#ehhhh forgive mee

[cuteandtwisted]

Hey Wiss!! I love you and your writing so much and wanted you say that today is my birthday!(I waited a whole year to say this lol) But if its not too much to ask, is there any update of Bfyt? Like a little snippet or when the next update will be? Don't want to rush you but today would be amazing to have a little something from my favorite writer💛💛

(Hi LOVE Happy belated birthday💛. I’m sorry for missing this!! Here’s a ~ 2K BFYT snippet for you

In which Even casually makes Isak squeak 💛)

“So we’ll meet at my place because it’s closer to the commotion, then we’ll walk to Spektrum. We could take the tram but I’m sure there will be some closures and I don’t feel like running into human unicorns. And no, before you even try to suggest it, we are not going to Grønland. I would rather poke my eyes out than go through Grønland right now. Also, Eskild’s group is marching, or I should say dancing, with the first batch, so we can just catch him when they round that weird church. It’s not like we need to follow him the entire time, you know? He just needs me to be there to validate his fairy godmother status and to write “I forced my foster child Isak Valtersen into going to Pride” on an Instagram caption. I just know he’ll do it. He’s been constantly taking photographs of me. I think I should start to feel worried actually. Also, what a weird concept Pride is. Don’t you think the ones who insist on showing pride are those who are most prone to shame? Similarly to those who constantly boast about their possessions because they’re emptiest inside, to those who post the most on social media because they’re the loneliest at heart? Insisting on showing off one’s supposed greatness is a concept I will never-,” Isak pauses his rambling, suddenly aware that his speech has increased in speed and incoherence and that his voice is the only thing filling the sweet midsummer air in the cafe.

Even is sitting across from him, head propped atop his folded arms on the table before him, a wild golden mop of hair covering his face. He isn’t moving and Isak realizes that Even dozed off during his frenzied speech. He’s almost relieved, too embarrassed by how nervous he actually is.

Isak stares for a bit. Even has been all over him lately, talking too much, smiling too much, laughing too much, taking too much. Isak couldn’t do much but look away and hold it in. He hasn’t had a chance to just look in a while–for every time he does, he remembers Even’s ridiculous words from last week– So he looks.

Isak doesn’t really know what to call the feeling that overwhelms him watching Even with his eyes closed and a half-smile curling his lips. Isak doesn’t think he’s ever smiled in a dream. How is it so easy for Even? How does Even look so peaceful sleeping? So at ease, so… pretty.

Time stills enough for little specks of dust to hang suspended in a narrow beam of sunlight filtering through the glass windows. And for a moment, Isak questions the source of light: the sun is hot and unyielding today, but for some reason, a sleeping Even shines brighter.

No!

Isak catches himself mid-nonsense and blinks away the ridiculous thoughts. He sits up straight, kicks Even’s chair ever so slightly, then speaks again.

“Are you sleeping? Really, Even?” Isak scoffs, and his voice is almost shaky. It’s pathetic. He swallows and continues. “You pick logistics debrief to finally sleep? You haven’t let me sleep in days and now you want to sleep?”

Isak is beyond nervous. He’s self-aware enough to know and to admit to himself that he’s nervous. But he tells himself that it’s because of what he’s actually doing, not because Even is sitting across from him. And it’s true. Isak doesn’t plan routes for navigating the Oslo Pride Parade every day. The thought alone is filling him with an extreme urge to flee and lock himself in his room for at least a month. But he can’t. Not this year.

This year he has Eskild to think about and Even to drag to Pride. This year is not about him. Having a mission keeps him focused. He’s going because Eskild emotionally blackmailed him and because Mutta asked him to bring Even without telling him. He’s on a mission. He’ll be fine. He’s fine.

Isak is about to kick the chair again when Even speaks.

“Not sleeping,” he mumbles, his voice groggy but soft. There’s a smile there, too. His whole voice is smiling. Isak tunes him out.

“Uhm, not to be maddening, but last time I checked, closing your eyes and suspending your consciousness is called sleeping, Even.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. My consciousness is all but suspended,” Even chuckles, his face finally turning to blind Isak. His eyes are crinkling and it’s all very nerve-wracking. Isak can’t think.

“Oh, so did your eyes just happen to close themselves while I was relaying some very important information to you or?”

“I closed my eyes because I wanted to hear you, like really hear you,” says Even, his chin awkwardly laying on his folded arms now. His eyes are sparkling with something akin to happiness or euphoria, like simply sitting in a cafe with Isak and listening to him complain about exactly everything is filling him with joy.

“Are you saying my speech is too contrived or are you saying that you need a hearing device?” Isak huffs again, because he can’t really hide his nervousness unless he’s being insufferable.

“I’m saying that I love listening to you speak the most, and that when I close my eyes I feel like your words penetrate me even deeper.”

Isak is grateful that he didn’t decide to take a sip from his coffee because it would probably be all over Even’s hair by now. He chokes on air instead while Even laughs.

“Jesus Christ!” He coughs while Even’s warm laughter fills his bones.

“You have such a dirty mind, Valtersen.”

“Dirty mind?! I am simply appalled by your choice of words because they make absolutely no sense. My words penetrate you deeper? Which books do you even read? I can’t deal with you!”

“I’m just telling you how I feel,” Even replies with no hint of humor or teasing in his voice. He’s smiling but it looks like it’s out of sincerity, not mischief. “I love hearing you talk. I could listen to you all day. It’s just how I feel.”

The earnestness in Even’s voice leaves Isak feeling vulnerable. He knows they’re meaningless words and they almost have a child-like quality to them. It feels like Even is just speaking the thoughts that cross his mind without applying the glossy filter that comes with being a calculating grown person who’s experienced the downsides of speaking too quickly, too recklessly. Even is being reckless, and Isak doesn’t know how to handle him anymore.

He blushes and looks away, his mind scrambling for a rational thought to latch on and a witty comeback to end this dumb conversation.

“Noted,” Isak mutters then rolls his eyes, his hands reaching for the notebook where he drew their itinerary. “Never wake you up when you’re taking a nap, unless I’m ready to listen to you speak nonsense. Noted. I won’t do it again.”

He steals a short glance to check if Even is offended, but he’s still smiling, still hugging the table and smiling.

“Where was I again? Before I woke you from your deep slumber, huh?” Isak continues.

“You were talking about how you don’t understand Pride. And how only people who are ashamed insist on showing that they’re proud,” Even replies in a heartbeat, still smiling, like he’s about to burst with it.

“Uh, okay. So I guess you really were listening, huh,” Isak remarks nervously.

“You penetrate me. I told you. All this philosophy talk gets me.”

“Shut up!” Isak rolls his eyes while Even chuckles, then decides to focus on what he knows best, on the only thing that calms him down: his facts. “Anyway, I wasn’t even really talking philosophy there, just my personal opinion. Or I guess that counts as philosophy, too. But if you’re actually interested in knowing what old scholarship has to say on the matter, Aristotle is very known for his take on Pride. He actually thinks Pride is a virtue unlike most monotheist religious texts. Pride is weirdly defined, but a recurring definition is that pride is what is felt when a person thinks they exhibit greatness, so long as they actually do exhibit greatness. There’s a difference between thinking you’re great and being great, you know. So yeah, Aristotle says that as long as you’re great, it’s okay for you to think that you’re great and to show it off. But I don’t really agree with him. I think you can just be great and-”

Isak pauses. He’s rambling, meandering, blabbering. He’s nervous and he can’t stand it. He looks at Even and finds him staring, just staring so intensely, Isak can’t breathe. He wishes he’d go back to sleeping.

“But yeah, I don’t want to bore you with all these things,” Isak shrugs and goes back to staring at his notebook. “I guess if you want to learn more, you can just go to the library or consult your favorite resource: Wikipedia, as the lame person you are.”   

Even doesn’t react to his unnecessarily mean jabs, so Isak keeps talking. He rambles and he talks, hoping Even will just chime in eventually and tease him again about being annoying, or just do something.

Isak is grateful for his ability to just speak nonsense for days at a time and make it sound like it’s a deliberate stream of consciousness. He’s grateful for that ability because nothing he’s saying is making sense right now. He’s probably mixing up philosophers and references, and the only absent consciousness here is his own.

His mind is too busy trying to fight off the only words that have been playing in his head since last week, the ones Even uttered so shamelessly in front of kollektivet, so easily, the unspeakable ones, the outrageous ones.

Isak refuses to even think them. He wonders if Even regrets uttering them, if he’d like to take them back. Isak probably wouldn’t mind if Even asked. They were quite ridiculous. The least Isak could do was help restore their partnership up to that point and forget Even’s mild slip-up. He could do that for him. He really could.

“Anyway, Pride makes no sense if you really look at it from a socio-economic lens. As in it’s just a huge capitalist holiday disguised as social activism. And all these big corporations and business couldn’t care less that Sigve from East Oslo got bullied in middle school for being gay. They just want your money, and-”

Isak pauses again. He’s about to combust. He really is about to. Is Even smiling because he finds him ridiculous and is enjoying watching him fumble and trip over his own words? Is Even regretting saying those words? He hasn’t said them again. He hasn’t kissed Isak since they “made out” against the kollektiv’s blue door after Even said he’d wait for him. Even has been ecstatic and outrageous all week now, but he hasn’t kissed Isak in six days and 3 hours and 17 minutes and Isak can’t stand it anymore. He just needs to stop feeling so much. He just needs-

“What?!” Isak finally cracks. And he’s breathless and probably flushed from ear to ear. But he can’t just sit here and pretend that everything is fine when Even is looking at him like that. He can’t. He just- “What is it?!”

Even reaches for him with one hand, his head still propped on his other arm. And time stills again until Even’s thumb brushes against Isak’s cheek.

Time stills.

“I love you,” Even says like it’s the most evident thing. And Isak’s mind catches fire. “So much.”

Why is hearing it the second time is even harder than the first? Why are all of Isak’s defenses coming down? Why is he so flustered? Why can’t he move or speak? Why does it feel like getting stabbed in the chest? Why is something so simple so difficult to hear and accept?

It must show on Isak’s face because Even has now left his chair–Isak must have blanked out for a few seconds there; nobody can move that fast– and is cupping his cheeks with both hands while towering over him, the table still separating their bodies.

“So much, I could burst,” Even says solemnly before leaning in and pressing his lips to Isak’s. Right there in the middle of the Kaffebrenneriet right by Kollektivet, like it’s nothing, like this is nothing, like this is a thing they do every hour of every day, kiss in public spaces.

Isak can’t think, can’t breathe, but he kisses back. His body is conditioned to it by now. It’s just a kiss, just lips. But it drains him all the same. His jaw is tilted dramatically at a near 90 degree angle, with his throat exposed and vulnerable, to meet Even’s lips. It’s just a kiss, but it drains and empties him all the same. Isak indulges. Isak takes. He takes all of it.

“You are loved,” Even whispers to him when he pulls back, a giant smile on his face. And Isak can’t help the loud squeak that escapes him when Even leans down again to press his lips to his neck.

–

Isak stomps furiously the entire way back to the kollektiv, livid and angry at Even for pulling such a stunt in public, while Even follows closely behind, laughing and laughing and laughing.

Later that night, when Isak tries to go to sleep while Even works on some abstract project in the living room at an ungodly hour for the fourth night in a row, he finds three new words lining up to haunt and comfort him all the same.

‘You are loved.’