the weapon he had at the pile of weapons that I stumbled back towards.

The weapons then emitted purple light before exploding leaving me caught under some wood and concrete as the ringing in my ears only got louder and louder.

The fire around me crackled loudly and I bit my lip.

The smoke was only getting more plentiful.

I started coughing which only got more and more painful.

When I came to myself, I wasn’t choking anymore and the fire around me had died down. I was able to push myself from underneath the rubble holding me down. Not without lots of pain though.

The dress I was wearing was torn completely, holes big enough to see what I was wearing underneath it already.

So I just took it off.

It wasn’t like I was completely naked I was wearing boxers. Not like I haven’t left the house in a bra and shorts before. Also who gives a fuck I just almost died.

It was like 35° but I wasn’t cold in the slightest. I was actually kind of hot.

If my phone was accurate the plane had already made it near the edge of Queens and Staten Island. Rushing there I was seconds late as I saw the plane crash after I saw two figures fighting along it.

There was fire everywhere but I wasn’t thinking. I was just running because I couldn’t make out Peter’s shape and if he was dead-

I swear to fucking God if he was dead. Not again. I couldn’t handle another death.

Peter was saying something. No, pleading as the Vulture stood tall with his wings still intact. He was talking about how it was a nice try and he doesn’t know what he’s messing with.

Peter might not but I knew what this was. I also knew I wasn’t letting him get away with it.

The wings started producing visible waves of heat. Then it hit me, what Peter was trying to say. The wings were gonna blow. I got a head start and lunged towards the man. The element of surprise was on my side. That was until he used the wings to lift himself off the ground.

Now I was fine with parkour and other activities, but being lifted off the ground by someone else, someone who’d never interacted with me ever, is where I draw the line. Then Peter was shooting a web at the wings. To which Vulture dropped me to go after him.

Oh hell no.

“Give it up Peter,” He continued to get closer and closer as the webs were continuously cut through.

You know how people say they see in red when they get angry? Well the opposite of that happens to me I just see black. Remembering very little to nothing.

Last thing I remembered was fire just fire. From my fingertips, arms, head. It destroyed the wings in seconds, before they had a chance to blow up on their own.

Peter webbed up the man before moving out of my sight.

How the fuck do you get fire coming from your body.

Literally what the actual fuck.

I couldn’t breathe.

That’s what it was, I was dying, I was probably in some coma and this was a weird hallucination my brain pushed out in its final moments.

Okay this is it. I was dying suffocating in some coma.

Or even worse this wasn’t a coma and I was going to die with my body lit on fire literally.

“Oh my God,” I gasped trying to get air into my lungs.

I closed my eyes and when I opened them Peter was in front of me in a torn up ripoff suit.

“Y/N,” He moved trying to catch my eye.

“Y/N, Y/N breathe…”

I couldn’t really process his words. My mind was clouded with fear, fear and anger.

Before I knew it I was hitting my head so I wouldn’t hit anyone or anything else. It’d been a coping mechanism I used ever since I was 3.

Peter reached for my arms reeling back after his hands came into contact with my boiling skin.

“Y/N you have to calm down,” He moved in front of me.

I stopped moving my hands but it was still difficult to breathe.

The monitors beeped all around me and if I closed my eyes and concentrated hard enough. I could convince myself they were birds.

I could tell from the patter of the knock on the door that it was Rose.

“Come in!” I called out.

She picked up the clipboard examining it. As she did every time she visited. Luckily for everyone there was no nurse she could bombard with questions and criticism.

“How are you feeling?” She asked.

“Itchy, like my guts are on fire,”

To which she replied by singing the chorus to Girl on Fire.

“Anyway,” she brought us back after our laughter. “I got you pizza today since I’m sure you’re tired of McDonald’s,”

“I don’t mind McDonald’s actually, anything is better than hospital food. Well actually, their chicken strips aren’t that bad,”

She placed the box down on my lap. I lifted up the lid and was hit with the smell of the many herbs. I pat by my legs signaling she could sit down. She wiggled into the spot that the bar of the bed allowed.

“What are we watching today?”

“Uh…” I clicked on the TV “Vampire Diaries?,”

“That show is still going?

“Yeah, I don’t think it’ll ever end,”

Somehow the show turned into us dancing around the cramped hospital room.

We spun like the ballerinas in the broken jewelry box I got from my mom. Arms flailing around. The air conditioner made a rattling noise and a half eaten pizza on the bed. The situation was probably extremely weird or unpleasant from any other perspective, but because it was her it was perfect.

It was like the moment in rom coms where the camera zooms into the main characters dancing as the rest of the characters are put out of focus and they stare into each other’s eyes. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them I saw Peter’s eyes above mine.

His hands were immediately on my face making my look straight at him.

“Are you okay?” He breathed out.

I sat up feeling a pounding in my head and a pull in my lungs. I was met with the fact that I was definitely not on the ground. I was actually very far from the ground on some ride on the pier. My mouth was dry so it took me a minute to get the words out and when I did it hurt my throat.

“Yeah ’m okay jus’ tired,”

“Okay, well don’t go back to sleep because I think you have a concussion,”

“You’re acting like I died or something, how long was I out dang,” I joked I always hated when things got too serious.

“Uh probably...30 minutes? I don’t know I don’t have a watch,” He sniffed and that's when I realized he’d be crying.

“Were you crying? I knew you cared about me,” I smiled “It was only a matter of time before you fell in love with me, I’m irresistible”

He laughed weakly wiping his eyes “This isn’t funny,”

I looked up at him and started uncontrollably giggling. Soon Peter was laughing too.

The moment was interrupted by a squad of police cars pulling up. I absolutely did not want to get down but my tired muscles betrayed me. I was extremely exhausted. I literally could not move. I just had to go wherever Peter decided to take me. I honestly think I might have a few broken ribs. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before though. We stood off to the side watching as Vulture was stuffed into the back of one of the cars.

“So Spiderman?” I smirked.

“Uh.. no?” He said as if he’s questioning himself.

“It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone I’ve known for a while now,” I twisted my body to face him hissing as a sharp sting shot through my body “You're not very good at hiding it,”

“Hey!” He cried out “But seriously you can’t tell anyone,”

“I already said I wouldn’t, but if it makes you feel better I’ll pinky promise you, and everyone knows you can’t break a pinky promise,”

“Alright,” He sighed.

I tried to move closer again and was stopped by the pain in my sides.

“Okay well, the offer still stands, you’re just gonna have to come over here,”

Taglist:

@tomdiddlyumptious

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dutten-does-the-fanfic · 4 years ago

Text

I Want You Here With Me (Is It Too Much to Ask for Something Great) ch. 12

Title: I Want You Here With Me (Is It Too Much to Ask for Something Great) ch. 12 of 14 (ch. 1) Pairing: Isak Valtersen/Even Bech Næsheim Word count: 11.205 Warnings: Language, internalized homophobia, closeting, using alcohol as an unhealthy coping mechanism, the slightest bit of violence

AO3

Summary: The one where it’s been two years since Isak last saw or spoke with Even, and no one knows that Isak ever knew Even at all

Present

“I need to talk to him.”

Isak hasn’t said a lot since he found out pretty much everything he’d believed with utmost certainty for the past two years has been a lie. He has let Magnus, Jonas, and Mahdi talk, but they’d quieted down a little while ago, having run out of words and the words they’d had unable to help.

“Yeah,” Jonas agrees, but he sounds hesitant. “Just – don’t get yourself hurt, okay?”

Isak shrugs. “I’m already hurt. I’m going to get hurt when he leaves. There’s no way around it, I just – I need to talk to him. Before he’s gone and I can��t.”

Jonas’ eyes are soft. He smiles at him and nods in agreement, but he looks sad. “Okay.

“But come back out here if he isn’t ready to talk, okay?” Magnus looks worried. “You’ll just hurt each other unnecessarily if the both of you aren’t ready to talk.”

“You can stay with me tonight, if that’s the case,” Jonas promises him. “Or you can have my room and I’ll sleep on the couch, or I can go to Eva’s, if you want to be alone.”

Isak does not want to be alone. He’s been alone for so long, has barely had a chance to not be alone always, always.

He thinks he might be ready to see what it’s like not having to be on his own.

Isak still hesitates outside of his door for a little too long to not reveal how nervous he is right now.

It’s been hours since he found out – since he and Even – all the lies – and he’s not certain he’s managed to wrap his head around it fully yet, so he doubts Even has managed to either.

He carefully knocks three times against the door. There’s no reply.

Something that is different this time, he fitfully forces himself to consider.

This time Even isn’t halfway across the world. This time, Isak knows where he is and he knows he just has to open the door in order to talk to him.

The hallway is dark around Isak, no last remainder of the day’s natural light to brighten it, so he has to blink a couple times when he finally opens up the door and steps inside of his room.

Even’s sitting on his bed, back against the headboard and staring down at the phone in his hands. It’s very reminiscent of the exact same scene Isak had walked in on last night when they’d spent the night together. It doesn’t feel like it was last night, it feels like it happened much longer ago than that.

“Hey,” he clears his throat, leans against the door and tries not to come across as anxious and upset as he feels.

Even doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even look up to acknowledge Isak’s presence. Just stays there, sitting on Isak’s bed and staring at his phone like it holds all the secrets in the world.

It doesn’t, Isak knows, because the only secret that had been kept that was of any importance to Isak has already come out into the open.

“Do you mind if I come in?” Isak tries again. Still with no reply.

He sighs and takes a careful step further into the room. ‘Come back out if he isn’t ready to talk,’ Magnus had said, but Isak doesn’t think he’ll ever be brave enough to do this again if he doesn’t do it now, at least not until it’s too late and Even has left the country again for Isak to regret not taking the chance when he could.

Something that would’ve been different, he thinks. He and Even wouldn’t be treading this lightly around each other, wouldn’t find it so hard to talk when talking to each other had been what they’d been literally best at.

He closes the door softly behind him as he moves further in. Even doesn’t object, but that might not mean anything.

“Did you call someone?” he asks, winces when he realizes how that might’ve sounded. He hopes it didn’t come across as an interrogation.

It’s just that Isak has had Jonas, Magnus, and Mahdi to sit with him, to let him rant if he’d wanted to do that, to just be there with him, and Isak sincerely hopes that Even hasn’t been completely isolated in Isak’s room, to sit with his own thoughts until he starts to spiral.

Even doesn’t reply.

Maybe he just needs a few seconds. Isak tries to give him that in silence, but standing around and obviously avoiding looking over at Even is awkward as hell, so he moves over to his desk instead.

It’s a mess. He hasn’t cleaned in ages, not since before Even had showed up outside their front door. He’s got schoolwork and pencils and various objects lying in disarray that he slowly, quietly, sets to sorting out.

Until he can’t take it anymore.

“Are you just never going to say anything to me ever again?” Isak huffs bemused, fiddling with his laptop, placing it on the desk so as to not look at Even.

Finally, a reaction.

Even’s head snaps up to look at Isak, and Isak’s heart drops to the bottom of his stomach when he sees the expression on Even’s face. He looks angry and hurt and Isak wishes he could’ve just kept his big mouth shut.

But he still doesn’t say anything.

He sits up straight, swings his legs over the edge of the bed so he sits with his back to Isak, and then he gets up and walks over to the window.

The curtains are still drawn, so it’s not like something has caught Even’s attention. It’s just so he can fully avoid having to look at Isak.

Isak squeezes his eyes shut.

Something that would’ve been different, he thinks. Even wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

But when he thinks that thought, he wonders how true it actually is.

Because Isak had been given Even’s ultimatum, in a fucked-up sense of the matter. Essentially, Even had been told he could choose between being married to a guy and getting to make his movies. Even hadn’t gotten to actually make that choice because Isak had ended up making it for him, but what if he had? What if the studio had approached Even first instead of involving Isak in the shadiest way possible – what if they had told Even that it was movies or Isak?

How could that not have hurt him? Finding out that people think that what they had, that their love for each other was so wrong that there was no way Even could be both in love and successful. Not in this universe.

No matter what choice Even would’ve ended up making, it would’ve broken him.

And now that Isak takes his time to really think about it, he’s not sure that what ended up happening wasn’t the right choice.

Not that how it happened wasn’t fucked up, but – Even wouldn’t have gotten the opportunities he did if he’d had Isak hanging onto his elbow. He wouldn’t have gotten to where he is today.

Because Even is a world-famous movie director, and Isak knows that’s what he and the boys have been referring to him as since they first met each other, but it only seems to strike Isak now when Even has spent days sitting on his bed, sipping a lukewarm cup of tea, has slept in his bed, has eaten the meals that Isak had prepared for him and let Isak take care of him when he needed it – essentially everything that they’d done before – now that Even is hurt and pissed off and can’t look Isak in the eye.

Even is a world-famous movie director. He has met A-list celebrities, has told them what to do, does so for a living, has been interviewed by big names and has access to places most people can only dream about getting into. He has awards for his works.

Yet he slots into Isak’s life like he never really left when the fact is he doesn’t belong here in Isak’s dirty room, in Isak’s stupid, inferior life. Isak could never give him his dreams.

Isak wants to cry.

Not because this is the first time the thought has crossed his mind. He’d been thinking the exact same thing when the phone calls had started to grow scarce and shorter than ever, but because Isak knows he’ll have to make the same choice today.

Because he still wants this for Even. He still wants for him to make his movies and for him to be loved. Isak still can’t give him that – that isn’t something that has changed.

He’s not certain why he’s even thinking about this. It’s been two years. Isak has no reason to believe Even would be interested in sticking around for his messed-up teenage marriage. Not when he has the world lined up as an alternative.

A thought pops into Isak’s head, intrusive and controversial. He doesn’t know where the voice comes from – probably Jonas, because it sounds like something Jonas might say, or Eskild for that matter.

Why does one cancel out the other?

Why would having Isak with him mean that he couldn’t make movies?

Even is already out. The big scandal has already happened. Isak can’t contribute to a further damage of Even’s reputation and career, not unless he royally fucks up, even more so than he’d had when he’d thought Even had chosen the temptation of fame and Hollywood over Isak.

And again, all of this might just be for naught, because there is no guarantee that Even will even want anything to do with Isak after he leaves, when he’s walked out the door and once again the last of Even Isak will see is his back as he walks away from him.

It’s a terrifying thought, but not as terrifying as his next one.

Something that is different, Isak thinks. This time, he won’t make the same mistake twice. He isn’t letting Even go without talking to him first. And if that means he has to talk at him for the time being, then that’s how it’ll be.

“I think I was just waiting for you to leave me.”

Even whirls around at the admission, any signs of residue anger gone from his face that instead portrays utter incredulousness.

He frowns. “You said to go –“

“I know what I said,” Isak interrupts, looks down at his hands because if he looks at Even too long whilst he’s open like this, vulnerable, exposed, giving Even a piece of himself, one of the few remaining pieces that he hasn’t already given and gotten back torn apart, broken and irreparable, he’ll start to cry. “And that’s not what I’m talking about, anyway. Right from the start, when we first met, I think I was waiting for the moment you’d leave.”

Isak chances a look at Even – maybe if he’s quick it won’t set off the waterworks – but what he sees is worse than crying in front of Even.

Even looks hurt, looks at Isak like he’s ripped the ground out from underneath him, like everything he knows has been a lie.

He looks like Isak imagines he’d looked when he’d stared at the paperwork asking for his signature to terminate his marriage.

“Then why didn’t you just leave sooner?” Even’s voice cuts through his skin, angry but more so screaming out hurt-hurt-hurt.

Isak grimaces as he realizes how what he’d just said sounded like.

“Not like that either, I –“ he makes a frustrated little sound and hides his face away in his hands, taking a moment try and force his lungs to work.

Fuck, this is hard to do. Isak isn’t prepared, had never thought this would be a reality, that he’d ever have to meet Even again, have to look him in the eyes, have to explain shit when Even should be the one to fucking finally give Isak a goddamn reason.

“You said ‘come’, and I followed,” he says through his hands, the sleeve of his hoodie right in front of his mouth. Isak stares at the slightly darker grey spot from his wet lips when he drops his hands back into his lap. “Because – because you’re you, Even. You’re someone everyone wants to be the attention of, and you looked at me and said ‘come’ and so I did. Because I was in love with you, and I tried so hard to always be ready when you’d ask me to come, and –“

His voice cracks embarrassingly. Isak shuts his eyes tightly, goes as far as holding his breath as if that will achieve anything.

It’s quiet in the room. He can’t even hear Even’s breathing, if he’s breathing, and sitting like this on his bed in his room in his shared apartment with his three best friends, all of it feels like a dream. A very bad dream that’s been so drawn out that once he finally wakes up, it’ll feel like he’s been asleep for three days instead of his usual couple of hours. It feels like he’s speaking to the air, that Even isn’t even here, that he can just wake up and everything will go back to normal.

And then he hears the slow intake of a breath from his right, and – right. Not a dream. Even’s still here, is really here, and Isak isn’t asleep.

“I wouldn’t let myself focus on it, back then, because I would’ve gone insane if I’d let myself worry about it, but –“ he exhales slowly, feels his chest hollow out, preparing to be filled with fresh air. “One day, either you were going to forget to look over your shoulder and tell me to come, or you were going to go somewhere I couldn’t follow.”

And, yes, some of the blame was on Isak, because they were two people in the relationship and they’d both fucked up in their own ways.

“I think that might’ve been why it was so easy for them to convince me to sign those papers without talking to you first, because it already felt like that had happened, that I’d gotten left behind.” Isak swallows. He can’t look at Even, not when he’s laying out his soul and heart bare for Even to look at. “And I think I didn’t want to show you how much you still meant to me when it clearly wasn’t reciprocated. I wanted to show you I could do things on my own as well, that I could amount to something, too.”

Getting into university wasn’t exactly on the same scale as becoming a world-famous director, but it had meant something to Isak – not at the time, but nothing had mattered to him back then – it means something to Isak. He’s proud of how far he’s come and he’s proud of studying a science course that he loves.

“I can do it,” Isak says, realizing the truth in the words. “I’ve been doing it. I can live without you.”

I just don’t want to.

“I never thought you couldn’t,” Even tells him softly. “You’re getting an actual degree.”

Isak laughs. It comes out a little wet. “I know.”

“I always thought you were brilliant, that you’d be able to do anything.”

For some reason, it hits him harder than he thought it would’ve. He doesn’t turn around to face Even, can’t stand the thought of Even knowing that his eyes are glossy and throat is thick.

“I thought the same of you,” he tells him instead. “I wanted you to go out there and do what you loved and have everyone see your movies.”

“I know,” Even says this time.

Isak almost smiles, except he really isn’t in the mood to smile. He really, really isn’t.

“And I did get to do that, thanks to you,” Even continues. “I see that now, what you did for me. But the cost –“ he trails off with a frustrated huff.

The cost. That Isak had technically been the one to leave Even in the way it really mattered, even if it hadn’t been of his own doing. It’s such a weird thought, because Isak has spent literal years thinking that Even was the one who left him behind for good.

“I was so angry with you.”

Isak throws the pencil onto the desk. It bounces twice before it rolls off and lands on the floor. He keeps his back to Even.

“So fucking angry with you,” he grouses. “Whenever we talked about the universes where we didn’t work out, it was always me who left. But then you left me, and you didn’t even have the gall to show up yourself to tell me, or call me, or fucking send a text.”

His hands are shaking, continues to do so even after he unclenches them, lays them palm flat on the desk.

“I kept going over it,” Isak’s breath hitches as he holds a sob inside. “Over and over, again and again. I just wanted to find the moment when you stopped loving me.”

“Isak –“ Even’s crying. Isak made Even cry.

“It just seemed so sudden, that you’d send you lawyers over with divorce papers. I just kept thinking I must’ve missed the moment when you stopped loving me. I just wanted to find out what I did to make you stop loving me.”

“I promise I didn’t want it,” Even says, throat sounding thick and like he’s actually in pain. “I would’ve told you if I did, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He can’t not look at him anymore.

Isak twists his body at his hips, just enough that he can look over his shoulder at Even.

Even, who is standing in his room, looking devastatingly beautiful and with slightly wet-looking cheeks. He isn’t crying anymore, at least. Isak doesn’t know how he would’ve been able to handle that.

“Looking back, I probably should’ve realized that something was off about how much effort they were putting into convincing me that signing was the best course of action. But they couldn’t dictate how I felt,” his expression settling into a firm grimace that Isak recognizes from years and years ago, when Even had still been angry about the diagnosis and resentful of how it had made people start to treat him like a porcelain doll.

Only you can feel what you’re feeling, Isak remembers telling him.

“Then why did you never come out?” Isak’s voice cracks over the words.

Even shakes his head and shrugs helplessly. “I thought about it,” he finally tells him. “I did,” he insists, when Isak huffs in annoyance at the lack of an answer, “it just – it didn’t seem worth it to me.”

Even looks at where Isak’s curtains are still drawn, despite it being in the middle of the afternoon and the sun is shining in, trying to pass the fabric blocking its way.

“There wasn’t anyone to come out for,” Even shrugs again and Isak’s heart lurches. He hadn’t been there. “It just didn’t seem worth it. Maybe I would’ve done it eventually, if I met someone or I just didn’t want it to be a secret anymore,“ Even leaves it hanging in the air.

Isak flushes. “What about Sonja?”

Even’s nose wrinkles. “Sonja? Seriøst?”

“Well, what the hell do I know?” Isak asks, tone rising defensively as he draws back. His cheeks are burning. “Maybe – I’m not exactly in a position to fault you for finding someone else, am I?”

He means it rhetorically, but the way Even’s expression falls says something all by itself.

“Sonja and I were never a thing,” Even tells him instead, words stilted and said through gritted teeth. “It was all just bullshit for the rumor mill. That and a way for them to have a babysitter following me around, making sure I didn’t get myself into trouble.”

‘Trouble’ could mean a lot of things. The look Even gives him reveals that it wasn’t necessarily just to ensure he didn’t get near any other boys when they’d actually finagled getting him away from Isak.

As if Hollywood being homophobic wasn’t bad enough.

Maybe it reveals too much, because Even turns his back on him after that, staring at Isak’s curtains once again.

“I’m sorry,” Isak tells him, knowing it doesn’t help, but he doesn’t know what can. Other than a time machine, but Isak doubts that wouldn’t create new problems all on its own.

Even shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault.” It doesn’t feel like he’s only talking about Isak hurting because of the way they’d hurt Even. It feels like a lot more, and Isak’s heart drops into his stomach. He’s not even sure if it’s from guilt or relief.

“It wasn’t yours either.”

It feels good to say. It feels really good to say. It feels good to hear and it feels good to say. Especially when it’s been years since Isak hasn’t been angry with at least one of the two people in this room, it feels good to let some of it go.

It leaves Isak’s guards down, the ones he’s spent his entire life building, the ones he’d never really been all that great at keeping up when he was around Even.

“I didn’t sign them.”

Isak stops mid-motion, head snapping to the right to look at Even who still hasn’t moved so he can only see the back of him. “What?”

“I wasn’t going to sign them without talking to you first. I kept trying to book a plane ticket home, over and over, none of them went through.” Even shakes his head minutely. “I wasn’t going to let you go without talking to you first, no matter what they kept trying to tell me.”

Something whooshes out of Isak – relief? Tension definitely settles in, because Isak has gone ages thinking he’s been divorced when the truth is, he’s still married to this day. Has been all of this time.

God, he’s married.

And then the guilt settles in tenfold, because that’s what Isak had done. Isak had let them talk him into signing those goddamn papers, all because they’d played on the fears he’d thought he’d hidden away deep inside of himself.

“I didn’t understand,” Even’s voice is thick. “But then when I thought back, I couldn’t remember the last time we spoke. Like –“ he shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. “Like, actually talked. I couldn’t remember the last time you told me something about your day, about what you were doing.”

Because Even had been out, living it up with Hollywood stars and his dream job, and Isak had been stuck back in same old Oslo.

“It just – it didn’t seem important,” Isak shrugs. “Compared to what you were doing, I was just… doing the same old shit as always. I just kept thinking that you’d be home in a couple of weeks and then I’d tell you everything you’d missed, but then…”

But then you never came home.

“But it was also, like,” Even makes a frustrated noise as he tries to articulate himself. “I didn’t even know that you’d applied to university. I didn’t even remember that that was a thing that was supposed to happen. I’d just gotten so caught up in my own shit that I forgot to talk to you about those things, and I just thought, well, shit, no wonder he’s gotten tired of you.”

Isak’s heart hurts. He’s tired of hurting, and he’s even more tired of hurting unnecessarily – not that Even getting to where he is today wasn’t worth any amount of pain Isak has had to go through. And it’s not like this is going to be the last of it – this is just the start of a new kind of pain, one that Isak is going to have to live with for the rest of his life once Even has left.

“By the time I was finally back in Oslo, the apartment was empty, and you still weren’t answering my calls. I didn’t know where you were – I was so desperate. I nearly showed up knocking on Eskild’s door frantically to find out where you were.” Even finally turns back around so Isak can look at him. “I couldn’t do that to you, though. I wanted to, so badly, and I hated myself for not doing it, but I would’ve been disgusted with myself if I had done it, if I had taken that away from you.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to help you, anyway,” Isak says so he won’t think about how big a sacrifice that had really been for Even to make. He won’t be able to keep from crying if he starts to think about it.

Even makes an inquisitive noise.

“I, uh –“ Isak hesitates. “I couldn’t exactly – he would’ve known that something was wrong, and I couldn’t exactly explain what it was.” He shrugs, doesn’t mention if it was because of his own choice or because of the metaphorical gag he’d been bound with. “So I just – I didn’t really talk to him all that much.” Barely anything at all, as little as he could get away with – or even less than that, really, considering it was Eskild they were talking about.

“See, that –“ Even takes a step towards him, “– that is exactly what was wrong, why we were doomed from the start.”

Isak can’t tell if his heart is in his throat or has dropped to his stomach. A cold sweat breaks out down his back, and he almost feels petrified at the thought of Even thinking that about them. Doomed.

“Because I didn’t talk to Eskild?”

“Because all we ever did was keep secrets,” Even corrects, eyes a little watery. “And it meant you couldn’t talk to anyone, that you couldn’t get help when you needed it.”

“You couldn’t either,” Isak reminds him, because it wasn’t only him who hadn’t wanted to say anything. “You couldn’t tell anyone either.”

“Keeping secrets did nothing good for us,” Even frowns, and Isak hates it because the shadows are safe, lying has been safe, but he agrees with Even. “It just made us so insecure about ourselves and each other.”

“Are you going to ask me for a divorce after this?” Isak asks. He doesn’t like how tiny his voice is, but he doesn’t have the strength to change it. “A real one this time?”

Even’s eyes go impossibly soft. He looks sad. “No. I’m not going to do that. I don’t want to do that.”

Isak swallows past the lump in his throat. “We haven’t seen each other in two years. You can’t not want a divorce.”

“I don’t want a divorce. I never did.”

“How can you not, though?”

“I just don’t. Isak – I broke into the Botanical Garden just to impress you,” Even reminds him. Isak’s laugh bubbles out of him, wet and a bit disgusting because he’s crying. He doesn’t remember starting to cry. “I don’t want a divorce.”

“You’ve done fine without me,” Isak points out. “And I’ve managed alright as well.”

“I know,” Even agrees. “That’s not why I don’t want a divorce. I don’t want a divorce because you make my life better, and you make me want to be good, and I want to do that for you too. If you’ll let me.”

The tips of Even’s toes bump against Isak’s. He doesn’t remember moving or Even moving, but he figures they’ll always be gravitating towards each other.

Even’s gaze is heavy on him, and it makes Isak feel flushed and not wanting to look Even in the eye, but finding himself unable to look away either. A hiccupy-sob spills out of his mouth.

Even cups Isak’s face in one hand, sweeping his thumb gently over his cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “You beautiful, brave boy. I can’t believe there was ever a second where you doubted you weren’t wanted, that I wouldn’t choose you.”

“I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t choose you,” Isak told him, leaning into his touch, and making a desperate, choked-up noise. “Faen, Even, I was practically hanging on to your sleeve every turn you made. So in love, I’m so in –“ he cuts himself off.

“Do you still –“ Even bites down on his bottom lip to keep it from wobbling, a pure look of anguish and pain on his face as he carefully glances at Isak.

I am so in love with you, Isak wants to scream. Always, always, always love you. “Never stopped,” he promises instead, takes a step closer to Even and waits for him to do the same, until the tips of their toes bump together and Isak’s right knee brushes Even’s.

He sees the second the rest of Even’s guards crumble down, leaves him vulnerable and with the same affection and hurt that Isak is sure he’s wearing on his face shining out of his eyes.

“Did –“ Isak has to wet his lips and clear his throat when you voice cracks. “Did you –?”

Did you stop? Did you stop loving me? Did you fall out of love with me?

Isak can’t breathe. He’s just standing there, holding his breath, waiting for Even to say something, as if he’s about to cast the verdict of Isak’s sentence.

Even shakes his head, his bottom lip is quivering. All of the air inside of Isak whooshes out, his next inhale goes smoothly. For the first time in so, so long, breathing doesn’t feel like an impossible chore.

“If I asked you –” Even pauses, licking his lips. “Would you want – can we – is it even a possibility – please –“

Nothing that Even is saying is coming out cohesively, so Isak gathers all of his courage and closes the gap between them, his nose pressing against Even’s cheek, his jaw, until he feels Even let out a relieved breath and attempt one more time.

“Would it be too much if I asked you,” he starts, his voice shaking, “if you would like to try again? With me? What would you say?”

Isak presses his nose a little harder against Even’s jaw before he pulls back, just far enough that he can look Even in the eye.

“Ask me,” he demands.

“Isak,” Even sounds like he’s lost his breath, so Isak presses his face against the palm Even’s still holding against his cheek. “Please. Can we try again? With no secrets this time and never no talking to each other. Just – Isak –“

Isak’s nodding frantically. It makes him realize he’s crying, because he feels the wetness against Even’s hand when it moves from the top of his cheekbone down next to his mouth.

Even is so close Isak can feel his breath hitting his lips, can feel just the tiniest touch of Even’s lips near his own. They’re not kissing, they’re not, but even just this, this closeness is enough to make Isak’s toes curl in the best of ways.

“We’ll do it right this time,” Even whispers into his mouth. A tear rolls down Isak’s face. “Come out. Or – we’re pretty much already out. But tell people ourselves. Not just let them know from a stupid article.”

Isak nods, the movement dislodges his mouth from Even’s, but they’re both breathing too harshly to comment on it. “We’re going to do it right,” he agrees.

Past

Even’s first movie gets released around Christmas time for no other reason than it’s a romantic movie. It’s late November, cold as fuck and Isak seems to be sniffling himself through one cold into the next whilst Even gets the wide release he’d always dreamt about.

Isak promises himself that he won’t buy a ticket to go see it. He refuses to spend any more money on Even and his stupid, stupid movies.

He does, however, end up illegally streaming it that night instead. The quality is horrible and several times he can’t make out the dialogue or the screen, but it doesn’t really matter because he recognizes the plot.

Or, what was supposed to be the plot, because Isak remembers Even writing this movie.

He remembers long summer nights where he’d dose off and come back to Even sitting beside him in bed, laptop open and fingers scrambling over the keys before he lost his inspiration or forgot the perfect lines and directions he’d made up in his head. He remembers watching Even; how happy he’d been watching his story come together and Isak loved hearing about the next part Even had come up with, even if it was difficult to keep track of, because Even never thought in linear patterns. Most of the time Isak would know the ending before the beginning.

Once Even was done, though, he’d tell Isak the story chronologically. He’d pull Isak in close to his side and he’d talk and talk, treating the ceiling like his canvas, painting out a story for no one but Isak, lying safe and warm and happy in his arms. And Isak would listen, and then he’d listen some more, because he loves – loved, Even like this, in his element.

Isak remembers the movie was supposed to be about two girls, but it’s clear it’s now about a boy and a girl, and it’s not like Isak’s angry about movies portraying heterosexual couples, but Even had had entire themes and scenes and messages he’d wanted to send with two girls and all Isak sees are the things the movie lacks rather than what it does manage to do.

He watches the entire movie and then digs out the emergency bottle of vodka he hides in his sock drawer.

Most of it is gone by morning.

OOOOO

Another thing about remembering things like that is that Isak remembers the final ending ‘Save You Right Back’ was supposed to have – the last thing the movie would show, right at the end of the credits where no one would think to look.

Takk, Isak.

That’s it. Two words. Even had spoken for ages about those two words, no matter how many times Isak told him that it wasn’t necessary, Even had insisted. Because he wouldn’t be in America living his dream if it weren’t for Isak convincing him to go. He wouldn’t have written the movie if he hadn’t had Isak there to rant and rave to, to encourage him to keep writing when nothing came to mind, and to be his muse that would keep him going for hours upon hours.

Now Isak knows that Even wouldn’t have hesitated in the first place to go to America if Isak hadn’t been a part of his life. He knows that Even would’ve kept closer to his friends if he hadn’t had Isak – all of the boys, probably especially Yousef, would’ve been encouraging. And the movie would’ve been written, with or without Isak there to inspire Even – something else would’ve done the job; a song, a stray thought, another person Even would’ve actually stayed with.

The two words aren’t there when Isak checks three days later.

Just another thing that got cut, Isak thinks bitterly, slamming his laptop shut.

OOOOO

Something Isak hadn’t planned on was other people also watching Even’s movie.

Which is silly, really, and it makes Isak feel like an idiot, because Even had literally traded him for the chance of having people see this movie.

But Even had spent nearly a year just writing the script and the directions and camera angles when the entire project had been nothing but a fantasy for the future, not something they’d believed would come to life any time soon. And Isak had just gotten used to ‘Save You Right Back’ was a movie only he and Even knew about.

Something Isak had planned on was other people loving Even’s movie.

Isak is furious with Even, yes, and so fucking resentful and angry, but there’s no doubting that Even is brilliant at what he does – he always had been. And although Isak knows the real story behind the movie, it’s not like the finished project – altered as it is from the original storyline Even had told Isak about – is a bad movie. Anyone who doesn’t know what it was supposed to be like wouldn’t know any better, wouldn’t stumble over the thought in the slightest.

So the fact that critics like the movie? That the public does as well? That Even’s movie actually trends and then Even starts to trend? Not exactly a surprise to Isak.

Something Isak definitely hadn’t planned on was Magnus being one of those people who are practically obsessed with Even’s movie.

Which turns into an obsession with Even.

There isn’t a lot of Even’s work out there on the internet – mainly because ‘Save You Right Back’ is his first actually contracted work, but there’s a rather limited amount anything self-produced or from his time at film school out there, easily accessible for people to watch.

And thus, when there’s nothing else for people to focus on, they start to look at Even.

It’s not like Isak doesn’t know Even, knows the effect he has on people. Even is brilliant and he’s captivating and he’s charming and he’s just about every other description for the feeling of being drawn into somebody’s orbit.

Isak’s angry with him, but he can’t exactly deny these things about him. Not when he firsthand knows just how true they really are.

But it’s still something else when other people start to report on how Even is like. When small tidbits about him start to get published – either by fans who’ve met him or by the odd journalist writing an article about the up-and-coming director in the business – it feels like a piece of Isak’s soul leaves his body and he’s not sure why.

So he stops looking up Even on the internet. Period.

Except Magnus then apparently elects himself to function as a newsmonger so none of them miss out on anything Even-related.

“Did you know they’ve signed Even on to do another project?”

Good, wouldn’t want their fucking divorce to be wasted, would they?

“Did you know he’s due to release a short film in January?”

Hopefully he works himself to the bone.

“The symbolism with the blue tie was so well planned out! That was apparently one of the first things he came up with when he started writing the story.”

The symbolism had actually made sense when the movie had been about two girls. Don’t think about how Even came up with it – don’t think about stupid poems and love declarations.

“Seriously, people have said it’s like he just comes up with it on the spot – how amazing is that?”

He never was much of a planner.

For every little piece of information Magnus tries to share with literally anyone who will listen, Isak feels the anger growing inside of him. Knows how much he has to drink to get it down to a manageable level again, and then promptly forgets because of just how much alcohol it takes to get him to that level.

This is what Even wanted, he reminds himself. He wanted his movies and fans and articles written about him. He didn’t want you.

Isak’s always careful not to look up Even too much. It always sends him spiraling, and he always ends up the same place; in a bar, in a club or at the bottom of a bottle. Usually whatever has the highest alcohol percentage he can get his hands on, but he isn’t picky so long as it’ll get him drunk and get him there fast.

So it’s an accident when he sees the first picture of Even and Sonja.

At least he didn’t find out through Magnus, he tries to comfort himself as he lies in bed, staring at the screen of his phone. The brightness is turned up too high for the time of the day and the darkness in the rest of his room, but Isak feels positively frozen in place.

They’re official pictures, taken at some premier – Isak doesn’t think it’s Even’s own, because the fanfare that’s happening seems too excessive a reception for a first-time director who’d managed to gather a small internet following.

And then more pictures keep popping up.

Sonja and Even at a coffee shop.

Sonja and Even walking down Hollywood Boulevard.

Sonja and Even, Sonja and Even, until Isak is ready to rip his own hair out by the roots.

It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Isak reminds himself. He knows Even’s management team had already been talking about this when he and Even had still been okay – or when Isak had thought that they were still okay, but what the fuck does he know, really – the publicity Even could get from hanging out with the right person at the right time.

But this isn’t a celebrity. Sonja doesn’t have anything she needs to promote, so Isak can’t think of any agreements that would be mutually beneficial for her and Even.

And it only gets worse when Isak’s fears get picked up on by strangers on the internet. Suddenly #Evnja starts trending, and then the articles start popping up with additional pictures.

Sonja and Even cozying up on their date! Even brings Sonja with him to a premier! Sonja and Even walking a dog! Are they, aren’t they, surely they must be!

And then Isak gets to hear it all over again from Magnus who seemingly can’t shut up about anything Even, which now apparently means Sonja and Even, and Isak –

Isak doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He’s angry, he’s so fucking angry he’s buzzing with it – angry because Even asked him for a divorce just to immediately go flaunt some girl on his arm. Angry because Even is alright, is moving on, and Isak feels so fucking stuck in this sickening despair and shame and rage and completely unable to let go of the past, any of it.

No more, he decides, shutting his phone off and leaving it behind. He’s got a stash of tiny bottles hidden underneath his bed that he brings out, downing three in a row before he has to pause for a breath.

“Isak!” Magnus calls out when Isak leaves his room, jacket already haphazardly pulled on and heading towards the front door. “My man! Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Awesome!” Magnus lights up. “Got anything in mind? We were just about to come get you to see if you wanted to head over to –“

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Isak interrupts. He can’t stand still, too buzzed and body vibrating from too many emotions all mixed together, and Magnus just isn’t talking fast enough for Isak.

Even the blinking that he does at being interrupted is too slow-going for Isak. So he toes on his shoes and shouts for the boys to hurry the fuck up!

He takes two trips up and down the stairs before Jonas, Mahdi, and Magnus are ready. Mahdi looks peeved, but he doesn’t say anything to Isak about it, so Isak treads ahead to get the boys to move quicker.

Maybe tagging along had been a bad idea, he thinks when Magnus yet again has to stop in the middle of the street to talk about something of great importance that really doesn’t matter.

Turns out tagging along is a great idea when Isak realizes they’re headed to a club only known by word around town. Magnus knows a guy who works there, apparently, and could get them in tonight.

Isak isn’t particularly interested in the club itself; it’s much like any other club; dark and with the occasional strobe lights, loud music and sweaty crowd of people – as much as he cares about the possibilities in this club.

As it currently stands, there are a lot of possibilities in this club.

It’s dark, so finding a hidden corner will be easy, and it also means it’ll be more difficult for people to recognize him. Isak hasn’t exactly made up his mind whether he wants to try getting with a girl or a boy – he can’t imagine enjoying anything with a girl, and the enjoyment is part of this entire thing. There’s no point in showing Even that he too can go out and have fun if he isn’t really having fun, after all.

He figures he’ll probably just see how the evening goes. Having the boys here could complicate things, because no way in hell is Isak letting any of them even suspect that something is amiss with him, but with their previous track record of disappearing to find hookup partners once they’ve gotten a few drinks in, Isak isn’t too worried.

He can’t breathe and he can’t get his hands to stop shaking, but he’s not too worried.

“Hey!” Magnus shouts in his ear to get his attention. “What do you want?” he nods towards the bar.

“I’ll come with you,” Isak tells him, because the sooner he gets away from the boys, the better, and he also needs to get a vantage point to see who is here tonight.

The bar is bustling, and it takes ages before he and Magnus get close enough to order, and then approximately another decade before the bartender notices them. Isak orders two drinks at once, because if it’s this difficult to get one, he probably won’t be able to refill until later. That, and he fucking needs it right now.

It makes Magnus frown, though. “You alright?”

“I’m fucking great,” Isak tells him, trying to smile, but he thinks he just pulls a grimace instead. Whatever.

Magnus’ frown deepens, however, so Isak hurries to back away from the bar, pushing against the stream of people trying to get close, and leaves Magnus to scramble with three drinks.

He knocks back the first drink, leaves the glass on behind on some decorative pedestal that other people have also deemed worthy for the same purpose.

“Starting without us?” Jonas laughs, popping out of nowhere.

Mahdi’s looking at him cautiously, not saying anything, and Isak can’t stand the sight of it so he knocks the other drink back as well.

“Catch up, slowpoke,” he grins to Jonas, clapping him on the shoulder before drawing back so Jonas can grab his drink off of Magnus. He hopes he doesn’t look as fake as he feels.

“Not like you to give us the chance,” Mahdi comments, but he throws back his own drink as well, so what room does he have to talk.

Isak’s nose wrinkles in disdain, but he doesn’t reply. He kind of considers making his way back to the bar already – it’ll be hell, but the fire in his throat is already burning out and he still feels too stuck in his head for him to be able to accomplish his mission for the night.

He feels antsy, and he has a lot of residual anger still swirling around in his body that he’s forcing himself not to think about.

“You sure you’re alright?” Jonas asks him, and Isak wants to scream.

“Lot of homework,” he says instead, because he’s sick and tired of being asked if he’s okay when he’s clearly fine, but they won’t stop unless he gives them an explanation.

Isak pointedly does not think about how goddamn unable he is to give the real explanation.

He ignores Mahdi’s bemused huff.

Anyway, it doesn’t take a lot before the boys’ attentions are off him and on literally anything else. Isak counts his blessings, however small they may come, and gets to crowd surfing as well – doesn’t matter that he’s looking for something else than Mahdi and Magnus are, and technically Jonas as well, but his is more of a ‘look, don’t touch’ situation, considering he’s got Eva, and all that.

Nothing strikes his fancy particularly, but he tries not to feel too discouraged. It’s dark and it’s difficult to make out anyone in this thick of a crowd. It doesn’t mean that there’s no one there for Isak, no one he’ll be interested in.

Once they’re all dispersed, Isak heads back to the bar. Doesn’t spend as long waiting this time, which is a surprise. He orders three drinks this time.

“Coming right up,” the bartender tells him.

“I’ll have one of those, too,” someone from behind Isak says – a guy, voice so deep and so close that for a second all Isak can think is Even, and he whirls around and –

Except it’s not Even. It’s some other guy who gives Isak a weird look for his sudden movement.

A guy who doesn’t even look anything like Even, resembles Magnus a lot more, if Isak’s honest – the typical, Norwegian stereotype of blond hair and height. He’s taller than Isak is.

He looks at Isak oddly for how startled he was. Isak hurries to turn back around, cheeks burning.

There are three glasses waiting for him when he opens his eyes again. He downs the shot whilst still at the bar, slamming the glass down on the counter, and then gathers the two other glasses.

He’s starting to feel the effects a little better now, his head not quite swimming yet, but it’s easier not to think, and it’s easier to ignore how it feels like his heart is stuck inside a cage yet falling apart right then and there.

He just needs a distraction. He needs to do this.

Isak sips at his fourth drink at this club, whatever number this night in total, and scans the crowd. It hasn’t gotten easier to see in the past ten minutes, and Isak figures it’ll only get worse the later it gets.

A girl saunters up to him, grabbing onto where his hoodie is zipped open, and tries to tug him towards the dance floor.

She’s pretty, and if any of the boys had been within eyesight, Isak would’ve followed her. They aren’t, though, and Isak isn’t here for them, and he isn’t here for her. He holds up the two drinks instead, makes it seem like he’s heading over to someone with the other one. The girl shrugs, but she looks disappointed as she walks away. Isak can’t even feel any comfort in the reassurance that he isn’t totally unwanted by everyone around him.

It would be easier, he thinks, if he could just make himself want her, if he could just make himself not want guys.

He moves to a different part of the club just in case the girl decides to double back and he’s still standing there, clearly not heading anywhere, just uninterested. He makes sure to keep an eye out for any familiar faces – no point doing this if it just means people will live to remind him of it, that they’ll know. Isak can’t, he can’t have anyone know.

It’s bad enough that after tonight, someone will know, because Isak will have kissed someone, someone who isn’t Even. Which will be fucking great and exactly what Isak needs. He just needs to find someone and everything will be perfect.

He discards the second glass once he’s drained it, still has one remaining. His heart is thumping uncomfortably in his chest as he tries to pace himself. It’s not easy. None of this is easy, and Isak hates it because it should be.

“Hey,” someone, the guy from the bar, Isak realizes. “Nice night,” the guy comments, taking a sip from his own drink.

Isak’s heart is still beating a little too fast from the scare, but he’s downed too many drinks to really feel it. “Is it?”

The guy blinks at Isak’s odd reply, then shrugs and accepts it. “Guess it depends on a lot of things. Do you want me to make it better?”

Yes, Isak thinks, because it would be so much easier to just lay himself into the hands of another person and then let them fix everything. He can’t do that, though, but he can do this. He can show Even that two can play this game.

“Guess it depends on a lot of things,” Isak teases smoothly, feeling anything but. His palms are sweaty. “What are you offering?”

He grins and tugs at Isak’s hoodie, just like the girl had earlier, but instead of pulling him towards the crowd, the guy moves them away, moves them closer to the dark corners which stills Isak’s panic a bit, at least.

The guy leaves his drink behind once they get closer to the wall, which is such a stupid move, Isak can’t believe he’s probably about to kiss someone that stupid. Isak makes sure to down his own drink before he leaves the glass behind.

The guy quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything about it, just keeps pushing and pushing until Isak feels the wall bump against his back.

He hates this. He doesn’t like it at all, he finds, but he forces through it. He just needs to try it, then he’ll find out how great it is – Isak likes kissing, he knows that much at least, so this shouldn’t be any different from everything he’s already done. He’s not a goddamn virgin, he isn’t inexperienced. There’s nothing new about this. There isn’t.

Isak twists until his side is pressed against the wall instead of his back. It means the guy has to switch too, but he also doesn’t say anything about that, doesn’t pull a face, either. He just leans against the wall as well, mirroring Isak’s position.

Isak lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

The guy pushes at his hip to get his attention back on him. “You want to head to the bathroom?”

Isak frowns. No, no he does not want to go to the bathroom. For any reason.

The guy must be able to see it on his face despite the crappy lighting. He laughs, doesn’t look mean about it. “You ever done this before?”

Which part? Isak doesn’t ask. The part where he’s kissing guys, or the part where they’re in public, or the part about being offered casual sex by a stranger? It’s pretty much no to all of them, anyway.

Fuck.

Isak isn’t about to let this stranger know anything about that, though. Can’t exactly tell him about all the things that he’s done already, either, so he raises an eyebrow and asks, “Have you?”

Which is stupid, because this guy clearly does this often. His hands are cold through the fabric of Isak’s t-shirt whilst Isak feels like an actual mess.

Stop this! You’re married! his heart screams at him.

You’re not, his brain reminds him. You’re not, you’re not, you’re not.

Isak isn’t. He isn’t fucking married anymore, and if Even can go out there and kiss other people, can kiss Sonja, then so can Isak. Kiss other people, that is. He can kiss this guy all he fucking wants to – he just has to ignore how he doesn’t fucking want to kiss anyone.

The bass is so fucking loud, the constant dun dun dun pounding in Isak’s head. He feels dizzy and he feels wrong and he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe.

The guy’s cologne is all wrong – it’s too strong and smells too much like chemicals. His body is too close, Isak feels cramped up against the wall unpleasantly.

Isak sidesteps when the guy reaches out for his collar, barely registers anything that he’s doing, just knows that he needs to get away, get away, get away.

“What the fuck –“ he thinks he hears from behind, but Isak doesn’t turn around to check, to apologize, to explain. He pushes forward, tries to get through the crowd.

God, he’s sweating and the feeling of bodies pressing against him is nauseating – he feels crowded, feels simultaneously too small for the world but too large for his body, it feels like his skin is about to peel off.

“Isak?” he hears when he’s grabbing his jacket, pulling it on.

Fuck, the boys. He doesn’t bother checking who’s talking to him, but they’re all there, he can see them.

“Hva skjer?”

“I’m leaving,” he replies, not sure to who, just pushing away from the door to get out.

“Hey, man,” Jonas tries to catch a hold of Isak’s elbow, but he misses, “you alright?”

“Just let him go,” Mahdi grabs on to Jonas’ sleeve and holds him back. “He needs to go do homework.”

Isak doesn’t know how it happens, can’t recall it later. All he knows is the anger inside of him, rising until it’s blowing over, and suddenly he’s next to the boys again, but Mahdi’s back is flushed to the wall and he’s looking a mix of confused and furious. Then there are hands tugging at Isak’s jacket, pulling him back.

“What the fuck?” he thinks he hears Jonas yells. It snaps him out of whatever weird fugue-state he’d slipped into.

He stares at Jonas, eyes wide and startled. Did he really just…

“What’s going on with you?” Jonas’ eyes are wild. He’s looking at Isak like he’s stranger.

And all Isak can think about is how he nearly kissed someone tonight. Someone who wasn’t Even, just because Even is fine and out kissing other people. He can’t even think about how he just pushed Mahdi – Mahdi. He can’t think about anything.

Fuck. Isak doesn’t even recognize himself anymore.

“What the fuck just happened?” Magnus asks.

“I was just kidding,” Mahdi protests, but Isak barely hears it, is already moving, throwing himself bodily at the doors to get out, get out, get out. “What the fuck is his problem?”

He doesn’t get further than fifty feet away from the club before he stumbles. He feels startlingly sober, but he knows he isn’t. He’s drunk, he’s fucking drunk again, and the world is spinning and he feels nauseous, like he’s going to be sick, because he never learns to not drink on an empty stomach.

OOOOO

“How’d I get here?” Isak slurs. His eyes are crusty and it hurts to open them. Everything about him feels like that, like he’s too heavy to maneuver around. “I was out.”

“Yeah,” Jonas laughs humorlessly. “And then I brought you home.”

Isak groans. “Why’d you do that? I was having fun,” he drags out the vowel, tries to shake his body to imitate a dance move he can’t remember if he was doing last night, but that just makes him dizzy and feeling like he’s about to throw up.

Jonas snorts. “Sure, yeah.”

Blinking hurts. Swallowing hurts. Existing hurts, but that’s nothing new.

Then again, this is probably a repeated enough occurrence that none of this is particularly new.

Isak groans again and shoves his face into his pillow.

He can’t really remember a lot from last night, thinks he went out, but he doesn’t remember where to or with who. He probably went alone – after that disastrous night out where he’d tried to – where he’d ended up getting violent and pushing Mahdi, he’s made it a point to avoid everyone around him as much as possible.

Isak isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or not just how easy it is to pull off something like that. Good thing, probably, he realizes. Less people around to ask questions.

Which means Isak isn’t sure why Jonas is in his room. He doesn’t remember meeting up with Jonas, which would’ve happened if Jonas was the one to get him back safely.

“Isak.”

Isak doesn’t react to Jonas’ attempts to get his attention. Not until a hand grabs onto a chunk of his hair and gently pushes his face away from the pillow.

The light hurts his eyes and it isn’t any easier to breathe when his nose isn’t being squashed.

“Isak,” Jonas doesn’t let him look away. “Are you okay?”

“’f course,” Isak sniffs, tries to focus on anything besides Jonas. “The hell do you mean?”

Jonas huffs, steps back from the bed. Isak doesn’t even remember to shove his face back into the pillow, he feels frozen.

“This isn’t normal. You drinking like that, it’s not – I don’t think you’re okay.”

Isak’s throat feels tight.

“It’s just uni,” he protests. “We’re young and stupid and partying and getting drunk. That’s all it is. All of you are doing it too!”

Jonas’ eyes are soft and gentle and Isak doesn’t deserve him, doesn’t know what to do with any of that other than panic.

“Not like you are,” Jonas states, because it’s not an argument, it’s a fact. No one else is going as hard at it as Isak is. “What you’re doing – Christ, man, you’re going to put yourself in an early grave.”

Good, a spiteful part of Isak thinks, the one he doesn’t ever let out because it frightens him too much.

“Just – you can talk to me, if there is something, you know that, right? You can come talk to me.”

Isak pointedly does not think of stacks of papers and horrible, horrible words written on them along with his signature, ensuring that talking is one of the last things he’ll do. He doesn’t. He’ll be sick if he does, and if he remembers anything from last night it’s that he’s already been sick more than enough. He’ll need to get some fluids in his system unless he really does want to put himself in an early grave.

He doesn’t think of how Even would’ve loved this as a reasoning why his ‘epic endings’ were so necessary – that you should get to lose something whilst it was still good, before it had gotten ruined by life.

He doesn’t think of Even kissing Sonja, even if there aren’t any pictures of it yet he can still imagine it clearly. He doesn’t think of how he wasn’t able to kiss anyone. He doesn’t think of changed plots and characters and a lack of a thank you note.

He’s just – he’s so fucking confused, alright.

OOOOO

He just gets even more confused when Even releases a short film called “The Boy who Couldn’t Jump Down from a Fence” because what? What kind of game is Even playing, what the fuck is this supposed to be, and why the fuck would he do it if he’s got Sonja now?

Isak’s fuming, doesn’t pay attention when he marches into the shared kitchen, doesn’t see Magnus sitting at the table, tapping away on his laptop. All Isak sees is the kitchen counter, the sink full of dishes, and the empty pizza box left by someone.

He throws open one of the cupboards, not even sure what he’s looking for – booze, his brain supplies unhelpfully because they don’t keep any alcohol in here, unless it needs to be refrigerated, but the others will have his ass for years to come if he messes with someone else’s alcohol. Which is dumb, because it’s not like any of them are still underage and getting their hands on anything alcoholic is a hassle.

Isak’s own supply has run dry, though, and he’s itching for something, anything. He needs to get out of his own head, and alcohol is the only way he’s found so far that’s made it a possibility.

“Isak, hey!” Magnus calls out brightly, dropping his backpack by his feet. Girl-with-bioscience-boyfriend will have his head for that, Isak knows, because she’d tried to have his when he’d done the same.

She hasn’t attempted it since, but Isak can’t imagine Magnus being as big of an asshole as Isak had been.

“Dude, greatest news ever, seriously,” Magnus doesn’t bother pausing for a breath. “So remember how I told you about my scene composition class? Well, so today –“

And Isak tunes out. He doesn’t remember Magnus telling him about that particular course, but that’s not the main reason why Isak stops listening.

Isak stops listening because Magnus is a media student who doesn’t know when to shut up.

Well, he doesn’t know when to shut up, period, but it becomes Isak’s problem when he changes between his two favorite topics; girls and movies, particularly the technicalities of movies.

Isak’s already had one person in his life who couldn’t shut up about the goddamn technicalities of movies, and Magnus isn’t like Even at all, it’s not that he reminds Isak of Even.

It’s that he’s constantly bringing up Even that’s becoming Isak’s problem.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he hears Magnus say his name out loud – nothing pretty, he knows that much, but he isn’t interested in finding out what. He feels too fucking numb all of the time, that or like a bruise that’s being cut into constantly, but after that night at the club where he’d snuck away from the boys, that night where he’d attacked Mahdi, Isak’s sort of been scared of himself. Of how far he’ll end up going before he can’t turn back anymore.

And then the numbness takes over and the cycle continues.

Isak isn’t numb right now. Right now there’s too much anger inside of him for him to be anything that resembles numb.

Magnus is still talking, and Isak is scared to start paying attention, just in case.

Isak does not want to hear about Even’s film, but he also doesn’t want to be alone. Not tonight. He doesn’t want to walk down the dark streets of Oslo, bar-crawling his way through the city until he can’t tell up from down all by himself.

“Is anything going on tonight?” he interrupts whatever Magnus had been talking about.

Magnus looks as clueless as ever – big puppy eyes as he frowns thoughtfully. He doesn’t even look offended that Isak had cut him off like what he was saying didn’t matter.

“Uh,” he draws out, chewing on his lip. “The union’s doing three drinks for the price of two until seven tonight?”

It’s just gone six and Isak knows he shouldn’t start drinking on an empty stomach. He knows, but he still slings his arm around Magnus’ shoulders and starts dragging him towards the front door.

“Mags, my man,” he tells him, grinning back when Magnus’ face lights up in the widest smile possible, “guess your plans for tonight just got a whole lot better.”

OOOOO

“The Boy who Couldn’t Jump Down from a Fence” isn’t a story about Isak.

Isak doesn’t know whether he feels relieved or not. He’s mainly just pissed off, because why the fuck would Even so blatantly name it that, only for it to be about a boy and a girl who don’t even fall in love because the boy is too afraid to jump down from the fence to meet the girl playing in her garden.

It’s not really a movie that makes sense, so of course it’s highly acclaimed for its artistic touch and how it successfully leaves the audience with a feeling of bittersweet melancholy at the thought of missed opportunities and wasted moments that could’ve made a difference.

Isak’s so fucking angry. He’s still angry when he sees the bottom of some bottle he probably shouldn’t have consumed the entirety of in one evening.

Next part

#SKAM #SKAM Norway #skam fanfiction #Evak #Evak fanfiction #Something Great #Dutten-does-the-fanfic

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