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There are some days where Ivan doesn’t get out of bed.
His room stays cast in dark shadows, void of light shining in from behind yellow curtains, a casket-like sense of stillness that locks everything in place. Almost like someone had gone around superglue in hand sticking menial objects to bedside tables, sewing bedsheets impossibly close together to encapsulate Ivan like a cocoon where he lies motionless if not for steady breathing. No amount of tugging can free him. And Lovro really tries.
It’s not that Ivan doesn’t want to get up; it’s that he can’t.
A knee locks into place while he sleeps, the muscles constricting tighter and tighter until he wakes to the bore down of pressure so harsh it stings. The position he falls asleep in seems so comfortable while the moon shines high up in the sky but by morning sun the same placement of limbs becomes a prison. Ivan’s long since given up on trying to silence the winces that escape with each movement. He makes no effort to pull back painful sighs no matter who else resides in the room. Everyone knows by now how slow his knee drags; hovering at the back of gatherings meandering down streets, always the first to pull a chair over, never one to pass up an aspirin when offered.
Though Lovro doesn’t think anyone else notices how much pain Ivan is always in. It’s there in the back of people’s minds, of course, where they remain vigilant to any complaints of discomfort said out loud. But if nothing is said then Ivan’s knee fades into forgotten trivia in passing conversation. Not for Lovro who hangs back to walk with Ivan, who be-lines for the first chair he sees in shitty night clubs rather than heading up to the bar, and he’s started a habit of keeping over the counter pain meds in at least one pocket of every jacket he owns. Lovro watches too much for his own good. He always sees the first wince before Ivan has time to cover the way his forehead creases, the way his face crumples like he’s one bad step away from crying. Sonja used to do the same.
Some days are easier than others. Some days still come with smiles and Ivan’s soft voice trying to joke about breakfast food for the hundredth time. There are still light touches to Lovro’s face, to his fingers when a glass of water is handed over. Touches Lovro tries his best not to lean into for too long not wanting to push the older teenager further than he can handle.
Most days, though, are like today.
Lovro goes the full six hours of school without Ivan; he spends free lessons sitting in solitude on the orange couch where Jakov throws little pretzel pieces at him for a reaction, scoffing when Lovro does nothing besides check unread text messages. Hoping, wishing, that Ivan would reply back with something, anything at all. He rattles off excuses to teachers, to his other friends, making up white lies about Ivan coming down with a cold or needing to help a family member move into a new apartment. He lies through his teeth knowing the truth would be rewarded with scrutiny of the naive. Knee pain is no reason to skip school, they would say, and Lovro would have to nod like he’s the one responsible. So he chooses solitude instead.
It’s hard to describe to people just how isolating the ache of formerly shattered bones can be even when seemingly healed.
When he climbs up the stairs to Ivan’s apartment the door is already unlocked from the night before, or from Ivan’s carelessness knowing his parents are just below. Lovro already knows what to expect when he pushes open the bedroom door but that doesn’t make the sight any easier on his scared eyes.
Ivan’s curled up in the fetal position. His head tucked into his left elbow to make up for his pillow being too far across the bed. All too small for someone his height, someone as confident and proud as Ivan. Every time Lovro sees him like this the image of an injured bird comes to mind; wings snapped, spindly legs much too thin to stand, it’s feathers crushed under the weight of a foe long gone. Ivan doesn’t suit being a dead bird in the centre of an asphalt road with his bones all snapped. Lovro’s doesn’t have to let his presence be known either because Ivan’s eyes are open, staring at him standing in the doorway.
So Lovro begins the system they had in place. The two had never spoken about it to each other, they had never laid out anything on the table of their relationship and insisted the other takes. But some parts of Lovro enjoy doing this for Ivan. He picks up a glass from the bedside table, filling it under the kitchenette tap as he reaches for one of the already opened blister packs of pain meds and on his journey back to the bedroom he carries a Josipa Lisac CD in his free hand. Lovro slides the disc in and waits for the familiar notes to float out.
“Lovro.” Is what he hears instead.
“Hm?”
The glass is placed back where it was found now accompanied by the meds. Lovro perches himself on the space of the bed where Ivan’s legs aren’t curled up. His own knee rests close enough to Ivan’s forehead for one swift movement to end with the two touching at last.
“Turn it off.” Ivan murmurs.
He tries to turn from Lovro but it must have been his first attempt at movement all day because the gasp of pain escaping his lips makes Lovro’s ears ring.
It’s one of those days after all.
Lovro ignores the request entirely. Selfishly he wants to hear the woman’s voice ringing out, bouncing sound waves off the walls, he wants to hum along to the one song he’s memorised the tune to. On the other hand Lovro knows Ivan will feel better with the music on even if it takes him a little while longer to appreciate the effort.
“How bad is it?” Lovro asks.
“Worse than it looks.”
“I know.” Lovro gently runs his hand through Ivan’s short hair, taking it in when Ivan almost smiles. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
The pain has always been worse than it looks; underlying, creeping in, chronic as written in charts by his doctor, persistent. Ivan likes to casually mention past friends who would shrug off his needs as if his knee were nothing more than a loose stone in a shoe. He brings up school trips when he was younger where traipsing around museums would leave his knee aching and screaming only for rests on uncomfortable benches to last no more than five minutes. And each time Ivan wanders up the stairs to his own home he makes a silly comment to Lovro about how the next step will surely dislocate his kneecap for good this time. Lovro’s never laughed at that one.
This is how Ivan’s pain is. Always there no matter the occasion. It’s not like he could apply for time off or a long weekend pain free.
“You hungry? There’s a new place I saw down the street, I can go check it out.”
“No.” Ivan says.
“It’s not a problem, I’m not going out of my way.”
“It’s fine, Lovro.”
“You don’t look fine.”
This time Ivan manages to find enough strength, or just enough annoyance to ignore the rest of his problems, to actually turn away from the younger teenager. Lovro’s fingers loose purchase in his hair and the feeling goes missed instantly.
Lovro slides off the bed to land on the cold floor leaning against it instead. It’s now he realises he hasn’t even takes his shoes off yet. As much as Lovro hates being shoved aside by Ivan’s angst he can’t bring himself to leave the room, not wanting to blow the situation up into something it’s not. Ivan’s not mad at him, Lovro repeats to himself like a mantra, but at the ache in his knee. Though it’s hard to remind himself that the two feelings aren’t the exact same.
Most days where Ivan can’t sustain enough strength to move, not even to sit up in bed, Lovro finds himself moving about the apartment like it’s new to him. He wanders between the three rooms and picks at odd objects he sees; Lovro seems to find something new each time. He’ll pick up unfamiliar CDs, inspect mugs in the cupboard that looked unused if not for chips in the rims, find coins that have fallen from out turned jean pockets and he’ll stack them neatly nearby Ivan’s keys on the side. Lovro haunts the apartment like Ivan doesn’t know he’s there. Sometimes on better days Lovro is able to bring one of Ivan’s possessions to him to ask the story behind it.
Lovro knows today he won’t get any answers.
“Lovro?” Ivan quietly calls.
“Yeah? I’m here.” He kneels on his knees next to the bed, sad to be on the wrong side of it.
“I think… I think this is one of my bad days.”
Lovro nods in understanding before realising Ivan can’t see the gesture.
Lovro, as elegant as he is so not far from a stumbling idiot, climbs onto the bed to sit against the headboard. Ivan doesn’t take up much of the mattress when he’s like this so it’s not hard for Lovro to tentatively reach out to press a hand to the older boy’s shoulder. Thankfully Ivan melts into the light touch. It’s something.
“We all have them.” Lovro smiles small.
Ivan hums low in response.
He rolls onto his back. Almost a mimicry of Lovro’s own position but without leaning back, instead Ivan moves his head to pillow at Lovro’s hip. Light touches of contact down the pair’s bodies where wrists meat awkwardly angled ribs is more than enough for them both. And Lovro would hate himself if Ivan strained too hard just to rest his head in his lap.
“It’s getting worse,” Ivan closes his eyes when he speaks. “Not just today, the past few weeks it’s been more often. But I think you make it better, too.”
“Really?”
Lovro traces the goosebumps that rise up and down along the length of Ivan’s arm, using his fingernails to scratch dull into the skin there. He likes how Ivan breathes in rhythm to the movement.
“Really. Like some human-shaped pain relief.” Ivan laughs, his first smile of the day. “Paracetalovro.”
“I’m glad that I… can be that for you.”
Lovro watches Ivan’s face drain of any held stress. His eyelids are soft where they rest, showing how still and calm he becomes with the weight of another body right next to his. Lovro watches Ivan more than he would like to admit whenever he’s like this. Maybe one day Lovro thinks the stillness of it all will be gone; and how Lovro hates to imagine the day where there’s only pain behind Ivan’s eyes.
There are days where Ivan can’t get out of bed. The pain in his knee is so severe it feels like the room crumbles in to crush him in the aftermath of an earthquake. But if anyone’s going to lie under the rubble with Ivan it’ll be Lovro. He’ll scream for help under the concrete crushing them both for the sake of Ivan. He doesn’t think anyone would understand just how bad it gets, how much the ache takes from Ivan when the weather changes and pressure builds in the injured cracks of his bones, or how muscles squeeze like snakes wrapping around pretty birds still trying to sing their sweet songs. Limping walks never look as bad to those on the outside as they do the morning after to Ivan lying still in his bed. The sight swells hearts.
So on these days when the world crumbles, and Ivan can barely breathe enough to stretch his knee, Lovro will crawl under bedsheets to lie there with him.