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Ivan’s painting when Lovro brings it up. He’d almost forgotten Lovro was there, he was lying quietly on the floor, tapping away on his phone, and Ivan had got too absorbed in his art.
“Hey,” Lovro says, voice a whisper amongst the paintings.
Ivan hums and doesn’t look up, if he could just blend the colours together in this corner it would bring everything together—it’s like the painting knows how close he is to finishing it and is doing everything that it can to fight against him.
Lovro doesn’t continue and Ivan looks to the side, seeking Lovro out; he’s sitting up now, knee pulled to his chest and chin resting on it as he watches Ivan.
Lovro keeps watching and Ivan shifts on his knees, pushing himself up from his uncomfortable crouch. As he sits up he feels the low twinge in his back and he bites down his wince. Lovro’s eyes follow it anyway, catch on the way his hand presses at the small of his back. The glance is pointed, they’ve talked about this enough.
“Lovro,” Ivan says and reaches out with a paintbrush to prod at Lovro’s toe; Lovro bats him away and pulls at his sock to stare at Ivan’s paint stain. He rolls his eyes but Ivan catches sight of the soft smile on Lovro’s lips.
Ivan’s proud—that’s all he’s ever looking for, that smile of Lovro’s.
Lovro drops his hand to the floor and runs his fingers over the pattern on the blanket, tracing the path of the thread through the fabric. Ivan rolls the brush between his fingers, happy to wait for Lovro to navigate this, whatever it is that’s tearing him up.
“Could we—when you’re done with this,” Lovro says, then shakes his head, “later, do you think you could dye my hair?”
Ivan almost laughs, he’d thought it would be more than that.
“I just—I don’t feel like me,” Lovro runs his hand over his head, fingers catching in his fringe, “I tried something and I don’t think I like it.”
“I like your hair,” Ivan says.
Lovro levels him with a look and doesn't fight the smile as it grows on his face, “I know you do.”
Ivan likes that that’s something they can do now. Look at each other and know what they’re thinking. Look at each other and know they’re thinking about a shared memory of their bodies curled into each other on a bed. Of things that Lovro’s now brave enough to say.
“I know but—it suits you.” Ivan feels a need to defend himself, to make Lovro understand him. Lovro watches him, quietly and steadily across the room and Ivan needs to get up, needs to switch his CD player off so it’s just them.
Something intimate and them. Dropping the brush on a stained plate, covered in crumbs from a rushed lunch, Ivan pushes himself to his feet. There’s a familiar ache in his knee, old and this point a part of him, something he knows as well as the bones of this body or the floor of this room.
Ivan grits his teeth through it and walks over to the CD player; he doesn’t need Lovro to fret, not right now, not when Lovro’s on the edge of broaching something.
Ivan turns and leans back on the shelf, Lovro’s moved around while Ivan was facing away and he’s half-risen now, ready to leave at the slightest suggestion from Ivan. He’s always scared that he’s said something wrong, that he’s somehow misjudged the ice and will fall through and Ivan will just leave him there, trapped beneath the surface.
So, Ivan will indulge him, then. Adjusting his weight, Ivan listens to the faint creaking of the shelf as he moves and the steady drawl of his breathing.
Before he asks the question, Ivan already knows that he’ll say yes to whatever Lovro says—that’s how it works between them, Lovro saying jump and Ivan saying how high.
“What do you want me to do to it?”
Lovro relaxes, imperceptibly, but Ivan feels the tension leach from the room. He drums his fingers on the floor and Ivan sinks into the warm thrum of it, its hollow tone.
Lovro shrugs, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He stays there, looking up at Ivan like this is his decision to make. Ivan checks his watch, it’s not even midnight yet, they have plenty of evening ahead of them. Why not.
“Why not?” Ivan pushes himself off the shelf and walks the short distance back across the room, holding a hand out to help Lovro from the floor. Lovro’s palm is cold against his—always too cold, no matter now many blankets Ivan layers over him.
Ivan pulls him too hard and Lovro comes easily, falling into his chest.
“Oh hey,” Ivan says, and settles a hand on Lovro’s cheek to pull him in for a kiss. It’s gentle, Lovro resting a soft hand at Ivan’s waist. His fingers squeeze Ivan’s shirt and he tilts his head into the kiss.
“Can we go to mine?” Lovro murmurs into the space between them, “I don’t want to ruin your bathroom.”
The shop’s quiet at this time of night, just the cashier tapping away on her phone and two guys having a hushed argument by the beer.
Lovro doesn’t look at them, heading straight for the hair dyes, and Ivan trails after him. The lights are bright, blinding with the tinny rendition of some decade-old song. Ivan sings along under his breath and looks around the shop.
This is Lovro’s routine. He knows these people, knows these shelves and the regular playlist. Ivan aches, he wants to know everything Lovro knows.
When he looks up, Lovro’s standing at the end of an aisle, head tilted as he studies Ivan. Lovro cocks his head and Ivan rocks back onto his toes and walks towards him.
“These are the options,” Lovro says, gesturing at shelf—there’s box after box of pretty women in various stages of laughter with poorly photoshopped hair colours on them.
Ivan doesn’t know what to do with this aisle; Sonja wasn’t interested in dying her hair and that had been the end of it. Some of these colours he can’t picture on anyone.
From the side of his eye, Ivan can see Lovro watching him for a moment before looking back at the shelf. Ivan wonders if he’d seen the confusion of Ivan’s face, the pure out-of-his-depth fear.
But Lovro, Lovro seems to know exactly what he wants. He ambles along the aisle, finger running across the boxes. Occasionally he’ll stop and pull two out, hold them in front of him and then put one back on the shelf for no discernable reason.
Ivan feels slightly superfluous, but it’s nice that Lovro wants him here, even as useless as he’s being. There’s so much for Ivan to discover.
Lovro seems big here, in a way that Ivan knows he is, even as he spends his time burying himself in oversized jackets and curling into corners like he’s scared to intrude. But here, in the aisle, squatting down to study two boxes in his hands, Ivan feels like this is Lovro.
With a sigh, Lovro stands back up and holds them out to Ivan, “which one?”
Ivan hums and knocks his hands into each other in his pockets. Lovro keeps looking at him, patient waiting, and Ivan looks down at the options; they’re very different, the two colours, one a forest green and the other a warm purple. Plum, maybe.
It’s difficult to picture them on Lovro—Ivan looks up and runs his eyes over Lovro’s face instead. Ivan soaks it all in; Lovro’s moles against the pale of his skin, his hair lying mussed from Ivan’s fingers, the blue of his eyes growing green in the harsh light. The plush of his lips.
Ivan could spend hours like this, just taking Lovro apart, studying each part of him.
The way Lovro’s cheeks have started to flush and he’s fidgeting, body swaying. Ivan tears his eyes away from Lovro’s lips and Lovro looks back at him for a brief, intoxicating, moment, then Lovro’s looking away, watching the shelves instead.
After a moment, Lovro’s eyes flick back and when he sees that Ivan’s still watching him, he grows somehow redder and stares down at his hands, fingers tensing on the boxes.
Ivan feels giddy. Lovro’s so cute, so easily embarrassed. That’s all Ivan finds he wants to do, get Lovro close and love him and watch the blush grow.
Lovro’s twitching now, weight switching between his feet, and Ivan takes pity on him.
“The purple,” Ivan says, as the words leave his mouth he realises that he really, truly, believes it. Lovro needs something warm, something that feels like a hug. Lovro grins at him. It seems Ivan made the right decision.
They stand there, frozen for a moment, and the music grows loud. Ivan reaches out to take the second box from him and his fingers close over Lovro’s; Ivan tightens his fingers, briefly, then takes the box and put its back on the shelf.
Ivan looks around while Lovro drops things in the sink and fumbles with the cupboard underneath. There are faint stains of colour on the tiles around the bath and Ivan wonders if he can trace Lovro through them, like rings of a tree.
If he peered close enough, would he see seventeen year old Lovro inside sixteen year old Lovro and onwards and deeper. Layers of Lovro wrapped around himself, until everything comes to show in the body in the room with him, tracing him back through hair colours.
Lovro turns and sinks onto the edge of the bath, knees spread and his elbow braced on them. Ivan steps closer before he thinks about it; it’s just a constant buzzing under his skin, now. This need to be close to Lovro.
Reaching out, he taps a finger against Lovro’s nose; Lovro had mocked him about it at first, but he’s grown used to it now. Lovro lets Ivan get away with a lot more than he used to, back when he was all hackles and tension.
Lovro gently bats Ivan’s hand aside and knocks his head into Ivan’s chest, twisting to look up at him, ”you’re too tall.”
Ivan can’t help it, he preens. He likes to hear compliments from his boyfriend, sue him.
“Shut up,” Lovro says, and pushes Ivan away, “go get a stool from the kitchen.”
Ivan feels Lovro’s fingers against his chest, even after they fall away. There’s a need to protest, to point out that he hadn’t said anything, but that will just play into whatever Lovro’s doing. He stares at Lovro instead, “my knees are gonna be around my ears.”
“Aren’t you supposed to humble yourself for art?” Lovro says and part of Ivan wants to point out that that’s really not what he’d meant at all, but faced with the beauty of Lovro’s smile maybe that was what he meant after all. Maybe that’s what everything was about.
He waits too long to reply and Lovro grins up at him, he knows he has Ivan beaten. Ivan leaves the bathroom to the sound of Lovro’s laughter. It’s his favourite sound.
He’s still getting used to Lovro’s apartment, the signs of his mum around every corner. Ivan doesn’t know where she is, tonight, but he doesn’t want to ruin the mood by asking. He can do that later.
For now, he just wants to do this for Lovro.
The kitchen’s warm, low lights above the counter and sticky notes on every surface. Ivan reads one as he walks past, take cakes for your friends!
Ivan spins, taking in the fridge and its magnets, photos of young Lovro, some with his mum, some with another figure with magnets over its face. He could trace Lovro’s whole life here.
Running his finger along the edge of one photo, Ivan memorises it for later. It’s Lovro grinning at a zoo, head next to a lion pressed up against the glass. He seems so alive. Ivan wants to take it, fold it into the corner of his wallet to look at on nights Lovro can’t be with him, but that would mean taking it away from Lovro’s mum and that’s crueler than he can bring himself to be.
Ivan shakes his head and opens the fridge, he doesn’t know what he expected but there’s shelf after shelf of cakes, bars and slices and little cupcakes too. He can’t fathom how long this took, how much effort went into making the fridge full.
“What’s taking so long?” Lovro shouts, his voice muffled through the walls and Ivan shuts the fridge. There’s so much love in this apartment.
Walking back through the kitchen, Ivan grabs a stool from the table and carries it with him. The bathroom door is open and Ivan soaks up the glimpses of Lovro that he can see through it, the flitting of his body as he walks back and forth.
Ivan could stand there for the rest of the evening, taking as many of these windows into Lovro’s life as Lovro would give him. But he also wants to see Lovro with purple hair.
Ivan walks in and leans on the door frame, holding the stool up in question to Lovro.
Lovro nods his head at the floor and Ivan puts it down, sinking back onto it to watch Lovro bustle around. He knows what he’s doing, that is obvious—following along a routine that was well-worn.
There’s a towel around Lovro’s neck now, old and bleach stained, and Lovro holds it in place as he sits down on the edge of the bath.
“Mixed this up when you were gone,” Lovro says, and Ivan notices a bowl next to him. He reaches for it but Lovro holds out some gloves first; they’re unnerving in his hand, cold and clammy. Lovro keeps watching and he slides them on, stretching them across his palms.
Lovro nods, happy, and holds the bowl out, cupping it between his hands as he rests it on his legs.
“Pretty simple, just put this on my head.” Lovro pauses and tilts his head in thought, “try not to get it on my face, though.”
Blankly, Ivan nods. That’s simple enough. Lovro looks up at him with patient eyes and Ivan drags the stool closer. Taking the next step is intimidating, going from sitting here to somehow being in charge of Lovro’s hair.
What if he does a horrible job?
“I just—just go for it?”
Lovro nods, “just go for it.”
Ivan takes a deep breath and leans in, dipping his fingers into the bowl and spreading it across Lovro’s fringe. No going back now. Lovro smiles up at him and Ivan settles, this is fine.
He falls into an easy rhythm, scooping bleach from the bowl and finding a section of Lovro’s hair, coating it from the roots down to the ends. Lovro’s hair is glossy under his fingers and Ivan is almost sad to see it go.
Ivan just has to ignore how close Lovro is, how clearly he can see Lovro watching him. There’s the path of Lovro’s eyes as they wander across Ivan’s face and he’s too aware of his tongue poking between his lips as he concentrates.
Lovro’s breath drifts across Ivan’s face and he tilts Lovro’s head down, finding the last patch of dark hair at the nape of Lovro’s neck. He rests his fingers there longer than he needs, he doesn’t want this to be over quiet yet.
But Lovro twitches under his hand and Ivan takes it back, bringing it to his lap, “all done, I think.” Ivan has no clue if he’s done a good job, but Lovro’s hair is covered.
Ivan reaches out and runs his fingers through Lovro’s hair, combing it back from his face. He holds his hands there for a moment and Lovro looks up at him quietly.
“Aren’t you going to check?” Ivan asks and he hates how vulnerable his voice sounds, how much he depends on Lovro being happy with what he’s done. Fidgeting, Ivan twists his fingers together between his knees.
“I trust you,” Lovro says, and rests a hand on Ivan’s wrist, “c’mon, take these off.”
Lovro leaves his hand there as Ivan pulls the gloves off, sliding it down to Ivan’s sweaty palm when Ivan leans to drop them in a bin. Ivan’s happy to sit here for a moment and he swings their hands between them.
“What do you do while you wait?”
“Um, usually I watch video games—but.” Lovro’s hand tenses around the bowl and Ivan smiles to himself. Lovro’s so easy to read.
A grin curls at the corners of Ivan’s mouth and he leans closer, “tell me, Lovro, what do you have in mind this time?”
Lovro’s mouth works around nothing and Ivan tilts his head to find Lovro’s eyes, “is it this?” Ivan reaches out with his free hand and curls it around the back of Lovro’s neck, fingers settling into their familiar positions.
Lovro swallows, the click of his throat loud, “watch out, don’t get it on your fingers.” His voice is thin, and he still isn’t looking at Ivan. Bullseye.
Ivan rubs his thumb over Lovro’s neck and leans in to bring their lips together. Lovro freezes for a moment, then he’s opening up and letting Ivan lick into his mouth. The noise Ivan lets out is involuntary, somewhere between a breath and a moan.
Lovro whines into his mouth and Ivan swallows it down. Pulling Lovro closer, Ivan tilts his head to deepen the kiss. He could do this for the rest of the night, could sit here under Lovro’s mouth until the sun starts to shine through the window.
Except the stool’s digging into his leg and there’s a low ache in the small of his back. Lovro’s hand twitches in his and Ivan squeezes his fingers in comfort.
Ivan pulls back, hand still around Lovro’s neck. Lovro follows him, lips parted and shiny with Ivan’s spit, and Ivan almost leans back in—almost ignores the pulsing in his leg and the knowledge that his body’s going to collapse on him in a moment.
“Okay no, I have cramp,” Ivan whispers and sits up. His hand falls from Lovro’s neck, but Lovro keeps clutching Ivan’s other hand, holding it like a tether. The thought of leaving, from walking away from the moment, is impossible. Ivan could never do that.
He looks around the bathroom instead; he could fit there, probably, fold himself between the side of the bath and the wall. The longer Ivan looks, the more sense it makes. It’s perfect. A little space, just for the two of them.
Standing up, Ivan pushes the stool to one corner with his foot and sinks cross-legged against the side of the bath. Lovro’s still holding his hand and it’s awkward now, Ivan’s arm folded across his chest to keep touching Lovro but Ivan won’t let go.
It’s cramped in Ivan’s little space, barely space for him to straighten his legs, but it’ll do. Ivan squeezes Lovro’s hand and leans his shoulder into Lovro’s knee—he glances up and Lovro’s staring bad down at him, eyes wide in shock.
“Coming?”
For a second Lovro just blinks and Ivan thinks that he might stay there, bodies forever a foot apart, but then there’s a clatter of plastic and Lovro’s next to him, on his knees on the bathroom floor.
Lovro buffers, limbs stuttering, then he swings a leg over Ivan’s lap and rests his weight on Ivan’s legs. Ivan has to look up at Lovro like this, and he won’t ever get tired of that, sitting there and drinking Lovro down.
Ivan rests his hand on Lovro’s hips, fighting the instinct to cup Lovro’s head and the burning on his skin. Lovro’s solid against his palm, hot and breathing, a living creature in his lap.
Lovro lets go of Ivan’s hand—for one, lonely, second Ivan feels adrift—then Lovro’s winding his fingers into Ivan’s hair and leaning in to kiss him.
Ivan steadies the brush in his hand and balances the bowl of dye against the sink, “you used to do this a lot?”
Lovro nods and Ivan’s eyes are caught on the curve of his neck, the pull of his tendons. His hand aches to touch but—he can do that now. There’s no reason that he shouldn’t.
He wants to. Lovro wants him to. That’s enough.
He reaches out and runs a gentle finger along the side of Lovro’s neck; Lovro shivers under his touch.
“Yeah,” Lovro says, “Jakov would do it for me.”
Abruptly, Ivan shakes his hand out and rests his palm on Lovro’s forehead, tilting him to look up at Ivan. Lovro just smiles, a gentle, easy grin that Ivan recognises in the creases by his eyes.
God, he’s so pretty.
Ivan shifts to the side, grabbing Lovro’s jaw to bring him in for a kiss. Lovro’s laughing and it’s messy as their teeth click and he definitely has dye on him now but Ivan doesn’t care. Lovro’s his boyfriend now.
Ivan rests his teeth on Lovro’s lip and he knows he’s pushing it, but it’s so easy to get lost in Lovro, to get swallowed up by him.
“Enough,” Lovro says and pushes him away, “back to work.” Ivan pouts and Lovro smiles again, leaning up into one last kiss.
Lovro tilts his head back down and that’s an invitation to Ivan to keep going, to get on with coating Lovro’s hair with the dye. It’s an easy enough process, separating Lovro’s hair out to paint it, and Ivan falls back into it. He hums as he works.
It’s instinctive, this knee-jerk jealousy. It’s unfounded, he knows that. Lovro doesn’t like Jakov anymore, not like that anyway. Jakov’s back with Eva, exes falling back together as Lovro spent too many nights predicting, whispering to Ivan on his pillow.
Ivan knows there’s nothing there, he does. But he’s possessive, he wants to cradle Lovro to his chest and mark him as Ivan’s.
Looking at the brush in his hand, Ivan guesses that’s what he’s doing.
“I’m glad you have him, you know,” Ivan says, instead. It’s so much easier to talk to Lovro when he’s looking away, “you deserve that. A good friend.”
Lovro leans forwards, gently, and tilts his head into Ivan’s shoulder. There’s a rush to it, and Ivan can still feel Lovro on his lips. It’s still electric, being this close to Lovro, knowing they want the same things.
Seeing Lovro let himself want. Be wanted.
After a moment Lovro sits up and Ivan dips the brush back into the bowl.
“Yeah,” Lovro breathes.
“I could draw something.”
Ivan throws the thought into the room, knowing Lovro will understand him, knowing Lovro will listen.
Lovro tilts his head up and studies Ivan, “maybe I’ll buzz my hair again, then you can paint whatever you want.”
Ivan reaches out while Lovro’s facing him and runs his finger over the moles on Lovro’s cheek, “I’d like that.”
Running his fingers down Lovro’s cheek, Ivan takes his chin between two fingers and twists Lovro’s head to the side, running his eyes over his work, “I think you’re done.”
Lovro moves under his hand and gets up, suddenly so close into Ivan’s personal space that they’re breathing the same air. Ivan stands up from the stool and then they’re standing there, looking at themselves in the mirror.
The dye looks dark, Lovro washed out against it, but Ivan only sees the joy on Lovro’s face. Lovro watches himself in the mirror and Ivan watches Lovro’s lips. Ivan knows his habits, knows his weaknesses.
“And now?”
“More waiting,” Lovro says and turns for the door. There isn’t enough space for the two of them in the bathroom and Lovro stands close to him for a long second; Ivan sways into his space instinctively and Lovro lets his lips draw close before he’s wheeling away and shouldering past Ivan back into the hall.
Ivan thinks he saw a little smirk on Lovro’s face as he went past, there’s a low thrill in his gut. He doesn’t know what he’ll do once Lovro gets comfortable and confident, once this is all he does.
Lovro’s gone by the time that Ivan comes back to himself and he pads out of the bathroom, already feeling the loss. He doesn’t have to look far, though. Lovro’s standing there, silhouetted on the balcony, lights of the night behind him.
Ivan lets himself look, really look. It’s magical to see Lovro like this, happy and calm, truly at peace. Ivan doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. A deep breath, and Ivan watches Lovro dig a spliff from a tin, putting his back to the open window to light in and then lean back, resting his body into the open space.
Ivan steps forwards and Lovro glances over his shoulder as Ivan steps over the mantle. Lovro twists, stubbing the spliff out and leaning his back on the wall. The floor is cold on Ivan’s feet and he tenses his toes, dreaming of Lovro’s hideous slippers.
“Hi,” Lovro says.
Tilting his head to one side, Ivan pads closer, until they’re standing toe to toe, and reaches out to grab the ends of the towel around Lovro’s neck. The click of Lovro swallowing is painfully loud around them and Ivan pinches his fingers, desperate to pull Lorvo closer when—
“We’re outside,” Lovro says.
Ivan leaves his hands where they are, drags the towel down onto Lovro’s chest. He can’t fight that, he can’t argue. They are, and he doesn’t know who’s watching. Ivan looks up and Lovro’s head is to the side, staring somewhere over Ivan’s shoulder.
Ivan lets go of the towel, fingers creaking, and taps Lovro’s chest, “I’ll go switch the lights off, then no one can see.”
Ivan doesn’t wait for an answer, tearing himself from Lovro to walk back into the apartment. This was a terrible plan, he doesn’t know where anything is in here, he’s just going to wander around blindly while Lovro waits alone.
Pacing as he thinks, Ivan finds himself back in the kitchen, the familiar warmth of the lights, and he spins, looks for some switches on the wall. There, half-hidden in the corner behind some cookbooks, he finds them.
The darkness falls quick, settling over the room like a blanket, and Ivan lets himself breathe. It’s just them, someone he knows almost better than himself. There’s nowhere safer than this, nowhere he’d rather be.
Ivan looks back outside and Lovro’s found a chair, sitting heavy like his legs couldn’t take him. He’s left the window open, sitting now underneath it with his back to the wall. Smiling, a private smile just for him, Ivan walks back out to join him.
Lovro’s pulled a second chair over for him and Ivan’s heart seizes at it, each time he thinks Lovro can’t get sweeter. Ivan drops into the chair and Lovro startles at it, whirling to stare at Ivan as Ivan drags his chair around and reaches out to grab Lovro and pull him closer. Lovro’s chair grates across the floor, legs trembling with the motion.
“Whoa,” Lovro giggles and sways into him.
Ivan stops when their knees touch, then yanks Lovro one last bit and his knees are sliding inside Ivan’s—the rough of Lovro’s jeans rubbing up against Ivan’s scar, all the history in his bones.
“Hi,” Lovro says, again, and Ivan huffs a laugh. He’s breathier this time, word coming thin through his lungs.
“Hi,” Ivan teases.
Ivan lets go of the chair and takes the towel again, holding it carefully between his fingers. Lovro’s breathing wavers and shakes the longer Ivan stays there.
Part of Ivan wants to cave, to pick his boy up and hug him and wrap him in a blanket. But also this is fun, and Lovro is so beautiful.
Ivan pulls him in with the towel, and Lovro sinks into him, coming easily where Ivan wants him. Lovro’s mouth drifts open, their makeout still on his tongue, and Ivan wants to give in, wants to fall back into that.
He presses a gentle kiss to Lovro’s lips and twists, wrapping an arm around Lovro’s back to pull him in for a hug. Lovro’s tense under his arm for a moment, then he takes a deep breath and relaxes.
Lovro tilts his head until his ear rests on Ivan’s chest and lets out a long sigh, his breath rushing across Ivan’s skin. Ivan doesn’t know the last time that Lovro relaxed, the last time that he let himself breathe.
Ivan runs his hand across Lovro’s back, feeling the ridges of his spine, the rough drag of his sweatshirt. The desperate rising and falling of his back.
Lovro lasts longer under Ivan’s arm than he’d expected, then his knees knock into Ivan’s and he leans back, pushing out of Ivan’s arms. Lovro walks back over to the window, leaning his elbow on the ledge as he looks out.
Ivan sinks into the chair; if Lovro wants to get away from him, Ivan can sit and watch for the moment. He can wait for Lovro to come back to him. But Lovro looks back over his shoulder and just watches him.
There are ripples of light across Lovro’s face, from the streetlights below and the apartments in the next block over, the flicker of the spliff in his hand and the glow of the moon over everything, looking down on them. There are so many Lovros that Ivan sees, all wrapped up in one scared body.
Ivan pushes himself to his feet and walks over to him, sliding an arm around Lovro’s shoulders. Lovro rocks into him for a moment, then stubs the spliff out on the windowsill and noses into Ivan for a hug.
Ivan brings his other arm around Lovro’s waist and pulls him closer, hugging him tighter against Ivan’s chest until he feels there’s no space between them, they’re one breath from tripping into one body.
There are no sounds in the apartment, just the steady rhythm of the two of them breathing in time. Ivan shoulders the weight of him, and watches the lights of the night play outside the window.
Ivan runs the water over Lovro’s head, the purple seeping from his hair and slowly circling the drain. He runs his fingers through the strands, shaking knots free—Ivan cups Lovro’s head under his palm, smoothing out the rough edges..
The water runs purple for longer than Ivan would’ve expected, fading hues indigo through lavender, violet through lilac until it finally runs clear. Ivan runs his hand through Lovro’s hair again, following with the showerhead, but that might truly be the last of the purple. He mourns it, he already wants the moment back, wants to grab it and save it for later.
“Okay, I think that’s it,” Ivan says, and reaches up to hook the showerhead back on. He rests a palm on Lovro’s shoulder blade and guides him up, pulling the towel from around his shoulders to scrub it across Lovro’s hair.
Lovro says something, protesting and whiney, but Ivan covers him with the towel and keeps scrubbing, like his dad used to do with him when he was young and shivering on a beach. Ivan is gentle with it, he doesn’t know how else to be with Lovro; but Lovro still shakes with Ivan’s motions, head bobbing under the towel.
Ivan lets it drop and Lovro pouts at him, looking like a badly groomed kitten. Ivan smiles benignly back. He gets Lovro’s mum, he thinks, the feeling of looking at Lovro and just needing to memorialise him, to save every single look in Lovro’s eyes.
Ivan reaches out and tries to press Lovro’s hair to his head but it springs back up again. Lovro sighs and gets up, walking over to look in the mirror.
Ivan sees the grin before it takes shape, knows the shape of Lovro’s body as it appears. Lovro tits his head, running his fingers through his hair as he shakes it out, taming it into a shape Ivan’s familiar with.
Shifting his weight between his feet, Ivan appears behind him and Lovro’s attention drifts. Their eyes meet and Ivan wants to look away, to keep discovering all these parts of new purple Lovro, but Lovro holds him still. It’s like Ivan’s pinned in place, he couldn’t escape if he tried.
He still isn’t used to seeing the two of them, faces looking out at him from the mirror. Ivan doesn’t think the magic will ever wear off, that he’ll ever stop feeling this grateful. Feeling this special that this is his relationship, that they found each other.
And they’re here, in this bathroom, doing a shitty dye job on Lovro’s hair.
Lovro’s eyes drift from Ivan’s to the rest of his face and he gasps and spins around, “god, there’s so much dye on you.”
His eyes run across Ivan’s face, hand coming to rest on Ivan’s shoulders, tracing the patterns his hair’s made on Ivan’s shirt. Ivan’s covered in the history of Lovro—if he found this shirt in a decade he could probably trace every moment of the evening, every breath, every touch.
Ivan needs it all, everything Lovro will give him. Every ounce of his attention. He’s like a drowning man.
Ivan shrugs, “like it’s the worst thing I’ve had on me.”
Lovro coughs, eyes wide, and punches Ivan’s shoulder; he turns his back to Ivan and studies himself again in the mirror. Lovro watches him for a second and then Ivan feels it coming, the laugh that breaks across his face, “you’re such an asshole.”
Ivan grins back at him. Lovro just shakes his head and looks back at the mirror.
“How’d I do, boss?”
Lovro reaches out to nudge him again, but Ivan dances out of the way, giggling; he drifts back into Lovro’s orbit as Lovro studies the mirror. Lovro twists his head, shaking his hair around to look at his roots. He nods and looks at the other side, hands working across his head.
“Good for a first timer,” Lovro says, and drags Ivan in by the front of his shirt for a quick kiss. Ivan tries to lick into his mouth but Lovro hums a laugh against his lips and pushes him away.
Looking back at the mirror, Lovro takes the tips of his hair between his fingers and holds them out, “could do with a hair cut.”
“I could do that for you, I reckon,” Ivan says. He doesn’t even really know what he’s suggesting. Just knows that he’ll try. He’ll try anything Lovro asks of him.
Lovro blinks at him in the mirror and smiles a lazy smile, “oh yeah?”
Ivan grins, he loves a flirty Lovro.
“Oh yeah.”