Work Text:
“Do you think we're codependent?” Lovro says one night, textbook sprawled across his lap, chewing on a lollipop to distract himself from his desire to smoke. It isn't the same as a joint, and he knows that Ivan wouldn't mind whatever he smoked either way, but when he was at Ivan's loft, he tried not to throw his vices in Ivan's face.
His new fondness for the sweets also has the interesting side effect of drawing Ivan's attention to Lovro's mouth - not that he ever really needed the encouragement.
Ivan hums, lost in his own thoughts, before his gaze snaps to Lovro's like he's just awoken from a dream. “What?”
“Are we codependent?” Lovro had chosen to study Psychology mostly on a misguided, well-intentioned whim, but now that he's mired in relationships and attachment, he's starting to wonder if he's made the wrong choice. Learning how relationships work, learning how his parents had fucked him up, learning both how much and how little is known about the human mind only creates too much room for doubt in his own.
Ivan, perched as he is at his table, is far too far away from Lovro. They'd had to segregate themselves in order to be able to study, though their focus had been lost long ago, turning more into a game of stolen glances and feigned concentration, waiting to see who would give in first. “Do you even know what that means?”
“I just read about it,” Lovro says, gesturing to the book that's slowly falling from his lap, until it eventually loses the fight and falls face down on the floor. “Because I've been studying so hard.”
He puts the lollipop back in his mouth and bites down hard, the crunch and crack of it against his teeth almost painful. As much as it's fun to tease Ivan, it pisses him off more that it still isn't what he really wants. A poor replacement for the sickly sweet smell of weed, or the harsh smoke of a cigarette.
“You know I don't care if you smoke here, right?” Ivan says, reading his goddamn mind. “Don't suffer for my sake.”
It catches on the hooks of his thoughts again: codependent. Is he only with Ivan because he needs to be needed? Because he wants to suffer for Ivan's sake? To act as though his relationship with Ivan is suffering, though, is absurd.
He does think that he can't visualize a world or a future without Ivan in it. The loneliness of going from being known and loved and cared for to one in which he and Ivan aren't together would kill him.
Maybe he's just being dramatic. They're young, after all. Ivan is his first love after a life where his own ability to love had been so stifled he hadn't been sure if he was capable of it at all.
“What're you thinking about over there?” Ivan asks, his voice soft, his expression softer. Lovro can't believe it sometimes, that he gets to have this: Ivan, in the comfort of his own space, relaxed and easy and happy. It's a privilege, it's a gift, it still causes butterflies to erupt in his stomach, fluttering through his veins, causing his heart to stutter with each tender brush of their wings.
“Do you ever wish you could become a tree?” The butterflies whirl their way into a tornado as Ivan laughs at the question, staring at Lovro like he's a wonder of the world. It's a vortex, ready and waiting to drag him down and spit him back out, still afraid after all this time of the intensity of his feelings. A smile shouldn't do this to him. A laugh shouldn't have him wanting to bury a hole in the earth just to shield him from its blinding light.
Ivan rests his head in his hand, the whiskers at the corners of his eyes crinkling. The only thing worse than looking at this Ivan is the thought of looking away, and missing it. “I can't say I do. Are you sure you didn't smoke before coming over?”
“Why not?” Lovro asks, bringing his knees to his chest now that they're free of their burden, wrapping his arms around them. The distance between him and Ivan is unbearable, but he refuses to move.
Ivan shrugs. “I don't know,” he says. “It's scary, the thought of not being able to move. What if you hate all the other trees in the forest? You'd just be stuck with them until either they or you got chopped down.”
“I think it would be nice,” Lovro muses. Aren't they all just trees in a forest, really? Tangled together in ways that they can't see, roots buried deep beneath the earth, soaking up whatever they can find, good or bad, to sustain them and make them who they are. “What kind of tree do you think I'd be?”
Lovro craves permanence. He wants to settle down roots, wants to let his dead leaves and withered branches be fed and flourish, wants to know how much he can grow now that he has the forest to support him - not only Ivan, but his mother, Jakov, Vito, all of his friends.
“Maybe an ash, or a willow,” Ivan says. They've had a lot of these conversations in the months that they’ve been together. Tangential thoughts that weave into the tapestry of learning who they are. Lovro thinks that he could live in these little talks, these simplest of moments, for the rest of his life.
Lovro hums in agreement, though he only has the vaguest of ideas of what these trees actually look like. “Then I'll be a willow tree, and you can be the river I'll grow by.”
“I think I'm more of a crow, coming to make a nest in you until you get fed up and shake me out of your hair.” The smile has turned into something sadder, though the easy happiness from before hasn't gone completely.
“Maybe I'd get annoyed sometimes, but you would always be able to come back and make your home in me.” It's not late, but the sun has set and the combination of the warm lights and the sound of the rain always makes Lovro sleepy. He feels like a well-fed cat laying by a fireplace, bathing himself in warmth.
Ivan stretches his arms out, and closes his laptop with a sense of finality. Work, for this evening at least, is done.
As Ivan stalks closer, Lovro thinks that he's more fox than crow. He's a predator, not a scavenger, and Lovro is more than content to be prey.
“Hey,” Lovro says, a smile breaking out as Ivan settles next to him.
“Hey.” Ivan's hand cups Lovro's cheek. Such a small gesture shouldn't still have this much power over him, but Lovro's breath still shudders out as he meets the intensity of Ivan's gaze, as he is held so carefully in the palm of Ivan's hand.
Some nights, there is a raging fire between them, a heat that has stewed in the core of them for days that erupts as soon as they're alone. Other nights, nights like this, there is a slower burn. Lovro thinks that he could sit and gaze into Ivan's eyes, falling asleep to the soothing sensation of Ivan's thumb brushing across the soft flesh of his cheek.
Lovro wishes that he could make Ivan’s touches permanent, a mark on his skin that would always remind him of how he feels when Ivan is here. He thinks of that Sunday morning, somehow both forever and only months ago, and how free he had felt. How he had squirmed at the tickle of Ivan’s paintbrush against his skin, even as he’d relished in finally allowing himself to have what he hadn’t even let himself want.
There are so many ways that Ivan has left his marks on Lovro’s life, from teasing dashes of paint to the drawings that he creates, capturing Lovro’s image and essence with a few casual strokes of a pencil. There’s the graffiti that Ivan leaves on Lovro’s wall, little doodles and scribbled phrases that Lovro only ever seems to find after Ivan has left, like a scavenger hunt of love. There’s the way that Ivan holds him like he’s delicate until he gets lost in the throes of a deeper pleasure, when he’ll tug and pull and grip strong enough to leave the imprint of his fingers on Lovro’s skin. Every now and again, Lovro will bruise, and Ivan will be so lost in his regret and guilt until Lovro whispers that he likes it. There are the little love bites that Ivan will trail down his neck that Lovro pretends to complain about, but secretly adores, wishing that they could be more permanent.
Ivan’s head tilts closer in a question that Lovro answers by brushing their lips together, soft and slow and gentle, a confession made without words. They kiss lazily, in a way that doesn’t ask for more. It’s a conversation all on its own, not merely a pretext for something else.
Lovro knows that not every day will be like this. He knows, because every day hasn’t been like this in the months that they’ve been together. Every day that he can have like this, though, he wants to carve onto his heart, so that he can carry this feeling of peace with him forever.
***
The thought hasn’t left him all night, and as the sun peeks through Ivan’s thin curtains, Lovro finds he can’t stop thinking of it now, either.
It’s warm in Ivan’s bed, but when Lovro flings an arm out to feel for Ivan’s body, it simply flops straight down onto the mattress. Lovro rolls over, a tremor of worry passing through him until he sees Ivan walking into the room, sleep-mussed and bleary-eyed, with two mugs in his hands that he leaves on his desk.
“Morning,” Lovro says. The moment Ivan gets back into bed, Lovro wraps himself around him. It’s foolish to miss waking up with him, but he can still appreciate these long mornings where the day almost passes them by and they don’t quite mind.
“Morning,” Ivan echoes, already smiling as he kisses Lovro, then again, then again, like he can’t quite bring himself to stop.
Lovro laughs into the last of them, then leans his head on Ivan’s shoulder, wanting to crawl into the crook of his neck. He settles for nestling there while he can. “I have a question,” he starts, tentatively.
“Is it a good question or a bad question?” Ivan’s voice is still low, thick with the morning, but Lovro can feel the way he tenses just slightly beside him.
“Um, would you maybe design a tattoo for me?”
Where Ivan’s hand had been idly tracing the soft skin of Lovro’s arm, it freezes. For a moment, Lovro fears that it will retreat entirely, but the hand stays there, unmoving.
He can feel Ivan's gaze on him, can see the questions written across his face even without looking at him. The longer it takes for Ivan to give voice to those questions, the more Lovro's own doubt sets in.
“You don't have to say anything. It was just a dumb thought.” A dumb thought that's been circling in his mind for weeks like a shark that thinks it's caught the scent of blood.
He can't pinpoint the exact moment it first came to mind. Perhaps he had just been watching Ivan doodle, too tired to truly draw or sketch anything more serious, and had wondered how it would feel to have his skin be the canvas. Perhaps Ivan had been leaving trails of fire with each kiss pressed to his willing flesh that Lovro had wanted it to become permanent, something burned into the very core of him. Perhaps he had caught Ivan staring at him, and had shivered at the sensation of not just being looked at, but being seen.
“It's not dumb,” Ivan says, his hand resuming its mindless ministrations, tracing Lovro's arm as though it was a map of the world. “It's just not what I expected you to say. What would you want?”
Lovro leans into Ivan's side a little more, enjoying each minute of closeness as though he was still afraid that the next minute, it would be gone forever. “I don't know. I didn't really have anything specific in mind.”
“You want a tattoo just for the vibes?”
“Sure,” Lovro says, because it's easier than the truth that he can't give voice to.
Ivan boops him on the nose, and Lovro slaps his hand away, dragging it down to his waist instead. It's still hard sometimes for him to admit that he wants to curl up and be held. “Why don't you ask Jakov for some ideas? He probably knows you better than I do.”
“I'll ask just so that I can prove to you what a bad idea that would be.” Lovro whips his phone out, texting the group chat with Jakov and Mario, the chat that had once been home to Filip, too.
It doesn't take long for the boys to reply.
Mario: dick on your head obvs
Lovro: homophobic
Jakov: massive back tattoo of three saskues howling at the moon
Lovro: die
He shows Ivan the chat, and wishes he could taste the huff of laughter that comes from his boyfriend's mouth.
“I think those both sound pretty promising,” Ivan says, smirking. “It'd be nice to have something to look at when we-” His words are cut off abruptly by Lovro shoving him away.
“Bro,” Lovro sputters, but his outrage swiftly turns to laughter. “I'm breaking up with you. You don't appreciate my back enough.”
“See, this is why you shouldn't trust me to design one for you. It seems like a good idea now, but how long until it becomes a bad memory.” Ivan reaches over to the table to pick up the mugs, passing one to Lovro. It's a signal for the conversation to move on, before it becomes far more vulnerable than either of them are prepared for.
“Sure,” Lovro says, quietly. He takes a sip of his tea, and it's the perfect temperature, just slightly too hot so that it burns a little on the way down. “Just think about it. Please.”
Ivan meets his gaze, his brown eyes shaded with uncertainty. He doesn't argue, though. Just nods his head, and Lovro finally agrees to let the conversation go.
***
They don't talk about it, even though Lovro yearns to bring it up each time they're together. When he's alone, he gets lost in thinking about the blank canvas of his body, staring at his arms whilst he should be studying and imagining how they could look in a world where he's brave enough to push and Ivan is brave enough to create.
He can't forget what Ivan had said, though, about it becoming a bad memory. As though any of this could ever be a truly bad memory. Even the worst of it, even when they've been at their lowest, Lovro thinks that he's never been more him than when he is with Ivan.
As much as he might secretly be thrilled at the foolish romance of having a permanent reminder of his boyfriend, it's not as though he's going to get Ivan's name tattooed on him. For Lovro, this desire is so much deeper than the thought of possession, or an overwrought and overly loud admittance of love that's too big to be true. It's not so much a reminder of Ivan, but a testament to himself and the person that he thinks he is finally starting to like again.
Lovro can see the gears of Ivan's brain turning even without them talking about it. He doesn’t need words to know that the thought is as lodged in Ivan's mind as it is in his own, being pored over and analysed and torn apart until Ivan can only find the bad, turning it into a tool to punish himself.
They're sitting on Lovro's too-small bed, pretending to watch whatever is playing on the TV, when Ivan finally decides to talk about it.
“Were you being serious about the tattoo thing?” He asks, so quietly that Lovro almost doesn't hear him. Ivan reluctantly lifts his head from the crook of Lovro's neck, leaning it against the wall that is scrawled with the reminders of everyone who matters to Lovro. Peeking from the crown of his head are the legs of a bat Ivan had doodled, and Lovro's heart throbs with just how much adoration he has for the boy sitting before him.
Lovro's hand curls in the fabric of his own shirt, a gesture of comfort that has never gone away in spite of the fact that he needs to comfort himself far less frequently these days. He considers lying, saying that it was just a joke, or that he's changed his mind, but if anything the weeks passing have only made him want it more. “Yes.”
“Do you really think it's a good idea? What if we break up, or you regret it, or we break up and you regret it. Laser removal is really expensive, you know-”
“Ivan,” Lovro interrupts. It's not often that his boyfriend is the one rambling nervously, though Lovro knows all too well the pools of self-doubt, of not-good-enough, that have formed in the craters of Ivan's soul. The fear that lives in both of them that one day the other will wake up and realise they can do so much better, and that all this could ever be is a young love so intense that it swiftly becomes a bad memory, or an anecdote told to friends who never knew the person that they were before. “I could regret any tattoo that I get. That's kind of the risk of doing literally anything.”
“It's a lot of responsibility,” Ivan says. “I'm not that good of an artist. Would you really want something that I drew on you forever?”
“Yes,” Lovro says, without hesitation. “I trust you, Ivan. And, if you really want, I can get something else done first. Something stupid and shitty, or a tramp stamp or whatever. That way, there'll always be something I'll regret more.”
“That's the stupidest idea you've ever had,” Ivan says, though the frown starts to lift from his face. It's not quite a smile, but it's better than nothing. “I'll think about it.”
“About the tramp stamp?”
Ivan flicks him on the nose. “No. About your tattoo. It needs to be perfect.”
“No, it doesn't,” Lovro says. “If we wait for the perfect idea, then it'll never happen. It just has to be good enough for now.”
“This is going to be on your body forever, Lovro,” Ivan explains, as though that isn't the whole point. As though the idea doesn't send a delighted shiver down Lovro's spine. As though Lovro doesn't know that he will cherish the reminder of who he is now forever.
“I know.” Lovro frees the hem of his shirt from his own fidgety grasp, curling his hand around Ivan's neck. “You're being kind of an old man about all this. It's just a tattoo, it's really not that serious.”
“First I'm a snob, then I'm shy, now I'm an old man. Maybe we should take up Mario's suggestion and get that dick on your forehead after all.” Ivan's stare is unyielding, and even in their lighter moments it always lands on Lovro with an intensity that he can't quite seem to fathom or quantify.
Still, he's become better at meeting it after months of being together, even if his gaze still drifts to Ivan's lips every now and again. “I can think of some better things to do with dicks.” He wiggles his eyebrows, biting his lip to try and hide his own laughter.
Ivan has to do no such thing, rolling his eyes at Lovro's ridiculousness. “Seriously? That's your line?”
“Come on, just kiss me already.”
“And reward you for that?” Ivan jokes, but he's already inching closer, the space between them disappearing. His hand cups the back of Lovro's head, fingers threading so gently through his hair that Lovro might just curl up in Ivan's lap and purr like a cat.
Lovro had thought that, over time, kissing Ivan would become rote. A part of the routine of being a couple that he'd performed with Ema, that he'd seen being performed amongst his friends and family. Yet, even now, in those few seconds of anticipation before Ivan's lips touch his, he brims with toe-curling excitement. His joy never seems to fade, after one or a hundred or a thousand kisses.
He loves this man, but more importantly, he has never felt so right before.
***
If Lovro thought that he'd grown used to the intensity of feeling Ivan's gaze on him, then it's nothing compared to now. He can feel the drag of Ivan's eyes as he sizes up the exposed skin of his hands and wrists when they're outside; the focused stares as they lie together in bed, the lights off, just within reach of sleep.
Some days, Lovro idly flicks through the drawings scattered on the desk, full of snapshots of ideas drawn and discarded before they could even be finished, and a swell of guilt will overcome him. The crawling fear that he's driving his boyfriend to madness over an idle thought that had become a gnawing need. He almost calls it off, chewing over the words that will put this nonsense to bed, but that won't stop either of them from ruminating, from fixating, on the idea now that it's already been spoken.
Besides, he does trust Ivan. Trusts him to say if it's too much pressure, or that he is overthinking, or that he wants to go off his meds to make something worthy of Lovro (as though Lovro wouldn't be content with, well, literally anything other than a dick on his forehead).
And that trust is rewarded when, a week later, Ivan nervously hands Lovro his sketchbook after dinner. “I've had a few ideas,” he says. “But they're just ideas, it's fine if you don't like any of them.”
Lovro flips open the book, flicking through page after page of sketches of things that remind Ivan of him. There are doodles of galaxies and stars and rockets that remind of the mural in the underpass by his home. There are twining leaves of ivy and daisies only ever drawn with an odd number of petals so that Lovro could pick them off one by one and always end with being loved. There's the weeping twig of a willow tree dangling from the mouth of crow with impossibly bright eyes, shining out from the page. There are fish swimming in an eternal dance, never able to meet but always chasing each other, always balancing the other out.
“Wow,” he says, unable to find any real words to express any of the feelings threatening to overwhelm him.
“I know it's a lot, and probably not what you wanted, but-”
“They're perfect,” Lovro says, tracing his fingers over the delicate lines of a bird's feather that he remembers them picking up on a hike together.
Ivan stands there for a moment, speechless, until the tension he's been carrying finally starts to leave him. “Really?” He asks, allowing himself to perch on the sofa next to Lovro, leaning close enough that they can look at the sketches together. “I didn't know if you would like some of the flowery ones.”
“What, you think I'm too insecure to have a tattoo of a flower?” Lovro jokes, though he knows that months ago, this would have been true. He likes the idea of it now, though, of growing a garden on his body. Of brimming with life and delicacy and holding entire galaxies on the surface of his skin. “I've had your dick in my ass, I don’t think a flower is going to make me any gayer.”
“You have such a way with words,” Ivan says, snorting at Lovro's bluntness.
“Seriously, though. Thank you. I know I was asking a lot of you.” He smooths his fingers over the paper, letting the texture of it ground him. “I'm surprised there's no Tomos.”
“You're even more attached to that thing than I was,” Ivan says, but he flips the page to reveal two stars that look suspiciously like the one that adorns Lovro's helmet, which still sits coupled with Ivan's in his loft. Ivan had never been able to bring himself to sell them.
“Nobody misses it more than Mario. Maybe it's for the best you sold it, or he would have tried to steal you from me just for free rides.”
“He can get a tattoo of it on his forehead, in honor of its memory.”
“Right next to the dick.”
They sit there together in the quiet, silences never feeling awkward any more. Lovro loves just getting to listen to Ivan breathe. He should probably go back to his Psychology textbook and see if that's a sign of codependency, or if he's just so in love that just the reminder of Ivan's continued existence on this earth is enough to keep his heart beating on time.
“I'll book an appointment as soon as I can,” Lovro says into the silence. Now that he has this, now that he has so many options, he buzzes with excitement. If he could get them done now, he would.
“So you're really serious about this? You really want one of my drawings on you forever?” Ivan is capable of expressing so much in his eyes alone, love and doubt and earnestness all carried in his gaze.
“How many times do I have to tell you I'm serious about this?” Lovro says, brushing his nose against Ivan's. “I like your art, and I like you, and I like the way you see me. I like the person you help me remember that I can be.”
There's something pained in Ivan's expression, something disbelieving, as though Lovro would ever say such things and not mean them. They both know how hard words can be, but sometimes they spill out, a tumble of honesty so simple that it cannot be denied or written off as flattery.
Lovro knows about Ivan's past relationships enough to know that a part of him must always expect the worst. That Ivan is not only too much to love, but that the very condition of loving him comes at the expense of your own happiness and peace of mind. And nothing is perfect, least of all their relationship, but Lovro wishes that Ivan could feel for even one second what a gift it is to be loved by him. What a privilege it is to love him in return.
Instead of saying anything back, Ivan buries his head in Lovro's neck, pulling them together until there's barely room to breathe between them. Sometimes, Ivan has trouble accepting the fact that he likes to be held, too, until nights like this where the honesty is so beautiful that it hurts him to look at it. He needs to be held until he can feel it in the beating of Lovro's heart, echoing around his body.
***
“You should have told me you're scared of needles,” Lovro says, laughing as Ivan's face pales at the sight of the tattoo gun.
Lovro hadn't been joking about wanting to get his tattoos as soon as he could, booking the earliest appointment he could get with a friend of a friend that could be trusted with clean line work and a slight discount.
If he had chosen her because of the pride flag in her Instagram bio, well, sue him. He wanted to hold his boyfriend's hand while getting his first tattoo without being afraid or ashamed.
Turns out, he might be the one needing to hold Ivan's hand.
Ivan had been a little nervous during the short tram journey, his leg bouncing until they finally made it out to the street. The studio itself is cozy, designed to set patrons at ease instead of leaning fully into the grungy aesthetic Lovro had expected, but Ivan had only grown increasingly tense as the artist prepped the stencils.
Lovro had wondered if it was an artist thing, Ivan growing antsy and irritated at his art being traced and drawn by someone else, but the moment they move to the back and Lovro settles on the chair, he understands.
“Is that why you were so worried about me getting a tattoo this whole time? Because of the needles?” Lovro asks, his voice soft.
Ivan huffs, indignant. “No. And I'm not scared of needles. I just don't understand why anyone would willingly want them anywhere near their body. No offense.”
“None taken,” the artist says, a laugh in her voice. “If you are going to pass out though, it's probably for the best if you sit in the waiting room. Neither of these will take very long.”
“I'm fine,” Ivan says through his teeth. He grasps the hand of Lovro's free arm, and the tattoo artist shrugs and gets started.
The moment the whirr of the gun starts, Ivan's grip tightens to be so bone-crushingly tight that Lovro needn't have worried about the pain from the needle - he can't feel much of anything outside of his fingers being pressed together until they might merge into one from the sheer force of it.
He watches Ivan's face, the clench of his jaw and the slight frown between his brows, the way his eyes keep drifting to the other side of the table until he blanches and has to meet Lovro's eyes again.
“Are you okay?” Ivan asks, just loud enough to be heard over the relentless buzzing. “Does it hurt?”
Lovro almost tries to shrug, until the artist squeezes his arm, a gentle reminder to not fucking move lest he want to ruin what he's spent months trying to get. “Not really,” he says instead. He had been worried about the pain, but as she traces the stenciled lines on his upper arm, it really feels more like a tickle with a slight burn beneath. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Ivan bites out.
“Seriously, I think I've got this from here. Don't suffer on my account.”
“Don't be silly. I said I was going to be here, so I'm going to be here.” It makes Lovro laugh sometimes, how serious Ivan can be about the things that he's decided matter. He can be as stubborn as a mule, or as stubborn as a Lovro. Once he's made up his mind about something, he'll do his best to see it through.
Lovro doesn't argue, though an argument might serve as a suitable distraction. Instead, he makes Ivan play several rounds of I-spy and the types of word games he'd play with Jakov and his family on long train journeys when they were too young to pass the time drinking and being stupid.
His thumb smooths along Ivan's skin, and though Ivan never quite relaxes, he at least looks a little less like he's about to faint.
“I'm pretty sure I'm meant to be the one comforting you right now,” Ivan murmurs, in the short silence before the tattoo artist starts to work on the small piece on Lovro's wrist. They've both grown too accustomed to the sound of the tattoo gun already that the quiet is unsettling.
“I don't know what you're talking about. I feel very comforted. You're doing a great job distracting me.”
Ivan rolls his eyes at the platitudes, but he still places a swift kiss on Lovro's hand which burns far more than the needle ever could.
Even after all this time, even after specifically choosing someone whom he knew he could feel safe around, even in the privacy of this room with only the three of them here, Lovro still glances the artist's way. The only reaction he finds from her is a soft smile on her face, before she asks if he's ready to get started again.
He pictures himself as a tree again, one amongst hundreds and thousands of others, clustered together and connected through tangled roots that have as much capacity to choke the life from him as they do to help him grow. Once upon a time, he had felt diseased, like he was plagued by a sickness that could only spread, his own self-loathing a toxic fungus that could kill not only him but everyone he ever cared about. He knows now that there's nothing wrong with him, even if he still struggles to be proud. More than that, he's starting to see how deep his roots can go, and how far they can spread, and how many of them can share in their own secret world, their own secret language, outside of the knowledge of the rest of the forest.
He doesn't have to always be so afraid. He's not alone out here.
He squeezes Ivan's hand back, and relaxes into the chair as the buzzing starts again, letting himself feel the tickle of each line being drawn, imagining that it's Ivan with the pen in his hand.
It isn’t long until she's done, neither of the tattoos being particularly large or complex, and for a while after the needle has stopped, Lovro can only sit there and think about the before and after. The moment of transformation is over, and he'll always have a reminder of Ivan on his skin like a keepsake. Even if they do break up, even if they do grow to hate each other, even if he does come to regret his choices, he doesn't regret it now. And that's how they agreed to live: minute by minute, lest their fears for the future collapse on them and kill their happiness before it ever has a chance to grow.
He hasn't even seen them yet, but he can't stop smiling, and he thinks that only some of that is the release of endorphins.
“You can look at them before I wrap them up,” the tattoo artist says. “They look pretty good, if I do say so myself.”
When Lovro finally allows himself to look at the daisy inked onto the inside of his wrist, he's overcome by a strange wave of emotion. It's simple, but the little touches of detail in the petals and the head are enough for him to want to lose himself in them. He wants to trace each line until it's as etched into his heart as it is his skin. Most importantly, it's so clearly Ivan's hand that has drawn it, in ink that's seeped below the first layer of his skin, there forever.
She brings out a mirror for him to look at the uneven stars on his upper arm, just as they are on his helmet, though one is left as just an outline and the other is shaded black.
Each day that has passed since meeting Ivan, since his entire world was destroyed and rebuilt brick by brick, he has only felt more comfortable in his own skin. Today, he thinks he is moving ever closer to the person he wants to be, the person he likes. These tattoos are only the start.
“I love them,” he says, almost breathless. “Thank you.” He's unsure whether that's directed to her, or to Ivan. More likely to both of them.
Her smile is open and wide as she deftly wraps the tattoos, and although Lovro can still see them, he hates having a layer between them and himself. The day that he's able to feel them with no barrier he thinks will be one of the best days of his life. “You're welcome. Are you sure I can't convince your boyfriend to get something done?” She teases, and Ivan forces a smile. “Okay, you're all good to go. Feel free to come back any time!”
While they wait for the tram, with it naturally running late as always, Ivan seems tense again. “We should head to yours and get something sweet in case your blood sugar drops.”
“I feel fine,” Lovro says. “But sure. You don't need to come up with excuses to eat my mother's cakes. Half of the fridge is for you at this point.”
“Is she home? Does she know?” Ivan asks.
The tram finally arrives, with the confidence of if it had appeared exactly on time, and they settle next to each other. It's hard to resist the urge to let himself lean on Ivan. “She knows,” Lovro says. “She made sure to give me a talk about it, but I think she probably knew it was an inevitability the first time I dyed my hair. Are you okay with it?”
Ivan looks at him then, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You haven't even looked at them.”
“It felt wrong with someone else in the room,” Ivan admits, a slight flush brushing his cheeks. “And I was too nauseous from watching it to be able to react properly.”
“So you are scared of needles,” Lovro teases.
“Maybe. We don't need to make a big deal out of it.”
“Next time I get a tattoo, I'll go alone. Or maybe I'll bring Jakov, or one of the girls with me.” Lovro shifts his hand just close enough to brush his pinkie finger against Ivan's, a reassurance that this is okay, that it's not a failure, that they can look after each other this way.
“You're already thinking about getting another?”
Lovro shrugs, wincing a little at the movement of his newly-inked skin. “You drew so many things, it'd be a shame not to use them.” It's too casual for what he means, for how he'd scrolled through those pages and wondered at all the parts of himself that Ivan sees, all the things that remind Ivan of him.
Lovro has a strong sense of identity. He doesn't need to let others define him, no matter how well they know him. In his lifetime, he knows how much people will try to define him, based on his sexuality or his style or the way that he carries himself. The least that he can do is try to be himself a little louder, being brave enough to wear his heart on his skin.
“Okay,” Ivan says, but his blush doesn't go away, and a small smile curls the corners of his lips. And he says he's not shy.
Once they close the door of Lovro's flat behind them, hearing the silence of it being surprisingly empty, Lovro kisses that smile, tasting it, wanting to commit the shape of it to memory.
“Now do you want to look?” Lovro asks.
Ivan nods, and Lovro tentatively frees his left arm from the prison of his layered shirts.
Ever so gently, Ivan lifts his arm, inspecting the delicate little flower that blooms on his wrist. Delicate, but resilient. Ivan's breath catches, his fingers almost brushing the wrapping until he thinks better of it. One day, soon.
Next, he takes in the stars, smiling at their slight unevenness, at their scattered lines, at the reminder of all those journeys together, real and imagined. “They look good,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ivan cups the back of Lovro's neck, pulling him in for a kiss that has his stomach doing backflips. “You're incredible. Sometimes I think you're even crazier than me.”
Lovro pinches Ivan's waist, but Ivan just laughs into his mouth, kissing him again.
The click of the door opening behind them has them jumping apart, though this is hardly the worst position that his mother has found them in. Careful as they are, accidents still happen.
The tension falls from Ivan as they fall into a sedate afternoon, eating one of Ivan's favourite cakes with freshly brewed tea, only bearing some judgement for Lovro's new tattoos. When his mother actually sees them, she seems surprised at how understated they are, and at how happy they clearly make her son.
It's a good day, though Lovro knows an even better one is coming.
***
After all the doubt and the fear, Ivan becomes obsessed with Lovro's tattoos.
He pays more attention to the aftercare than Lovro does, always taking the time to help him wash and lotion the skin when they're together. Lovro thinks that Ivan will miss this when the skin is fully healed, but there's always the promise of more.
When they cuddle, Ivan will find the shapes that he drew, that he knows so well, and traces his fingers over those familiar lines until Lovro drifts off to sleep, safe and held and known.
Maybe Ivan is a little possessive. Maybe a part of him likes having something he made on Lovro forever. Lovro doesn't know. It's not like that for him, not quite.
Still, he doesn't mind the way that Ivan will press kisses to the marks on his skin, or the way his fingers will trace the bare expanse of the rest of his body as though he's only imagining what else could be there in its stead, Lovro as both muse and canvas.
Lovro knows that they live minute by minute, and on the bad days sometimes it feels like the only thing that helps him survive. But, in moments like these, as Ivan nips his way down Lovro's neck, his hand clasped over Lovro's tattooed wrist as though it is a tether that connects them, it's impossible to not feel forever.