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If Isak’s being honest, he probably deserves this.
He’s a major proponent of the cold, straightforward rationality of scientific reason. But at the same time, there’s no way that his current situation isn’t karmic retribution for all those times he “forgot to bring gym clothes,” when he actually just wanted to play Animal Crossing in a supply closet alone. Or, you know, all those times he straight up skipped gym class altogether. Which is a thing he does sometimes. Or, you know, a lot of the time.
He’s still under the ten percent absence limit, but he knows he’s riding that line pretty close, and it’s mostly because he just can’t be assed to kick around a football for an hour.
He supposes he could put in more effort, but every time he tries, he thinks about that stale-smelling, moldy-ass locker room, and the dumbasses who take the games way too seriously and yell at him, and the physical act of moving…and man, it’s like this whole thing.
So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that when he finally dragged himself to a full period of gym class, he ended up in the hospital, clutching at the back of his thigh and gritting his teeth through the blistering, searing pain radiating down his leg.
Like a man. A manly man. A fucking champion of manliness.
At least, that’s what he tells the boys in their group chat while he’s waiting for the doctor to read his x-rays. They weren’t there, so whatever tears did or did not fall are none of their goddamn business.
The doctor delivers the verdict (a pulled hamstring) and her recommended course of action (some pain meds, cold compresses, and a week’s worth of massage therapy—which sounds ominous at best, utterly horrifying at worst). He thanks her, and hobbles out of the office with about forty percent less dignity than when he arrived.
His phone starts dinging as he gingerly lowers himself into the first open seat he finds on the tram.
Jonas: ouch
Mahdi: sucks to be u, bro
Magnus: a massage? maybe you’ll get a hot chick and a happy ending
Jonas: …mags
Mahdi: it’s like you go out of your way to say the dumbest shit
Magnus: ???
Isak: it’s probably just gonna be another doctor’s office
Magnus: doctors can be hot chicks
Isak sighs, puts away his phone, and bangs his head against the pole in front of him.
Which, wow, apparently has a wad of used gum on it. Some of which is now in Isak’s hair.
He really shouldn’t have skipped all those gym classes.
###
Two days later, he finds himself standing—awkwardly, with most of his weight on his good leg—in front of the clinic the doctor recommended, wondering if he can, through sheer force of will, propel the universe forward so he can live in a time when this nightmare is already over. He closes his eyes and thinks really hard about an hour from now—my thigh is no longer on fire, I’m eating kebab, all that lies ahead of me is an evening of mindless Internet browsing—
Nothing happens.
Ah, well. Worth a shot.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he pushes the clinic door open and limps inside, and—huh.
This is not what he expected at all.
He had pictured yet another labyrinth of sterile, white rooms permeated by the stench of ammonia and the balsa wood of tongue depressors, operated by surly medical staff restlessly counting down the seconds until their next smoke break.
What’s in front of him is...decidedly not that. For one thing, no doctor’s office he’s ever visited has enveloped him so strongly in the scent of patchouli…or had a koi pond in the lobby.
The walls are a soothing sage green, the furniture is made of a rich, deep mahogany, all earth tones and clean lines, and the air is filled with some sort of inoffensive, mildly pleasant pan flute music. The waiting room is pretty dead, save for a sharply dressed receptionist behind the front desk, but the room has a sleek, sophisticated feel that puts Isak on edge immediately. Sleek and sophisticated aren’t exactly qualities Isak can attribute to his usual haunts.
And now he’s starting to regret throwing on the first ratty clothes he could find that passed the sniff test, because the receptionist gets a bad case of judgy eyebrows when he cautiously approaches. He has a feeling that her crisp slacks and pressed shirt have never touched the floor for a second in their entire existences.
“Isak Valtersen?” she asks with forced pep that seems a little too much for a weekday. Like she’s wearing a shock collar, and if she didn’t show a certain level of zest, someone would zap her from a back room somewhere.
“Uh, yeah,” he replies, and he’s clearly the only one scheduled for the afternoon, since she knew who he was immediately. “I have a three o’clock appointment with someone named Sonja.”
Sonja, who has taken shape in his mind as an older woman just north of 50, with long, gray-streaked hair, veiny hands, and an inordinate number of rings on her fingers.
The receptionist pops that bubble almost immediately. “Sonja had to leave early," she says. “Family emergency. You’ll be seeing Even today.”
Even...as in, a man? Man Even?
Fuck.
Maybe it won’t be so bad, Isak thinks, as he nods his thanks to the receptionist and meanders over to the waiting area. Even’s probably just...some dude. A middle-aged guy, one of those older men who likes to keep it together, likes to meditate, whose skin is probably a little too tan and leathery from being outside all the time, with graying temples and a tacky puka shell necklace. Isak probably has nothing to worry about.
He’s managed to marginally relax and has started thumbing through the lobby’s magazine rack—filled with such inspiring titles as Chakra Today and Peace & Wellness—when a deep voice from behind him says, “Isak?”
Isak turns around, and—whoa.
Even is...not an old man.
Even is tall—God, so tall, he’s a goddamn tree—and he’s lean, with striking blue eyes, a plush mouth stretched in an inviting smile, and thick, soft-looking, light-colored hair that’s swept back off his forehead with a casual elegance that Isak wouldn’t be able to achieve if he spent three full days in front of mirror. He’s not dressed like Isak expected—there’s no uniform, there’s no polo shirt stamped with the clinic’s Eastern-inspired logo. Instead, he’s the picture of casual in worn jeans, a white t-shirt, and a faded, red zip-up hoodie.
Isak gapes unattractively.
This guy—this profoundly, unfairly, deeply good-looking guy—is going to...put his hands on Isak? On his thigh? And, like...move them around?
Listen, he’s just starting to maybe, possibly come close to beginning to acknowledge that he might not be one hundred percent heterosexual, all of the time. It’s slow going—okay, fine, it’s borderline glacial—but he’s getting there.
He didn’t need this today.
As Isak frantically smashes his internal panic button, Even’s eyes rove over Isak’s terrified form, broad smile faltering for a moment. But he immediately seems to shake himself out of it, and his grin is back as quickly as it had vanished.
He reaches out to shake Isak’s hand, completely unaffected by Isak’s spot-on impression of newborn deer in headlights, and Isak barely gets with the program in time to achieve a relatively normal reaction. He clasps Even’s hand, which is large and soft and smooth and just the right side of warm, and his handshake is gentle, but firm, and Isak’s face is on fire because this hand, this hand right here, is one of two that will soon be touching his body.
“Do you want to follow me?” Even asks, immediately turning and walking away, like he knows Isak would follow him to the ends of the fucking earth.
True enough, Isak thinks miserably, and tentatively moves to tag along like an obedient Labrador.
Even leads him into the back of the clinic, down a sleek corridor, and past a series of open, empty rooms, all of which seem to contain a massage table, a few chairs, a cart covered in bottles and vials, and a radio.
Even doesn’t stop until they reach the room at the very end of the hallway, after passing up at least seven unoccupied ones—which Isak thinks is a little weird, to be honest, but he lets it go, because he has bigger problems to deal with at the moment. Like not vomiting up his own lungs in fear.
Even immediately starts rifling through the implements on the wooden cart, parsing the vials and containers of stuff—oils?—like he’s looking for one in particular.
“Pulled hamstring, huh?” he says, startling Isak out of his helpless staring. Even’s fingers are long, and graceful, and distracting, okay?
Isak gulps. “Uh…yeah,” he manages to croak. “My right leg.”
Even turns his head to the side and shoots Isak a sympathetic smile. “Happened to me once,” he says. “It really sucks.”
Oh yeah? Did you have to get an awkward massage from the hottest guy you’d ever seen in real life? Did it suck that hard, buddy?
Isak tries to produce a smile, but he knows his face looks pinched and uncomfortable.
“How did it happen?” Even asks, choosing a few of the vials and setting them aside. And then he shrugs off his hoodie, and Isak’s ankles threaten to buckle under him, because Even’s shoulders are suddenly right there.
“Uh,” he begins, intelligently. “Football. Some assh—uh, I mean, another player tackled me too hard and I fell weird. And…here I am, I guess.”
Even hangs his hoodie on a swanky coat rack that looks like it belongs in a museum, the kind where Isak doesn’t understand any of the art, and turns to him with a smirk.
“Well, I’m sorry that some asshole did that to you, Isak,” he says, and Isak feels his face warm. “But I’m glad your doctor referred you here. These things are kind of our specialty, you know.” And then he winks.
Winks.
It’s becoming clearer by the nanosecond that Isak is not going to survive this day.
He has no idea how to respond to the winking, Jesus Christ, so he just sort of blushes and quirks his mouth and looks down like the pathetic jackass he is.
Once Even seems completely satisfied that everything is ready to go, he takes a step towards the door.
“Okay, Isak,” he says, and Isak’s really going to need him to stop saying his name, with his voice and his face and his everything. “I’m going to step out for a minute so you can take off your pants and underwear”—Isak nearly chokes—"and you can go ahead and lay down on the table and cover yourself with a towel.” He gestures to a stack of fluffy gray ones on the other side of the room. “You can leave your shirt on.”
Internally, Isak thanks a number of deities he doesn’t believe in for the fact that he can undress alone—and externally, he nods awkwardly at Even, who steps out of the room and closes the door softly behind him.
Slowly, and with slightly shaking hands, Isak removes his shoes and socks, and then pulls off his fraying jeans and sets them down on a nearby chair. Finally, steeling his nerves and trying not to think too much about how Even is right on the other side of the wall, he yanks down and kicks off his boxer briefs. He spots a small hole in one of the seams, and inexplicably wishes he had worn one of his better, newer pairs.
And then he’s naked from the waist down. It’s a thing. A thing that is happening.
He walks over and grabs a towel from the stack—and then it suddenly hits him.
Wait, am I supposed to lie face up or face down?
Even didn’t specify—why the hell didn’t he specify? What if Isak chooses wrong and has to awkwardly turn over while Even watches? What if the answer is incredibly obvious, and Even laughs the second he sees him?
Surely Even wants him on his stomach, since the hamstring in question is near the back of his thigh? But wouldn’t he have made that clear? What the fucking fuck am I supposed to do?
He must stand there for a solid minute, semi-nude and frozen in panic, because suddenly Even is knocking on the door and Isak jumps about three feet in the air.
“Ready, Isak?” he asks, and fuck fuck fuck I’m so not ready.
“Uh, hang on a sec,” he calls back, rushing over to the table and hopping on. He goes with his first instinct—laying on his stomach, with the towel covering his ass—and prays he’s made the right decision.
“Okay,” he says weakly, face hot and breathing a little too hard.
Even pops back into the room, and though Isak hears his cheerful gait, he can’t bring himself to look over at him in case he looks amused or horrified or grossed out. No, Isak’s fine right here, staring down through the massage table’s weird little face hole and wishing for death.
“Great,” Even says, like it’s no big deal, and walks over to his prepared vials.
Before he opens any of them, he turns on the small radio—for which Isak is glad, because he is the world’s worst conversation stimulator and the prospect of uncomfortable silence, while some hot dude massages him, is truly a waking nightmare. He’s expecting music to match the contemplative vibe of the clinic, but Even surprises him by flipping to a hip hop station.
“This work for you?” Even asks, looking over at him, and Isak’s brain is still screaming he is one flimsy towel away from your bare ass. Remember? Remember that?
“Uh, yeah,” Isak says, fidgeting and trying to sound a little less like he’s dying. “Um, interesting choice.”
Even huffs out a laugh. “How so?”
And, okay, now Isak’s embarrassed for even bringing it up. It’s official: silence may be awkward, but it’s clearly the only safe route.
He coughs to buy himself some time. “I was kind of expecting, I don’t know…whale sounds, or, like, Enya or something."
At that, Even barks out a genuine laugh, and Isak’s cheeks grow even warmer. “Enya?” he asks, amused. “Can’t remember the last time I heard Enya mentioned in conversation.”
Hell, Isak doesn’t even know the last time he heard her name. Where the fuck had that even come from?
“I can turn on some of the new age shit they have here, if you want,” Even continues, shrugging. “Sometimes it just seems like it’s trying too hard, you know? Like it’s so relaxing, it’s almost distracting.”
And the thing is, Isak can totally see that. Back when he had first moved out of his parents’ place, he had bought one of those fancy alarm clocks that plays relaxing atmospheric stuff—like crashing waves or babbling brooks or chirping crickets—and had tried it out a few times during a particularly rough period of insomnia. But he had ended up so conscious of its intended purpose to relax him that he had spent those nights tossing and turning, the exact opposite of relaxed.
It had been immensely frustrating, and he’d given the clock to Noora about a week after he’d bought it.
“No, that’s okay,” Isak says honestly. “I like this.”
Isak can’t see very well from his position on the table, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of Even smiling.
“Cool,” Even says. And then he takes a bottle of something and pours what looks like viscous oil into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm it up.
A rich, spicy scent fills the air almost immediately, thick and a little sharp, and it settles in his nose and all around him, a heady and pleasant sensation. He finds himself breathing it in and out, relaxing into the table just a little bit more—
He’s enjoying it so much, in fact, that when Even’s hands first brush his foot, he startles violently, so hard the table rattles and Even jerks his hand back.
And yup, Isak already wants to die, and it’s only been fifteen seconds. Even sounds suspiciously like he’s concealing a chuckle.
“Sorry,” Even says, but Isak barely hears him, because Even’s oil-slick hands are suddenly touching him, holy shit, sweeping up and down his foot, thumbs digging into his arch, and fuck, that feels incredible.
A small voice in Isak’s head asks why Even would even need to work on his feet to treat a pulled hamstring muscle, but that voice is easily silenced because all his energy is now concentrated on preventing a grunt or a sigh from escaping his mouth.
Because no one has ever really touched his feet before, not like this…and it’s weird, but at the same time, it’s just really fucking good.
Even’s hands are warm, gentle, and velvet-soft, but his squeezes are firm, and the pads of his fingers sometimes dip between Isak’s toes—it’s probably an accident, but it makes Isak shiver.
“Pressure feel good?” Even asks casually, and Isak wants to laugh, because it’s already the best thing he’s ever felt and they’ve barely gotten started.
Secretly, he thinks Even could go even harder, really press in and brush right up against that knife’s edge of pain, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to say any of that. A mumbled “mmhm” is all he can manage.
But it’s almost like Even can read his mind, what the fuck, because suddenly his thumbs are digging in with more force where Isak’s feet are sorest (he didn’t even know his feet were sore at all), and before Isak can stop himself, he’s letting out a small uh sound, soft and breathy and totally involuntary.
He freezes, paralyzed by sheer embarrassment; he can’t believe he allowed his control to slip so far, so fast. But if Even had noticed Isak’s moment of indignity, he doesn’t let on. He just keeps going, shifting over to give the other foot the same treatment.
When it seems like they’ve moved past that awkward moment, Isak allows his body to relax into the table a little bit more. You can do this. If you focus, you can make it through this thing without needing to flee the country afterwards.
But as soon as he’s starting to feel looser, Even’s hands slide up from his feet to his ankles, and suddenly, Isak is alert. Even’s hands are so big and wide and warm, and the slick glide of the oil against his skin is…kind of sexy.
And woah there, okay, time to derail that train of thought right fucking now.
Even pauses his ministrations to pour more oil on his hands and warm it up again, and then he’s back on him, imparting firm strokes up and down the back of Isak’s calves, and wow, he had no idea he’d been carrying so much tension there.
He wills himself to breathe. Even’s touches are comfortable, comforting, but there’s a hint of something else there, too—a quiet strength, a potential energy simmering under the surface, like he’s keeping himself in control. Like he’s holding back.
Suddenly, Isak’s traitorous mind conjures up an image of Even, eyes wild, yanking Isak down the table towards him and forcefully pushing his legs apart, like he knows what he wants, like there’s only one thing he wants…
And oh fuck, did he just feel his dick give a twitch? Shit, shit.
Close your eyes, think of your grandmother, think of Trump, think of decomposing bodies and wriggling maggots and Ned Stark’s death—
“You’re pretty tense, huh?” Even says, effectively cutting off Isak’s attempt to calm down. It sounds like there’s a smile in his voice, and if that’s Even’s way of getting him to relax, he has sorely misjudged the situation, because Isak’s face is a fucking hothouse tomato and his entire body now feels tight as a bowstring.
“Is this your first time doing this?” Even asks, and Isak tries—fails—to not think about him asking that exact question in a different context.
He can only nod.
Even sweeps his hands up Isak’s legs again, adding a little more pressure this time, and Isak can’t hold in a quiet grunt.
“It’s okay,” Even presses on. “You’re taking it really well."
Isak almost chokes on his own tongue.
Even ratchets up the intensity one more time, pushing and pulling with enough force to make certain parts of Isak take notice again, make him grip the table with white knuckles—God, Even’s hands are so big and capable and they’re all over him, and there’s just no escaping how amazing this is, how right it feels to have a man’s hands on his body.
Especially this man, whose touch lights up every nerve it grazes.
How was Isak’s dick ever going to be able to ignore this? It’s never been a paragon of self control, even at the best of times.
Even’s fingers brush the backs of Isak’s knees, a tickle against sensitive skin, and Isak silently keens at the shock of it, biting his lip until he tastes copper. And then Even’s hands are gliding up, up, up, towards the backs of Isak’s thighs, and Isak honestly doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.
Because his blood is rushing south to his dick and north to his face, and he can feel himself skirting that razor’s edge of control, ready to slip, ready to ruin everything.
He’s so focused on calming himself down, on bracing for escalation, that he doesn’t notice Even lean up and over him until it’s too late.
“Hey,” Even says softly, and it’s close enough to Isak that he can feel the puff of warm air caress the back of his neck. Isak hears his own breath hitch, so he can only imagine that Even heard it, too. “I’m going to start on the hamstring now, okay?”
Isak catches a whiff of a different scent, then, this one a little muskier, a little earthier—but he honestly has no recollection of Even switching to a different oil.
“Okay,” he says, his voice a near whisper, instantly drawn to whatever new product Even’s using, trying to be subtle as he pulls it into his lungs.
But then, when Even moves away from him towards the other end of the table, the scent disappears. And then Isak realizes—that’s just how Even smells.
Despite the intimate touching, it’s the closest Isak’s gotten to coming all over the table.
And then Even’s gentle hands are slipping up his right knee and up the back of his injured thigh. Isak exhales, heat blossoming under his skin, so intense he can feel it in his fingertips. The pressure Even’s using isn’t much, but Isak can feel it deep, and this time, there is absolutely nothing he can do to hold in a low, guttural moan.
It isn’t porn loud, but it’s not super quiet, either, and now would be an absolutely fantastic time for a world-ending earthquake to rip a hole in the ground so he can plummet to his gruesome end.
And the dumbest part is, it’s literally never happened before—he’s always been incredibly careful about making noise during his special alone time, terrified of his parents or his roommates overhearing him, sure that they’ll somehow just know that he’s fantasizing about hard planes and sharp angles, and not soft curves. He holds in every noise to the point where he feels his chest might burst, goes painfully slow to muffle every squelch of his hand.
But now, in this moment, he’s never felt more out of control.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, stupidly. Why draw more attention do it, you complete and utter failure? Even probably thinks you’re a freak, he’d probably rather be anywhere else than in this room with you—
“Don’t be,” Even replies, just as soft and a little rough, and the sound goes straight to Isak’s dick like there’s a direct conduit between them. Like some sort of city planner had engineered a taxpayer-funded bullet train between Even’s throat and Isak’s crotch and you know what? This metaphor isn’t helping, Isak, get it together.
Even’s hands are smoothing higher up his thigh, now, digging in a bit, and Isak finally feels his injury give him a bit of grief. He inhales sharply at the sudden, throbbing ache, and Even hums apologetically.
“Sorry,” he says. He lessens his grip, just a little, and his palms slip down and around to the front of Isak’s thigh, and then back again, and suddenly Isak couldn’t give less of a fuck about his injury because it’s suddenly so good—just a hint of pain, but it almost makes it better—and yup, Isak’s erection isn’t going away anytime soon.
It’s starting to become really tempting to grind his dick against the massage table, just a bit, just for some marginal relief, please please please—but Isak swallows, grits his teeth, and orders his restless hips to stay still, goddamn it.
Slowly, methodically, Even works on Isak’s problem leg for what feels like hours but is probably only a handful of minutes, his competent touch taking Isak apart in tiny increments.
Despite the extensive literature to the contrary he saw in the lobby, Isak knows a massage can’t really heal him, exactly. But every smooth, slick pass of Even’s palms feels like it’s leeching tension from his thigh, and it’s fucking exquisite.
At one particularly painful sweep, Isak whimpers, and he hears Even murmur, “there it is,” before repeating the motion again, and again, until the worst of the pain subsides and Isak is sighing audibly and shifting like he can’t help it. The motion causes the edge of his t-shirt to ride up and he feels cool air hit his lower back, and even though the towel is still in place, he feels more than a little exposed.
Behind him, Even coughs—but that has to be a coincidence, right?
But then his hands are skating even further up Isak’s thigh, oh my God, until his fingertips are brushing the edge of said towel—the only thing between Even and where you want him most, Isak’s brain offers unhelpfully—and suddenly Isak is hard as a rock, gripping the table and breathing sharp.
Even is so close to touching him somewhere no one else ever has, and Isak wonders what it would feel like if those hands slipped a little higher than appropriate, under the towel, gripping, spreading—
He’s never been so close to hyperventilating, or wanted anything more in his life.
Thankfully, frustratingly, Even doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he elects for glorious, full sweeps up and down the backs of Isak’s legs, running his palms from upper thigh all the way down to his still-tingling feet—and then the slow, agonizing glide back up again.
Isak’s hard-on is becoming almost impossible to ignore, now. He shifts a little, trying to relieve the tiniest bit of the pressure building inside him that’s making him tremble, making him crazy.
He thinks he can do it without Even noticing—but when he moves, it’s just too good, he’s just…done for. The overwhelming combination of his dick rubbing against the table and Even’s talented hands roaming his body force a loud moan from his lips, full-bodied and deep.
Oh God.
He flushes with shame, sure that Even’s actually going to flee this time, if not march over and punch him in the face.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a loud, swift exhale through his nose, and his fingers toy at the edge of the towel again, flexing and stuttering indecisively—so different from his earlier confident touches—and Isak is sweating now, and everything is sharp and intense and he just wants Even to do something, anything, he’d let him do anything—
Even pulls away. And Isak kind of wants to cry.
“Turn over, please,” Even says, a little choked, and oh fuck. Isak freezes in panic, eyes wide.
He didn’t think—he never thought he’d actually have to lie face up, since his hamstring is near the back of his thigh, and…oh God, oh God, there’s no way he can turn over now—he’s fully hard. They’ll call security, they’ll arrest him for public indecency. Worse, he’ll be utterly humiliated in front of the hottest guy he’s even seen, the first guy to ever touch him in a way that meant anything.
Isak squeezes his eyes shut, begging himself not to spill the hot tears of embarrassment that are welling up in his eyes.
He doesn’t move for a few solid moments.
“…Isak?” Even asks searchingly, and Isak makes an agonized, animal sound and shakes his head, just a little.
“I…don’t think I can,” he whispers, ashamed.
There’s a few beats of silence, before Even speaks, voice tentative and unsure. “Does it hurt?” he asks, sounding worried. “Did I hurt you?”
And Isak kind of feels like giggling—he only wishes that were the case. He’d gladly break his own leg right here on the spot if it meant Even never found out about this.
But he can’t let Even keep thinking this is his fault—it’s Isak, who’s a problem. Isak, who’s wrong.
“No,” he says softly.
Even inhales sharply. “Oh,” he says, and there it is. Even knows, now.
He’s going to freak out, going to yell at him, going to call Isak a freak or a homo or something far, far worse, and Isak doesn’t know if he can bear it.
Several moments of silence pass, until Isak just wants Even to react already, to scream at him to get out, because he can’t take the excruciating wait any longer.
But finally, he hears Even walk around to the other side of the table, where Isak’s face is hidden in the circle of his arms. And then Even is crouching down so they’re close to eye level, and here it comes, Even’s going to hit him—
“Hey,” Even says, and there’s no anger there. Instead, his voice is soft, sweet, placating. “It’s okay."
Isak scoffs. “How the fuck is it okay?” he snaps, because there is nothing okay about this. Even should have run for the hills a long time ago.
Even’s eyes dart around like they’re taking in as much of Isak’s face as they can, and he gives Isak a small smile.
“Well, first of all,” he starts, “it happens to a lot of guys.”
Isak has a hard time believing that, so he rolls his eyes a little bit, irritated and humiliated that Even has to talk him down like he’s some fussy toddler.
But Even keeps going.
“And second of all…” He reaches up to brush a lock of hair away from Isak’s sweaty face, and then gently cups Isak’s cheek, hand warm from skin-on-skin contact and soft from the oil. Their gazes meet, and Even’s clear eyes are dark, serious, intense.
Isak can’t breathe.
And then Even leans in close, lips against Isak’s ear, and says: “I am, too.”
Time stops.
Could Isak have possibly heard that right? Did Even actually mean—?
And then Even is standing up, and taking one of Isak’s hands in his and pulling it to the front of his jeans and—oh.
He wasn’t lying.
Even is hot, and big, and hard under his fingers, and Isak lets out a sob like he can’t help it.
He slowly, shakily, rises up on his other forearm to get a better look, and the tent in Even’s jeans is obscene, and wonderful, and Isak wants it, he wants it so bad, wants it under him and against him and inside of him.
“Please,” he asks in a small voice, and he doesn’t even know which one of those things he’s asking for, not really, but the sheer need clawing at him is almost too much to take.
It’s enough to spur Even into action.
He pulls away and strides back to the other end of the table, and suddenly he’s fucking manhandling Isak over onto his back—the towel dropping to the floor, immediately forgotten—and grabbing Isak by the ankles and yanking him down the table so his ass is at the edge. Isak barely has a moment to remember his fantasy from earlier before Even is pulling Isak upright, stepping between his legs, and crushing their mouths together.
It’s hot, it’s so hot, and so much, and Even wastes little time before he’s coaxing Isak’s lips open with his tongue and slipping inside, warm and wet. Isak moans into his mouth, can’t believe this is actually happening, and Even gives a low groan in response, his hands sliding under Isak’s t-shirt, over his hips, up his chest, and then back down to hitch his uninjured leg up and around Even’s waist, bringing their hips flush together.
Isak lets out another desperate sound at the feel of his bare skin against the denim of Even’s jeans and feels his head loll back, exposing the pale column of his neck, and Even immediately latches on with his lips and tongue and teeth, and Isak doesn’t know who starts it, but they start rolling their hips together, and fuck, it’s good, it’s amazing, it’s the best thing he’s ever felt, he wants to chase it, he never wants it to end.
“So hot,” Even murmurs between open-mouthed kisses against his throat. “Wanted you the moment I saw you.”
Isak flushes. He badly wants to say, “I wanted you, too,” but can’t bring himself to speak. Instead, he leans back, steels his nerves and whips his shirt up and over his head, dropping it to the floor.
Even stares for a moment, and then lets out another needy groan.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says, and all Isak can do is whimper and bite his lip. It’s the only move he has, really.
Luckily for him, the sound seems to spur Even on more—he picks up the pace, grinding them together with purpose, and the devastating friction against his dick is just the right side of too much. He can’t help but feel awfully, magnificently dirty like this, completely naked while Even still has all his clothes on, and it only compels his hips to rut harder, faster, and Even’s hot mouth is back on his, and he’s close, he’s so close—
Even drags his lips away, across his cheek, and over to Isak’s ear. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice shot. “That’s it, come on.”
He tugs on Isak’s earlobe with his teeth at the same time he reaches down and wraps his hand loosely around him, and then Isak’s tumbling over the edge, he’s done, it’s over.
He cries out and shakes in Even’s strong arms, body trembling through wave after wave and shooting hot and sticky between them.
And then Even’s letting out one more quiet “fuck,” and he’s shaking, too, his grip on Isak’s thigh going tight and his hips jerking against him, and Isak did that, Isak made him come, holy fuck.
Did that really just happen?
Even brings their sweaty foreheads together as they come down and their breathing slows, wiping some errant come off on his shirt. And then he’s putting Isak’s thigh down gently, cupping his face in both hands, and brushing tender, soft kisses against his mouth.
It’s somehow even more exhilarating than anything else they’ve done.
“I…wow,” Isak breathes out when Even pulls back, a little lost and more aware than ever of just how naked he is, but also…feeling incredibly safe in the circle of Even’s embrace, put at ease by his scent and the rich smell of the massage oil still permeating the room.
Even laughs. “Yeah, wow is right,” he says, smiling wide. It’s the first time Isak has really seen his smile, up close and personal, and man, it knocks him right on his ass.
“I didn’t really mean to do that,” Even says, letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “I’m sorry if it was…if I went too far.”
I didn’t really mean to do that.
And fuck, Isak should have known. He feels the warmth get sucked out of the room almost immediately, and he shrinks in on himself and looks away, can’t meet Even’s eyes. He knew Even couldn’t have possibly wanted him like that, he fucking knew it. It must have been a fleeting moment of madness—Even was pent up, he was looking for a distraction, a cheap thrill.
And poor, confused Isak was there, ready and willing.
“Oh,” Isak says quietly. “I…right. That’s…that’s okay.” He moves to pull away from Even, already peering around the room to see where his shirt landed. “I’ll just…get my stuff, and—”
Even’s eyes go wide and panicked. “No!” he says quickly, bringing Isak back against the heat of his body. “No, I…I’m glad it happened.”
He looks down, almost shy, and it’s so completely at odds with everything Isak has seen from him so far, it’s almost shocking. “It’s just…” Even starts, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I had planned to maybe, ask you for coffee or something? I feel like I kind of did this backwards.”
And wait—what?
“I had this whole meet-cute in my head,” Even continues, “Like a romantic comedy, something with Meg Ryan, I don’t know, but then you were here and looking…like that…and you were just…wow.” Even shakes his head, like he can’t believe it. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Isak can feel himself blush all the way down to his toes. Is this…actually happening? Because this, this right here, is so, so much more unbelievable than the sex they just had. And the sex was pretty fucking unbelievable.
“I, um, don’t really do this kind of thing,” Even says. “Ever.”
Isak looks down at his hands, which are resting on Even’s hips, and can’t stop the corner of his mouth from quirking up.
“I don’t, either,” he says, and boy, isn’t that the understatement of the century?
But Even doesn’t need to know that, just yet.
“Um,” he says hesitantly, confidence buoyed by Even’s newfound shyness. “How would…how would you have asked me, if we hadn’t…”
Even actually blushes, and holy God, is it incredible. “I, uh, I was going to…spell the question out on your back with my finger at the end of the session,” he says, embarrassed, and Isak is floored. “…Which I’m just now realizing is kind of impractical and has a very high potential for failure, so. Guess I didn’t really think it through.”
He smiles sheepishly, and Isak melts, just a little.
“You could have just asked me,” he says, and he’s never been more certain of anything. “I, um…I would have said yes.”
When he looks up, Even is beaming down at him, and then Even is bringing his hand up to cup he back of Isak’s neck, drawing their gazes level,
“Yeah?” he asks, smiling, awed.
Yeah.
Isak nods.
Even leans in and brushes another kiss against his lips, pillowy mouth sweet and sure against Isak’s. When they finally pull away, Isak notices the horrifying mess between them and huffs out a laugh.
“I, um…I think I ruined your shirt.”
Even looks down and only just now seems to notice Isak’s come spattered across his front—but he just grins, laugh lines crinkling handsomely around his eyes, and he leans in to recapture Isak’s mouth
“Worth it,” he says.
###
They’ve finished cleaning up and Isak has just pulled his shirt back on when Even seems to remember something.
“Wait, how’s your hamstring?”
What hamstring? Isak thinks stupidly, before remembering the reason he was there at all, Jesus Christ.
“Uh…I don’t know,” he says honestly. Because he had kind of forgotten about it, and, like an idiot, hasn’t really been paying it any attention.
Even laughs, delighted, before schooling his face into a mask of seriousness.
“You should probably come back for a follow up,” he says, with the tone of a Serious Medical Professional. The mischevious glint in his eye kind of gives him away, though.
Isak tries hard to hold back his smile.
It doesn’t really work.
“I just might,” he says, trying his hardest for coy. “Or maybe…do you make house calls?” God, I’m so bad at this.
Even seems to disagree, though, because his eyes go dark and hooded again, and they drop to Isak’s mouth almost immediately like they haven’t yet gotten their fill.
“I think that can be arranged,” he says gruffly, and then he’s kissing Isak again, and Isak’s feeling no pain whatsoever.
###
And when he leaves the clinic—with the promise of a coffee date the next day and a very suspicious look from the receptionist—Isak checks his messages and sees that Magnus has left a text in the group chat.
Magnus: how’d it go
He can’t help but smirk as he types out his reply.
Isak: happy ending