Chapter Text
“Who’s that?”
Even turns at the sound of Isak’s voice, greeting him with a kiss. One might think after five years some of Even’s infatuation with his boyfriend would have disappeared, but they would be wrong. Isak’s cheeks are flushed from the cold, blond curls escaping from under his beanie, and it takes Even a minute to remember there’s a question he should be answering.
“His partner agreed to be the composer for the film I’m directing,” he says, pushing the computer screen back further. A red haired man grins at the camera, blue shirt fastened to the top.
Isak frowns, leaning in closer. “Did he go to Nissen?”
“He lives in Italy, so probably not.”
“He looks familiar.” Isak pulls out the chair across from him, shaking his head as if to dispel the image. His beanie lands on the floor, followed by his jacket a moment later. Even sighs, staring at the pile of clothing dispondantly. Four years and Isak still doesn’t know what a coat hanger is. “How’s your film going anyway?”
“On track so far. The composer submitted a piece he wrote a while back and his recommendations check out. He’ll probably be at the meeting.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to come?”
Even smiles, bumping their feet together under the table. “I always want you to come. In more ways than one,” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows. Isak groans, picking his hat off the floor and throwing it at him. “But I don’t want you to miss your presentation.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” he grumbles. “I’d rather go with you.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” He reaches for Even’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Not this time.” Even hums his agreement. As much as Isak bitches about the board of directors, having the opportunity to present in front of them isn’t something he can miss.
“Six days,” Even says. It’s more to reassure himself than Isak. While their jobs don’t separate them too often (or for very long) Mikael always tells him he gets mopey without Isak around. In his defense, a lack of Isak would make anyone mopey.
“Six days,” Isak echoes.
It’s less than a week, Even rationalizes. He’ll be fine.
::
Even is not fine.
He arrived in Paris a day and a half early to sort a few things out before the meeting, and by day two he’s already climbing the walls. He knows it’s pathetic but he misses Isak, and every time he sees something new he’ll turn to ask him what he thinks only to find empty space.
The first meeting is today, and even if it goes poorly at least it’ll take his mind off Isak for awhile. Though they’ve communicated over email this is the first time he’ll meet Eliott, the screenwriter, in person. The film was his pitch originally--Even had happened to stumble on it, shown it to Mikael, and things went from there. From what he can tell today’s meeting is just between him, Eliott, and the new composer before officially pitching to the studio tomorrow.
He tugs on his collar as he steps inside the office. He’s never been a formal clothes kind of person, but Mikael hadn’t been able to make it and told Even in no uncertain terms that he was representing the both of them and to suck it up.
He sits near the back of the room (closest to the door) and opens his computer. It’s not quite time to start yet, and he sneaks a look at his phone. Isak’s wished him good luck and Mikeal’s told him not to fuck up. He sends a heart in response to the former and middle finger to the latter.
“Thank you for joining me today.”
Even shoves his phone in his pocket and looks towards the front of the room. The speaker is tall--almost as tall as he is, which is saying something. He’s holding a remote in his hand, facing the screen. POLARIS is written across the slide, sketched in graphite pencil.
“I’m Eliott Demaury, the creator and screenwriter of Polaris.” Eliott turns to face the rest of the room and Even freezes. It’s...there’s something about him that’s eerily familiar, like looking into a mirror that’s just slightly wrong. He grips the armrests of his chair, focusing on the feel of the plastic beneath his fingers. The longer he looks at Eliott the more disoriented he feels, and when Even tries to focus elsewhere he finds he can’t --can only stare as the floor drops beneath him and bile rises in his throat.
A sharp “What the hell?” is finally enough to break his trance. He turns to see a black haired man staring at him in what can only be described as abject horror, hazel eyes wide. The vertigo doubles, and Even digs his nails into his palm.
“Who are you?” the man asks.
“Even,” Even says. “I’m the director. Who’re you ?”
There’s a pause. “Niccolò. I’m the composer. I don’t--” Niccolò blinks, running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night and I think I have a headache.”
Even knows the feeling.
The composer frowns, head tipping to the side. “You said your name is Even?”
“Yeah.”
“You just...remind me of someone.”
“You remind me of someone too.” Maybe he’s crazy to say anything (as much as he hates that word) when he doesn’t even know how to describe what he’s feeling himself, but it’s obvious there’s something...off.
Eliott sets down the remote. His eyes dart between them with a frown, and it’s a small consolation that he looks just as confused. “Is there any chance we’ve met before?”
There isn’t. “Maybe,” Even says.
Niccolò nods. “I’ve been to Paris a few times,” he offers. It’s clear none of them are particularly convinced, but no one argues otherwises.
Even fiddles with his phone, forcing the vertigo aside. “What are you thinking for the pitch?” he asks, vainly trying to steer the conversation back on track. It’s certainly been one of the stranger starts to a meeting, but the sooner they finish the sooner he can lay down.
Eliott nods, seeming to snap back to attention. “Polaris was an idea I had a long time ago,” he says, flipping to the next slide. It’s a sketch of two people holding hands, one in the dark and another cast in light. “It’s the story of two characters and a tunnel. The character never comes out of his tunnel because he’s afraid of the light, and he meets the hero who’s afraid of the dark. They fall in love, but until one is brave enough to enter the other’s world they can’t be together.”
Even leans forward, mind already spinning. He’ll have to be careful with making the tunnel too dark, but adding a sharper contrast with the light world should take care of some of the problem.
“I want the music to play a large part in shaping the atmosphere,” Eliott continues. “And even dictate some of the direction of the story.” He directs his next statement to Niccolò. “I was hoping the piano could be the primary instrument.”
“The piece you wrote,” Even says. “What inspired it?”
Niccolò ducks his head, blushing. It’s sweet. “My boyfriend. I read your description for the film and the emphasis on the relationship being regardless of gender or anything else jumped out at me."
Eliott’s eyes light up. “My boyfriend helped with a lot of Polaris,” he says. “So I’m glad it resonated with you.”
An interesting coincidence--all three of them having boyfriends. Although Even supposes it makes sense the project would attract more LGBTQ+ people considering the plot. It's part of why he signed on, after all.
He presses a hand to his forehead, massaging his temple. Eliott and Niccolò are still talking and he knows he should be listening but he feels a little like someone's hitting him over the head with a hammer. He reaches for his water and downs the entire glass. It doesn’t help, but he opens his spreadsheet and forces himself to pay attention.
He still can’t look directly at Eliott or Niccolò without feeling dizzy, and the minute he gets back to his hotel he takes a painkiller.
::
He Skypes Isak later that night. At least they’re in the same time zone this time--his last trip had been to Los Angeles and it had been a rough couple of days.
“What was Eliott like?” Isak asks. In typical Skype fashion the audio is unsynced and his face has been reduced to a series of pixelated shapes.
“He was nice,” Even says. “So was Niccolò. They both seem to care a lot about Polaris.” He briefly thinks about bringing up the weird feeling of familiarity, but decides against it. “I’m putting together some of Eliott’s concept art and Niccolò’s music to get a better idea of the vibe.”
“But you think they’ll be good colleagues?” Isak asks.
“I think so.” As long as he can keep his headache in check. “Are you feeling ready for your presentation?”
His boyfriend groans, thumping his head against the table. “Fucking Julian was supposed to have the slides finished today but he said he ‘ran out of time’ so we’ll barely have time to do a run through.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I know. But there’s nothing I can about it now. Astrid was pretty pissed.”
Isak is managing to sound relatively calm, but Even’s been witness to many a mental breakdowns over trying to finish the project. “What are you going to do?”
“Just practice what we can and hope for the best, I guess.”
There’s a peal of laughter from the hallway followed by a high pitched voice and Even scrambles to turn up the volume. As soon as he moves his laptop Isak’s picture cuts out, followed by the audio. His next sentence sounds like it’s coming from underwater.
“Damn it,” Even curses, dragging his mouse to check the wifi signal. “Isak, I don’t know if you’re still there but I can’t hear you.”
There’s a chime, and a message pops up in bright white letters: The connection speed between you is slow.
“Damn it,” Even says again. He sighs, watching the screen spin for another minute before giving up and ending the call. He reaches for his phone instead.
“I can’t believe you hung up on me,” Isak says as soon as he answers.
“Blame Skype.”
“I should go to bed anyway. I have to be in the office early.”
“I miss you,” Even says wistfully. “I wish I could make you breakfast.”
“I wish you could make me breakfast too.” Isak stifles a yawn. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Even says, closing his eyes. If he tries hard enough he can almost imagine Isak's sitting beside him. “Sleep well.”
He falls asleep clutching his phone and dreams of black holes.
::
The bakery is bustling as Even pushes his way to the exit, coffee and scone in hand. The sun is just beginning to rise as he walks back towards his hotel, orange and gold painting the sky. It’s a little earlier than he usually gets up, but he hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after his dream.
He likes Paris so far. The romantic film nerd in him is in love with the architecture, and every time he passes the Eiffel tower he oogles it like the tourist he is. Someday he’ll have to return with Isak and walk along the Champs-Élysées.
“Even!”
He stops, turning to see Eliott waving him down. He’s wearing a brown jacket and his free hand is intertwined with another man’s. Even would laugh at the coincidence of running into Eliott here of all places, but to his irritation his headache has started to return.
“This is Lucas,” Eliott says, gesturing to his companion. “My boyfriend.”
Even opens his mouth to say hello when Lucas smiles and his words disappear. He’s...he’s not Isak (no one is like Isak) but there’s something about him that reminds him so much of his boyfriend he feels like crying.
“How did you two meet?” he asks instead, gripping his coffee a little tighter.
Eliott’s eyes soften, and he cards a hand through Lucas’s hair. “I saw him the first day of school. He didn’t see me until later.”
Lucas bats his hand away, rolling his eyes. “It wasn’t that much later. Some stupid club I had to go to,” he says, addressing his next words to Even. “But I saw him as soon as he walked in.”
“You were only there because Imane had your weed.”
“What, like your reasons were so much better?”
Eliott shrugs a little too nonchalantly to be genuine. “I was there to meet you.”
Even’s blood freezes. Realistically, there are millions of people that have fallen in love in high school. Probably more. It shouldn’t mean anything.
Except.
(Except Isak asked if he knew Niccolò’s boyfriend the first time he saw him. Except Eliott and Lucas’s conversation is verbatim to one he and Isak had years ago. Except Niccolò and Eliott make Even feel like someone’s taken his essence and cut everything together just similar enough to feel uncanny. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does.)
::
“Niccolò,” Even begins as casually as he can. They’re leaving the office after the pitch meeting, and while it had gone well enough he’d spent the entirety of it on edge. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to accomplish, but somewhere he’s made a deal with himself. He’ll ask Niccolò about his boyfriend and then he’s done. He just...he needs to know. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“Martino,” Niccolò says, and his voice is the softest it’s been yet.
He turns on his phone and angles the screen towards Even. Niccolò and a man he assumes is Martino have their arms looped around each other and are standing on top of a mountain. Niccolò is beaming at the camera, but Martino is staring at him like the embodiment of the heart eyes emoji.
“Where did you meet?" Even asks.
“School,” Niccolò says. He looks at the picture for a moment longer before turning his phone off. “I transferred my last year and met Martino.”
“You transferred your last year?” Even blurts, unable to help himself.
“You can’t say you truly lived if you didn’t fail at least one school year.”
“What happened?”
Niccolò’s expression shuts down and he winces. If the other man’s experiences are anything like his it’s not the kind of thing you talk about in a first conversation.
“I repeated my last year too,” Even says. While it usually isn't the kind of thing you talk about in a first conversation, he’s reached the deep end a long time ago. “I’m bipolar, and I had a really bad manic episode at my old school. I just needed to start over, you know?”
Niccolò’s posture relaxes. “I do,” he says. “More than you know.” He hesitates, gaze hovering somewhere by Even’s shoulder. “Actually, what you described is what happened to me my last year.”
They’re on the cusp of something, Even just doesn’t know if he’ll find out what in time. He wipes his palms on his trousers and jumps. “I kissed Mikael,” he says bluntly. “He was my best friend in high school, but he was straight and at the time really religious. It triggered the manic episode.” It hurts a little less to talk about now that he and Mikael have smoothed things over and some time has passed, but he doesn’t think it’ll ever be easy.
Niccolò finally meets his eyes. There’s something melancholy in his expression, a kind of heaviness that never really goes away. “Me too,” he says. “But his name wasn’t Mikael.”