Work Text:
Lovro is doodling in the margin of his notebook. The air in the classroom feels heavy in that specific end-of-day way, the sunlight slanting through the windows. Half of the class is already mentally gone when the teacher clears her throat.
“I’ve decided,” she begins, which is never a good sign, “that we need something different next week.”
Some of the students look up warily but Lovro doesn't.
“For Monday,” the teacher announces, “you’ll read The Little Prince and prepare a short reflection on it."
Lovro finally looks up and stares at the board. There's a ripple through the classroom. Somebody actually groans.
“You’re joking,” he mutters under his breath. Why would he have to read a children's book in high school?
“For Monday,” she says, underlining the title on the board twice, “you will read it entirely. It is short, but that is not an excuse to read it superficially.”
Lovro can hear some of his classmates laughing nervously.
“This book,” she continues, turning to face them, “is not a children’s story. It is a philosophical text disguised as one.”
Lovro exhales slowly. Of course it is.
“You will prepare a reflection,” she adds. “Not a summary, a reflection. And I expect depth.”
When Lovro hears that, he drops his forehead lightly onto his desk. Depth. From a book with drawings of sheep.
The teacher starts walking between the rows, placing slim paperbacks on desks. When she reaches Lovro, she sets it down carefully in front of him. He stares at the cover and notices a tiny blond boy on a small planet. It looks weirdly harmless.
“I want you to think about what it means to love something that is unique because it is yours,” she adds before moving on.
Around him, classmates are already flipping through the pages.
“It’s like fifty pages,” someone whispers.
“It has drawings,” another says. “We’re saved.”
Lovro picks it up reluctantly. He notices it is thin, but thin books are always the dangerous ones. They're the ones that sneak up on you and make you feel things before you even realize what’s happening.
He flips it open and sees the first illustration is of a hat. Or… not a hat. He frowns. There's already something symbolic in it.
“This book,” the teacher says from the front again, as if sensing resistance from the class, “will seem simple. It is not. If you think it is simple, you haven't understood it.”
By the time the bell rings, half the class is joking about how easy the assignment will be. Lovro slides the book into his bag carefully. Something about the way the teacher looked at him specifically when she said that last part made him feel certain that he is doomed.
By the time Lovro steps out of the school building, the day has softened into that quiet, golden hour. The courtyard is still loud with students laughing, doors slamming, someone calling out a last-minute goodbye, but it all feels slightly distant. The book sits in his bag, thin and unassuming, yet somehow impossible to ignore.
He keeps thinking about the way their teacher underlined the title and how she’d said it wasn’t just a children’s story. He keeps replaying that strangely pointed comment on loving something because it is yours. It lingers in his head longer than it should.
He adjusts the strap of his bag and heads toward the gate, scanning the crowd almost automatically.
Ivan is exactly where he always waits, leaning against the metal fence like he has nowhere else to be. Lovro notices his sleeves are pushed up just enough to look effortless about it. The sunlight catches in his hair when he tilts his head up, and when he spots Lovro, his expression changes into something warmer.
“You look like you’ve just received tragic news,” Ivan says as Lovro approaches, pushing off the fence.
Lovro huffs out a quiet breath. “Last period.”
“That bad?”
“Literature.”
Ivan makes a sympathetic sound, though there’s amusement in his eyes. “Ah.”
They start walking without really deciding to, falling into step along the sidewalk. Lovro debates whether to mention it. He could complain about homework in general or make a joke and let it go, but the book is there, pressing at the edge of his thoughts. And for some reason, he wants to know what Ivan will say about it. He lets out a small sigh.
“We got assigned something,” he says, trying to sound indiffent.
"That explains it." Ivan glances at him.
Lovro hesitates for a second before slipping his hand into his bag. His fingers brush against the thin paperback. He pauses shortly, as if reconsidering, then he pulls it out. The cover catches the warm light as he holds it between them.
For a split second, Lovro expects him to laugh, but instead, Ivan’s eyebrows lift in something that looks almost like surprise.
“No way,” he says, and there’s genuine warmth in his voice now. “You’re reading that?”
“We’re forced to,” Lovro corrects quickly. “For Monday.”
Ivan takes the book from his hands without asking, his fingers absentmindedly brushing Lovro’s in the process. He turns the book over carefully, like it’s something familiar.
“I love this one,” Ivan says.
Lovro actually stops walking.
“You what?”
Ivan looks up at him, amused. “I love it.”
Lovro stares at him like he just confessed to something hard to believe. “It’s a children’s book.”
Ivan tilts his head. “Lovro, you read manga.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Oh?” Ivan smiles slowly. “Explain to me how manga is high art, but this isn’t."
“Well, for starters, it doesn’t pretend to be deep while drawing sheep in boxes.”
Ivan laughs, enough that Lovro feels oddly defensive. “You haven’t even opened it,” he says.
“I skimmed it in class.” Lovro replies.
“That doesn’t count.”
Lovro crosses his arms, trying to reclaim some dignity. “It’s about a tiny blond kid and a flower. I think I’ve grasped the complexity.”
Ivan’s expression softens slightly, though there’s still teasing in his eyes.
“It’s about leaving something you love because you don’t understand it yet,” he says quietly. “And realizing too late that it was the only thing that mattered.”
Lovro’s stomach tightens in a way he doesn’t appreciate. They resume walking, but slower now.
“You really like it?” Lovro asks, trying to sound neutral.
Ivan nods, glancing down at the cover again. “Yeah. It’s simple, but not really. It’s one of those books that hits differently depending on when you read it.”
Lovro studies him. There’s something uncharacteristically sincere in his tone.
“It’s still for kids,” Lovro insists, weaker this time.
Ivan smiles faintly. “The best stories are.”
He hands the book back, but doesn’t let go immediately. “You know what? Come over,” he adds, almost casually. “We’ll read it together.”
Lovro narrows his eyes. “You just want to laugh at me when I say it’s overrated.”
Ivan shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe I want to see your face when you realize it’s not.”
"Fine," Lovro agrees. "But only because I could really use some help."
"I want to see what you think about the rose.”
Lovro blinks. “The rose?”
Ivan’s smile turns just slightly, knowing. “You’ll see.”
They walk a little farther in comfortable silence, the book now tucked under Lovro’s arm. Ivan is still smiling faintly to himself, like he’s privately pleased about something.
“So,” Lovro says after a moment, gesturing vaguely down the street, “are we actually going to read it now?”
Ivan shrugs. “Unless you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of a children’s book. We could take a cab,” Lovro finishes. “It’ll be faster.”
Ivan stops walking and a slow grin spreads across his face. “A cab?”
“Yes.” Lovro replies.
Ivan looks personally offended. “Lovro.”
“What?”
“You’re choosing a cab. Over my scooter.”
Ivan laughs, then nudges him lightly. “Come on. It’s not even that far.”
Lovro hesitates because he knows what riding on the Tomos means. It means sitting too close and it means hands somewhere, waist, shoulders, something that can’t be played off as accidental.
“I don’t have a helmet,” Lovro points out.
Ivan reaches into the storage compartment and pulls out a second one triumphantly. “I am prepared.”
Of course he is. Lovro sighs like he’s deeply inconvenienced, even though his heart is beating faster for reasons that have nothing to do with traffic safety.
“Fine,” he mutters.
Ivan’s smile looks strangely victorious. “Good.”
The engine hums quietly when Ivan starts it. He swings one leg over easily, settling into place, then he glances back over his shoulder. “You coming?”
Lovro steps closer and he puts the helmet on, fingers fumbling slightly with the strap. Ivan reaches back without looking and tightens it for him, brushing his knuckles briefly along Lovro’s jaw.
“Can’t have you flying off,” Ivan says lightly.
He climbs on behind him, hesitating only for a second before placing his hands carefully at Ivan’s sides. The scooter shifts slightly under their weight. Ivan looks back again. “You’ll need to hold on tighter than that.”
“I am holding on.”
Ivan raises an eyebrow. Lovro huffs and slides his hands forward, resting them around Ivan’s waist. The contact is immediate and Ivan stills for half a second before revving the engine.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No,” Lovro answers automatically.
Ivan laughs. And so they’re moving.
The city blurs gently around them as they glide through the streets, the wind rushing past, tugging at Lovro’s clothes. Instinctively, he tightens his grip when they turn, pressing closer. He can feel the steady rise and fall of Ivan’s breathing and the way he leans back slightly into the turns, trusting him to follow.
At a red light, they pause. Lovro’s chin brushes lightly against Ivan’s shoulder without meaning to. Ivan tilts his head just enough to speak over the traffic noise.
“Still think we should’ve taken a cab?”
Lovro hesitates. The sky is streaked pink and gold ahead of them. Even though cars idle around them, it feels strangely private.
“No,” Lovro admits.
Ivan smiles, then the light turns green. They move again, but Lovro doesn’t loosen his grip anymore.
By the time they pull up in front of Ivan’s building, the sky has deepened into soft blue. The scooter slows, then stops and for a moment, neither of them moves. Lovro realizes his hands are still wrapped around Ivan’s waist. He lets go a second too late.
“Comfortable?” Ivan asks lightly, swinging one leg off the scooter.
Lovro climbs off quickly, pulling off his helmet to hide the faint color in his cheeks. “I guess it was fine.”
“Fine,” Ivan repeats, amused.
They stand a little too close for a second while Ivan takes the helmet from him and puts both away. Lovro shifts the book under his arm.
“Are we actually reading,” he says, “or was that just another excuse to convince me to get on the scooter?”
Ivan closes the storage compartment and steps toward him.
“Oh, we’re reading.” He gestures toward the entrance. “Come on.”
The building hallway is quiet, faintly echoing with their footsteps as they climb the stairs. Lovro has been here before but something about today feels different.
When they reach the apartment, Ivan unlocks the door and steps inside first, flicking on the lights. The space is warm and familiar, slightly messy in a lived-in way. There's a jacket thrown over the back of a chair and a pair of shoes kicked off near the couch.
“Make yourself at home,” Ivan says.
Lovro slips off his shoes and walks further in, setting his bag down by the door.
A few minutes later, they’re both settled on Ivan’s bed instead of the couch, closer, and way more personal. The book rests between them now, unopened, like something waiting. Ivan leans back against the wall, stretching his legs out.
“Well?” he says, nodding toward it. “Ready to have your life changed by a sheep in a box?”
Lovro picks up the book slowly. He looks at the cover again.
“It’s still just a children’s book,” he mutters, though it sounds less convincing now.
Ivan watches him with that infuriatingly soft expression. “Open it,” he says.
Lovro opens the book carefully, flipping past the title page, and reads softly, almost to himself. “Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories…”
His voice falters a little at the old-fashioned phrasing. Ivan leans on his elbow beside him, watching him with an amused smile.
Lovro shoots him a look. “It’s just how it’s written.”
Lovro continues, “‘I showed my masterpiece to the grown-ups, and asked them whether the drawing frightened them. But they answered: ‘Why should a hat frighten anyone?’’
He pauses at the illustration of the hat, frowning. “It really does just look like a hat.”
Ivan leans back a little, watching him. “You sure it’s not a snake eating an elephant?”
Lovro rolls his eyes. “Apparently not.” He flips the page.
“So then I drew the inside of the boa constrictor, showing them the elephant it had swallowed…"
He glances up at Ivan, unsure if he should be impressed that he knows that part. Ivan just hums quietly, still leaning there, looking like he’s enjoying the view more than the book.
Lovro keeps reading. “I drew the inside of a boa constrictor, so that the grown-ups could see it clearly. They always need to have things explained.”
He frowns at the words, brushing the edge of the page with his thumb. “Or maybe the kid should’ve just said it,” he mutters.
Ivan leans closer, pointing at the drawing. “No way. Perspective matters. The difference between seeing a hat and seeing the elephant inside changes everything."
“I then lived alone, without anyone to talk to, until I met the little prince. He asked me to draw a sheep…”
He frowns at the tiny, perfectly square box. “That’s… the sheep?”
Ivan leans a little closer. “It seems so. Want me to draw it for you too?”
Lovro laughs quietly, hiding behind the book. “You’d mess it up.”
Ivan leans just slightly closer. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d do it exactly how you’d like.”
Lovro cleares his throat and reads on. "I was very surprised to see a light break over the face of my young judge: "That is exactly the way I wanted it!"
Ivan watches him quietly. “The essentials really are invisible, huh?”
Lovro meets his gaze, just for a second. “Something like that."
Lovro sits cross-legged on the bed, the book balanced carefully in his lap now. Ivan lounges beside him, one arm draped lazily over the back of the bed, watching him with that quiet, unreadable smile that always makes Lovro feel like he’s being analyzed.
“I still don’t get why this counts as literature,” Lovro mutters, flipping the page. “It’s just a little blond kid traveling from planet to planet.”
Ivan laughs. “You say that like traveling from planet to planet isn’t emotionally exhausting.”
Lovro flips the page. “The third planet was inhabited by a drunkard…” He frowns. “Why are all the adults like this? One bad habit per planet?”
Ivan nudges him lightly with his shoulder. “Maybe the little prince just notices everything.”
“Or maybe the author is roasting adults,” Lovro mutters, hiding a small smile.
They fall into a quiet rhythm. Lovro reads, Ivan leans in a little, the book open between them, their shoulders brushing every so often. The little prince’s planets spin by, absurd and whimsical, but in the warmth of the room, it all feels calm and quiet.
Lovro flips the page again, lingering over the illustration of the little rose. “And the little prince had a rose…” His voice is quieter this time, almost reflective.
Ivan is sitting next to him. “Ah… the rose,” he says.
Lovro frowns slightly. “I don’t think I get it. It’s just a flower.”
Ivan watches him carefully, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s not just a flower. It’s the one he cared for, even when he didn’t understand it at first. Fragile maybe, a little demanding, sure, but… important.”
Lovro bites his lip, glancing down at the picture again. Something about the words sticks differently now. He hesitates before speaking. “Kind of… like… you have something you realize matters more than anything else. Even if it doesn’t make sense at first?" He lets out a sigh. "Does that even make sense?”
Ivan’s smile softens, approving. “It does. We all have our own rose.”
Lovro looks up, meeting Ivan’s eyes, and for a moment, the teasing edge is gone. He sets the book down on the bed for a moment, stretching his arms over his head
“You know,” Ivan says, leaning back on his elbows, letting his knee brush against Lovro’s, “for someone who says they hate children’s books, you’re taking this pretty seriously.”
Lovro flinches slightly at the touch, then tries to shrug it off. “I’m just reading it. It’s not like it’s bad.”
Ivan smirks. “Not bad? You’re reading The Little Prince to me in my bedroom. That’s more than not bad.”
Lovro looks down, pretending to focus on the book. “It’s just… the rose. It’s dumb to get sentimental over a flower.”
Ivan nudges him, knee brushing against his again, lingering. “Maybe it’s not about the flower. Maybe it’s about… noticing something that matters.”
“By the way, I saw a picture of you on your Instagram a while ago," Ivan continues. From when your hair was blonde.”
Lovro glances at him, eyebrow raised. “Yeah? And?”
“You looked exactly like the little prince,” Ivan says, letting the words hang, grinning. “I mean the soft curls, serious expression, big blue eyes...”
Lovro rolls his eyes, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “... so you’ve been stalking me?”
“Maybe just a tiny bit,” Ivan says, leaning closer so their shoulders brush again. “But come on, it was worth it. You really did look like him.”
Lovro shakes his head, smirking. “No way.”
“I think it's accurate.” Ivan whispers, brushing a finger over a stray lock of hair near Lovro’s forehead.
Lovro’s chest warms, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That's flattering… I guess. Though I didn’t know the little prince had a stalker.”
“You make it easy,” Ivan shrugs. “Hard not to look.”
Lovro shifts closer and their arms touch when he picks the book back up.
“You know,” Ivan murmurs, voice low, teasing, “I think you’re enjoying this way more than you want to admit.”
Lovro bites his lip, trying not to look at him. “Yeah, sure."
“Mhm,” Ivan hums, brushing a finger lightly over Lovro’s hand as he adjusts the book. Ivan’s smirk softens, his gaze warm. “Yeah?” He lets his fingers linger just a little longer against Lovro’s.
Lovro can’t stop the faint shiver that runs through him. “Yeah,” he whispers.
“You know,” Ivan says, leaning even closer, “there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than like this.”
Ivan reaches for the book, letting his hand hover near Lovro’s as he picks it up. His voice changes its tone. “Alright, ready to meet the fox?”
Lovro frowns, skeptical. “I’m reading. I’ll see what he says.”
He reads aloud: “To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.”
Lovro pauses, blinking at the words. “What does that even mean?”
Ivan chuckles softly, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “It’s… complicated. But I think it’s about being important to someone and letting someone be important to you. Making them matter."
“Making them matter” he repeats. “Sounds… realistic.”
Ivan smiles, letting his fingers brush Lovro’s hand lightly. “Could be. If you let it.”
Lovro shifts, pretending to adjust the book. “I guess I understand a little.”
“Just a little?” Ivan teases, leaning closer so their faces are almost level. “Be careful, you might start noticing things you weren’t expecting.”
Lovro is glancing down, feeling the warmth from Ivan so close. “Maybe I already have.”
Ivan’s smile softens, voice low, teasing but intimate. “Good. Because that’s exactly what the fox wants. Someone to care enough to notice and stick around.”
Lovro closes the book softly, letting his fingers linger on the page as if he’s afraid to break the spell.
Ivan leans back again. “So… the fox,” he says with a teasing smile, “think you could ever tame one?”
Lovro thinks for a moment. “Depends. Are we talking about a fox… or someone who insists on annoying me all afternoon?”
“Maybe both,” Ivan says, smirking, brushing his hand over Lovro's, this time more direct. “Foxes can be tricky, sure, but they're worth it, even if they’re a little complicated."
"I liked that one part." Lovro confesses. "It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."
"Already quoting my favorite lines?" Ivan says, amused. "I knew you'd come around."
He glances at Ivan, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “So… if you spend time on someone, it becomes yours?”
"Exactly." Ivan explains. "You become responsible for it, even when things get hard."
Lovro looks down at the book, then back at Ivan, letting a small smile slip. “So… the fox teaches you, and the rose makes it all matter?”
Ivan’s eyes soften, but the teasing never fully leaves. “Something like that. The fox shows you why, the rose shows you who." He pauses for a moment. "And sometimes, the fox and the rose are closer than you think.”
Lovro nudges him lightly again, voice teasing now. “So… does that make you the fox or the rose?”
“I can be whichever you prefer,” he says, and without breaking the gaze, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to Lovro’s forehead.
Lovro felt a sudden warmth bloom in his chest, slow and dizzying, as Ivan’s lips pressed gently to his forehead. His thoughts muddled, caught in between wanting to smile and wanting to sink into the moment.
“Okay…” he murmurs, a little breathless. “I have to ask. Why is this book so special to you anyway? You never really explained.”
“Why it’s special?” He taps a finger to his chin, pretending to think. “I guess… Everything about it.”
Lovro raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh… ‘everything.’ That’s not very specific.”
“It makes you realize that some things, or well, some people, are worth more than you thought. And it doesn’t yell it at you when doing that. You figure it out yourself. It's like, minute by minute.”
"So it's about noticing?" Lovro asks.
“I just think it’s a comforting book." Ivan explains. "When you feel like you could explode, or crash, or… I don’t know. It just reminds me there’s still some small child-like beauty worth holding onto.”
"Sounds pretty nice." Lovro says.
Ivan wrinkles his nose slightly, then huffs out a quiet laugh. “Okay, okay, we’re getting way too sentimental. Like you said, it’s literally a tiny blond kid wandering around space judging adults. Let’s calm down.”
Lovro laughs, the heaviness easing instantly. “Right. Can't wait to title my assignment Space kid has feelings."
Ivan says, pointing at him like he’s made a brilliant contribution. “That’s the thesis. Write that down.”
Lovro looks at him amused. “I’ll credit you.”
The book lies forgotten on Lovro’s lap, the pages half-turned.
“So basically, your defense as to why this story is so great is that it’s a comfort book.” Lovro says.
“Exactly,” Ivan says, leaning back on his hands.
Lovro hums. “You and your small things.”
“Do you know…” Ivan whispers, almost teasing, “I like little things about you?"
Lovro looks up. “Little things?”
Ivan smirks, leaning even closer, letting their shoulders press together. “Yeah… like these,” he murmurs, tilting Lovro’s chin gently, and presses a soft, feather-light kiss to the moles on his cheek. Lovro shivers. “Or this one,” Ivan whispers, kissing the spot just below his ear.
Lovro’s chest tightens and he leans in slightly, almost unconsciously, as if drawn closer by the warmth of Ivan’s presence. Ivan notices and grins softly, eyes glinting with that teasing spark, and leans in too, slowly. Their lips are only a breath apart, and the tension hums in the small space between them.
Then, almost instantly, they lean in at the same time, heads tilting slightly, noses brushing, lips barely grazing at first. The touch is teasing, like a question asked without words. Lovro’s eyes flutter closed, and he feels the faint warmth of Ivan’s lips against his, a gentle pulse that buzzes through his chest and stomach.
The kiss deepens slowly, lingering. Ivan’s hand moves to rest lightly against Lovro’s jaw, tilting his face just enough, while Lovro’s fingers curl into the edge of the sheets, the other hand pressing softly to Ivan’s chest. Every brush between them hums with a tension that’s electric but still tender.
Lovro pulls back slightly, just enough to catch his breath, lips tingling. He glances up, playful now.
“You know… you make it really hard to concentrate on the book.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” he says. “Distractions are worth it sometimes.”
Lovro rolls his eyes, moving closer again, the air between them buzzing. “What if I like the distractions more than the reading?”
Ivan grins, brushing a hand lightly over Lovro’s arm. “I think I like that too.”
“So… you think I’ll get a good grade on this?”
Ivan's gaze softens as he meets Lovro’s eyes. “I think you’ll do fine,” he says gently. “You understand it more than you think.”
The book lies closed on Lovro’s lap, pages slightly rumpled from their reading.
Lovro leans back a little, letting out a soft sigh. “I kind of get why you like this book now" he says.
“See? Not just a children’s book, huh?”
The room settles into a soft, golden light, lingering touches, quiet smiles, and a warmth that hums through them. Maybe there is depth to a book about a little kid travelling from planet to planet after all.
__
A few days later, Lovro is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a lukewarm coffee, when there’s a knock at the door. Vito opens it, then steps back with an excited smile.
“Someone sent these for you,” he says, holding out a bouquet of red roses, wrapped neatly in brown paper.
Lovro blinks, a small smile tugging at his lips as he takes them. The roses are soft, fragrant, and still slightly dewy, like they’ve been hand-picked just for him. “Roses? Really?” he says, feeling a little thrill at the thought.
Vito grins, leaning against the doorframe. “I think there’s a note too.”
Lovro carefully unfolds the little card tucked between the petals. The handwriting is familiar, precise but playful.
"For my little prince"
He traces the letters with his fingertips, warmth blooming in his chest. His lips twitch into a shy, almost dazed smile. The memory of Ivan’s teasing, gentle kisses, the way his shoulder had pressed against Lovro’s, it all comes rushing back.
A second later, his phone buzzes. A message from Ivan lights up the screen:
did you get them? hope they didn’t get lonely waiting for you.
Lovro sits back against the chair, fingers still brushing the soft petals. He never thought he’d receive flowers, never imagined he’d care to. And yet, holding the bouquet, smelling their sweet perfume, he feels a little flutter in his chest he didn’t expect. It’s silly, almost embarrassing, but it’s really nice.
Later that night, with the roses propped carefully in a glass of water beside his desk, Lovro rereads his notes and feels certain he’s going to get an A on this assignment. He smiles to himself, tapping his pen against the page, and catches his reflection faintly in the dark window. Blonde hair, he thinks. Maybe. Just once more.
For academic purposes, obviously.