Work Text:
Sometimes, it's like this:
Water is running in the kitchen sink and your sleeves are rolled up. Isak's testing the temperature, not too hot, not too cold. He takes you by the wrist and doesn't mind the blood, slick on your palm and dripping down from your fingers to land in splatters on the counter, a gory Pollock for one of you to clean up later.
The radio is on, tuned to something aching and quiet that Isak didn't pick, and you didn't pick either, and anyway, you're thinking of a different song. One you heard at work today and therefore only half digested. A bit of chorus, a few bars of the melody. Something from the bridge.
"What happened?" Isak asks. He tips your hand under the water and it stings. The numbness pulls back. Isak has his hip pressed against yours and his breath is like a warm feather on your damp skin while he leans close to look at the cut. There's a curl at his temple and your pinky finger fits perfectly inside of it.
It's a simple question and begs a simple answer. A broken glass at the bottom of the sink at work, hidden under murky off-white water. A quick flash of pain and the water turning a pale, soapy pink. The clink of a plucked out sliver of glass falling onto an industrial, stainless steel countertop. More complicated is the thing it did to your head. The thing it's doing. Thumbscrews digging into your temples, your vision impossibly crisp at the edges.
Panic sounds a little too much like another word.
This could be a movie, a cold open, three minutes until the title card but you wouldn't choose this song for the soundtrack. It should be something bright. Some cheerful Sinatra. A close-up of Isak's mouth, his fingernail testing the edges of the gash, the potted plant on the windowsill.
"An accident," you explain. The last of the blood is swirling down the drain and you change your mind about the movie, don't wanna come across as derivative, some sort of Hitchcock knock-off.
"I don't think you'll need stitches. It's clean," Isak says, and reaches past you for a bandage, still holding your hand in his. More like cradling it.
You hum, and let Isak bandage you, and then you let him kiss you. He asks if you're okay and you remember to look him in the eye as you tell him that you are. There are times when you're like this that you forget, and don't quite say the right words.
You think of Sonja, and Isak, and compare the two of them, which isn't something you like to do, but your mind isn't entirely your own right now. Near the end, all of Sonja's kisses had been investigation, a test to see how much beer you'd had or if you tasted like weed or whether or not you'd kiss her back. The two of you are friendly nowadays, getting there at least, and now that she doesn't worry the way she used to, her kindness has more room to breathe.
Isak kisses you again, his chest to your chest, pushed up so that only his toes are touching the ground and you hold him like you're the strong one, reliable and constant and able to plan things more than a day in advance. And you have his face in your hands and his mouth is curling into a delicate smile and this boy. This boy. This boy who always kisses you in present tense, whose kisses never end with a question mark.
---
Sometimes, it's like this:
The pills keep you even. They keep you Even. The swings still happen but they're less like earthquakes and more like aftershocks. There are times when you can feel your mind straining against them, trying to stage a hostile takeover. There are other times when the medication feels like a blanket wrapped too tightly around you that just keeps on stretching no matter how hard you push and push and push.
It's an upswing today, a sharp tick of the needle across the graph. You're riding an acute angle. Sunshine on the inside, sunshine sitting next to you on a bench in the park closest to your home, and you're stealing bites of his lunch, and he's feeding you tomatoes with his fingers because he doesn't really like them when they're raw, and someone was selling gently used art supplies at the flea market today and you splurged, and you now have two bags full of new possibilities at your feet. Charcoal and colored pencils and five new brushes for a dozen new tubes of watercolor.
You're thinking of a still life. A chipped coffee cup with blue and yellow flowers and Isak's headphones and your current favorite chewed up pencil. You're thinking of Isak, and how much blue you'd have to use to paint the shadow from a windowsill falling across his skin. How much yellow you'd have to mix in to get his eyes exactly right. All your thoughts are coming in as pictures today and they all make sense.
There's a part of you that misses the highs. The confidence, the creativity, the ability to take old words and use them in new combinations. You admit this to Isak, since there's no such thing as secrets. Not anymore.
Isak's chewing slows, stops, and you are fascinated by the mechanism of his throat as he swallows, the dainty way he licks the corners of his mouth, how he takes his time slowly running his hand up your thigh, from your knee to a few centimeters north of polite, just like you're fascinated by every single other thing about him.
"Are you happy?" Isak asks. "Right now. Right here. Don't think. Just answer." He squints at you, although the day is overcast and if the sun were out it would be at your back. He's grinning, and ignoring the phone that you can feel buzzing in his pocket, and his teeth are leaving small indents on his bottom lip and you're glad that you got that one particular shade of grey, because you're gonna need it for his dimples.
"I am," you tell him, and your heart speeds up and your voice cracks a little as you say it.
Isak laughs, breathy and soft, another sound for you to memorize, like his gasps or the deep sound of his voice when he whispers dirty in your ear, or the quiet way he tells you he loves you when the two of you are in a room full of people. "You should learn to trust being happy. You can believe in it."
"Not yet." You slip from the bench and sink down in front of him, fold your arms in his lap and stare up at him. The ground is damp and it's seeping through your jeans. "But I do trust you."
There are some things that you have to get down on your knees to say.
---
Sometimes, it's like this:
The blanket is real this time, and so is the pressure of it around your shoulders.
There's nothing romantic about it. It's sore bones and the reek of flop sweat and stale air and a dirty sweatshirt that smells like Isak. There's an anchor tied to your ankle and buckshot in your stomach. More metal in your mouth. You try to hold your breath because breathing hurts. You keep your eyes closed because darkness makes it easier to hide and blinking hurts too.
It's the love of your life pressing his face into your hair and twirling the strands around his knuckles, combing his fingers through it and not mentioning that it could have used a wash two days ago.
Isak's nose is cold against the back of your neck and he's rubbing your feet together under the blanket. You're not at your worse, but you're not at your best, either.
"You don't have to do this," you say.
The hand on your hip goes tight. Isak's lips are at your spine, moving against the top vertebrae and his gentle laugh is hot and humid on your skin. It's the first thing you've felt for a while. You're thankful it's him.
"I know," Isak says.
"You don't have to stay." The sun is going down and you were wrong before. You didn't buy enough grey paint.
"I know." Isak's eyelashes flutter against your skin and you're still glad it's him. "But I think I will. For a while, anyway."
"How long?" Your voice is rusty and your breath tastes sour and you're flipping over, curling into him, and his arms are around you. Squeezing.
"I don't know." Isak covers your ear with his hand. "Until the shaking stops, and then maybe a little longer."
"Which one of us is it? Who's shaking?"
"I can't tell. Does it matter?"
---
Most of the time, it's like this:
The hushed sound of your coat falling into a pile on top of Isak's right inside the door. The smell of fresh laundry and the pizza your neighbors had delivered earlier. It's quiet and it's dark, and it's a school night for Isak, and you take your shoes off and toe-heel your way through to the kitchen. You dodge a skateboard that belongs to Jonas, a pair of boots that might be Mikael's or Eskild's, library books and Isak's backpack, the debris of two lives that crashed together and have now become inextricable.
You brought home something from work for Isak to eat for breakfast tomorrow morning. Spice cake with raisins and zucchini in it, vitamins hidden behind a decent enough dose of sugar that Isak won't complain. You packed it up in a brown paper bag and wrote Isak's name on it in all lower case letters and there's something to it, the simple joy of seeing Isak's name in your handwriting. More joy in the leftovers he's set out for you, the torn off piece of notebook paper that reads eat me beside the plate. Isak's drawn a lopsided heart underneath the words.
You lean against the doorway while you pick at your food, watching Isak sleep. He's on his back, arm flung out toward the other side of the bed, and the shadows are skewed from the dim reading light, a circle of yellow glowing on your vacant pillow.
He's left the light on, and you're reminded of an empty school yard and a dark, rainy night. Of breathlessness and cold and a thumb pressed into your cheek. He'd left the light on then, too. He always does.
--end
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