Chapter Text
PRESENT DAY
With very little effort, Ivan hoists himself onto the protruding window ledge at the back of the building. He picks the lock with a safety pin from his pocket before opening the window just wide enough for him to climb through, winking at the CCTV camera on his way in. It barely works, and even if it did, it’s been disabled for the time being. Ivan isn’t worried, not when he knows that someone is expecting him.
He drops to the floor inside, the change in temperature drastic to anyone else but only slightly noticeable to him, but he makes a show of shivering and pulls his jacket tighter around himself.
A girl with sleek, black hair is standing with her back to him, chewing on a ballpoint pen with a clipboard in hand as she surveys the contents of the open freezer in front of her. The walls of the room are lined with freezers, fridges and other means of temperature-regulated storage, each one full of carefully organised and catalogued blood bags, each containing the red blood cells or platelets of a generous, willing human volunteer who thinks they’re donating to the hospitals. Well, some of them are, at least.
“Why are you so against using the door?” Vanessa asks. She doesn’t turn around to see who’s just broken in, but she doesn’t need to.
“Is a guy not allowed to be a bit dramatic sometimes? Let me have my fun.” He walks up to her to throw an arm around her shoulders, pull her into his chest and kiss the top of her head. “Nice to see you too. I’m great, thanks for asking.”
Vanessa huffs, but she doesn’t fight the physical affection and just stays leaning against Ivan as she ticks boxes and scribbles down words and abbreviations in her looping calligraphy that Ivan couldn’t decipher even if he tried. “You’re late.”
Ivan checks his watch, but it’s on the wrist of the arm that has Vanessa in a half-headlock, so it ends up in her face as he looks at the time. “Only by fifteen minutes.”
With a sigh, Vanessa shoves his arm away, but she’s smiling. “Fifteen extra minutes in which I have to account for the security system being down.”
“It’s lucky you love me.”
“Whatever,” Vanessa mutters. She opens one of the other fridges. “Any preference?”
“B-neg, please.” He feels a little bit bad about it, given that it’s one of the rarest blood types, but at least he’s leaving the O-neg alone. He doesn’t have to see Vanessa’s face to know that she’s rolling her eyes, but he gets a full bag thrown at his chest at lightning speed.
For herself, Vanessa takes out a bag of O-positive, stabbing it with a holographic metal straw that she’s procured from her pocket before sipping on it like it’s a cocktail. If Ivan thought his own impulses were well-controlled, they’re nothing compared to Vanessa’s. How she manages to work every day in a blood bank, the epitome of temptation confined in four walls and a roof, he has absolutely no idea. It’s one of the many reasons he admires her.
He takes the first sip of his own bag, his eyes involuntarily closing as the first drops hit his tongue. Conveniently, he can go a fairly long time without feeding, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t euphoric when he does. The taste is familiar, sharp but sweet. He forces his eyes to open because if he keeps them shut, his mind will take him somewhere dangerous that he isn’t welcome anymore, will allow this particular flavour and type of blood to evoke memories - or, more accurately, a memory - of the best it ever tasted.
It's then that Ivan notices the extra blood bag that Vanessa has taken out, and his body simultaneously alerts him of someone else’s presence getting closer and closer. A fellow vampire, he knows, but it’s the accompanying sense of familiarity and nostalgia and regret that really makes Ivan’s head spin.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses at Vanessa, which is entirely pointless, because their guest will be able to hear him even through the walls.
She shrugs, taking an unnecessarily long sip, lips pursing around the straw and tilting up into a knowing, unapologetic smirk. “You’re not the only vampire in the city who needs a drink, babe.”
“Could you not have warned me?” As far as Ivan was aware, this particular vampire wasn’t even anywhere near the city.
“You need to get over it, Ivan. There’s no reason why you should still be petty after two centuries.”
Ivan gasps in offence. “I’m not petty!” he says pettily. “How would you feel if I forced you into close confines with your ex?”
Vanessa smiles, eyes scrunching up, clearly reminiscing. “Nix and I are on great terms, actually. I saw her the other week.”
Ivan is about to ask her to elaborate, as he’s particularly invested in the girls’ tumultuous on-again-off-again relationship that deserves to be the plot of one of those multi-season vampire rom-com shows that humans love so much, but he doesn’t get the chance.
As if on cue, the door to the storage room swings open and a tall, dark-haired man sweeps in, grinning at Vanessa before scooping up the unclaimed blood bag - Ivan doesn’t have to look to know it’s O-neg, the inconsiderate bastard - and perching on the table in the middle of the room. He takes a sip through a straw that matches Vanessa’s before his eyes catch on Ivan. He tilts his head with a smile that reeks of mock-surprise, as if he didn’t already know Ivan was there, which is near impossible.
“Hi handsome.”
Ivan sighs, leaning against the wall with his holographic-metal-straw-less blood bag. He can’t believe they got matching straws and didn’t tell him. “Fuck off, Mihael.”
He narrows his eyes at Vanessa, who’s trying and failing at not-laughing, before mouthing traitor, half because of the straws and half because she didn’t think to tell him that a.) Mihael was back in the country and that b.) she’d invited him along to their weekly dinner party. This was supposed to be his designated Vanessa time, since he so rarely gets to see her with how much she works, and now he has to spend it catching up with the last person he wants to see.
After the week he’s been having, he doesn’t need another example of a relationship he managed to fuck up.
“I thought you were in Bucharest.” Why aren’t you still in Bucharest?
Mihael gives a slow, lazy grin that once would have made Ivan hot all over but now just pisses him off. He’s always had this way about him, something liquid smooth yet magnetic that allows him to take all of the air in the room and squeeze it between his fist, bending the particles and atoms to his will. It’s not like Ivan needs the air, but he feels its absence when Mihael controls it like this. It’s one of the reasons why it was so easy to fall into a relationship with him, so hard to get out of it, and so freeing to find out that he was leaving the country.
They were friends first, they all were, and it was good until it wasn’t. Ivan would do anything to go back to that, because being friends was simple, but it’s a little too late for that. They needed the time and distance apart to heal and, quite frankly, grow the fuck up - or grow up as much as a vampire can in two hundred years, which isn’t actually a lot. Under any other circumstances, Ivan would be quite happy to see him and catch up, because he honestly has missed him, but he’s not sure he can handle it right now
“I was in Bucharest. But now I’m here.”
“Why?”
Mihael shrugs. His eyes glitter. “I was homesick.”
“Bullshit.” Mihael doesn’t get homesick. He likes change and adventure and making the most out of life. He never said it, but Ivan knows he only stayed in Zagreb for as long as he did because of him and because of Vanessa and her sister.
Crossing one leg over the other, Mihael puts down his blood bag and leans back on the palms of hands before winking at him. Ivan pulls a face, probably looking like a petulant child, but Mihael only laughs. “Maybe I missed you.”
With a scoff, Ivan stands up straight. He’s almost entirely sure that Mihael is joking, but it’s sometimes hard to tell. “God, I hope not.”
“Yeah, I’m only kidding. Sorry to break your heart but I am well and truly over you.”
“Thank fuck.” It’s a relief to hear, a weight taken off Ivan’s shoulders and out of his chest. He has enough unrequited angst and longing to deal with, he doesn’t need any directed at him.
Vanessa, in the meantime, looks like she should be eating popcorn rather than drinking blood, unable to contain a laugh as she looks back and forth between them. It’s just like old times: her as a spectator to Ivan and Mihael’s bickering before the arguments carried any weight. “Boys, boys,” she says. “Just admit that you’re both happy to see each other and shut the fuck up.”
“It’s good to see you, Ivan,” Mihael says good-naturedly with a smile that’s just that: a smile. No sarcasm or mirth, no hidden connotations, no fine print.
“Yeah, you too,” Ivan concedes. He crosses his arms, punctuating his admission with a long sip - one that borders on being classified as a slurp - of blood. “Hope Bucharest was wonderful.”
“It was.” Mihael claps his hands together. “Now, I want to hear what I’ve missed.”
Ivan has no idea where to even begin when recounting two-hundred years of missed experiences and conversations, but it appears Vanessa has some idea, because her face lights up. She turns to Ivan with a wolfish grin, and Ivan’s metaphorical heart drops to his ass.
“Vanessa, no.”
“Vanessa, yes,” Mihael counters, eyes wide as saucers. “Ignore him. Please elaborate.”
Ivan slides down the wall, slowly and pathetically, until he’s sitting on the floor with his legs outstretched, sipping on his blood like a human child with a juice box after being told he’s not allowed soda. There’s no point trying to argue because as soon as Vanessa and Mihael get into gossip mode, they’re practically unreachable.
Like a magician about to perform a particularly entertaining trick, Vanessa spreads her hands out in front of her, fangs bared and bloodstained to really add to the ambiance. “It’s very lucky you’re over him, because our Ivan has found himself a boyfriend.”
“Ivan Kovačić, you Casanova,” Mihael breathes. “Good for you! Who is he? One of us?”
Vanessa is practically vibrating with silent laughter, biting down on her bottom lip as she shakes her head comically slowly. “Nope. Funnier.”
Mihael looks impressed. “Human? Damn.”
Ivan rolls his eyes when Vanessa starts fucking jumping up and down. “Even better!” she announces, and Ivan pinches the bridge of his nose.
Mihael puts on a show of thinking about it, but he looks genuinely confused until he rolls his eyes and scoffs. “What, are you gonna tell me he’s a hunter or something?” Neither of the informed parties say a word, Ivan because he really doesn’t want to have this conversation, and Vanessa because she particularly enjoys watching people work things out for themselves. Mihael rounds on Ivan, a hand flying to his mouth. “Ivan? What the fuck?”
Ivan groans, palms pressed to his face. “He is not my boyfriend.” There’s absolutely no doubt about that. He doesn’t think it’s the correct term to describe someone who is actively trying to kill him, but Lovro has never really fit into any predetermined categories. Everything about him transcends understanding and language, and Ivan doesn’t really know what to do about it.
Mihael looks affronted. “I’d fucking hope not.”
“Yeah, not anymore,” Vanessa chips in, always keen to straighten out the facts.
Taking another sip of blood, a drop catching on the corner of his mouth before he licks it away, Mihael purses his lips in contemplation. “How did that work? Was he actively trying to stab you the whole time you were together?” He pauses, clearly thinking about something Ivan would rather he didn’t, judging by the amused smirk that is plastered across his face. “Like, I knew you were into some crazy stuff, but I didn’t know you had a knife kink.” He sighs wistfully. “I do wish you’d mentioned that earlier. Wasted potential.”
“I do not have a knife kink,” Ivan argues emphatically, because for some reason that feels like the part of Mihael’s assumption that is in most need of dismissal. Does he have a knife kink? He’s never actually thought about it before, because when he thinks about knives, he thinks about Lovro, and that train of thought alone is enough to turn him on. Shit. He really does not have time to be thinking about that right now.
Mihael has on his ‘musing’ face. “How did it work then? If he wasn’t stabbing you. Were you his exception or something?” He starts humming the first few lines of The Only Exception, because Mihael has always made sure to keep up to date with pop-culture, before Ivan shuts him up with a glare.
“Even better,” Vanessa says gleefully. “He didn’t know.”
“What do you mean he didn’t know? He had to have known.”
“Nope!”
The noise that Mihael lets out starts off as a sigh but quickly devolves into a raspberry that he blows into thin air. “What a fucking idiot.” He points at Ivan. “And don’t even get me started on you. Man, you have got to stop thinking with your dick!”
Ivan holds his hands up, slightly unsure of how or why the conversation has taken this turn. “Why are you saying that as if it’s a recurring problem?”
Vanessa and Mihael turn to him with matching expressions, eyebrows raised.
“Do you really want to get into that right now?” Vanessa asks, and she looks more than prepared to go through a timeline of his poor sexual decisions. Hell, Ivan wouldn’t be surprised if she has a checklist of them on that clipboard of hers.
“Okay, fine, whatever,” Ivan relents. “But it’s over, okay? We don’t talk.”
“Except when he’s trying to kill you,” Vanessa counters. Ivan is really starting to regret showing up, but he was running low on his blood supply, so needs must. “Remind me when the last time that happened was?”
“Yesterday,” Ivan mumbles, because there’s no point in lying anymore.
Vanessa’s jaw drops, clearly offended that he didn’t tell her sooner, but in his defence, when did he have the chance? He’d barely arrived before the conversation turned to the prodigal ex-boyfriend. “That’s new.”
Mihael looks vindicated. “Oh, so now he’s trying to kill you? Glad he’s doing his job.”
“Wait, why are you encouraging this?” Ivan asks. This guy returns to the country after two centuries and immediately starts praying for Ivan's downfall. The absolute fucking cheek of it.
Mihael shrugs. “Hey, if I was in his position and found out you’d been lying to me about something like this, I wouldn’t sleep until you were six feet under.”
In response, he gets yet another glare from Ivan, though this one is accompanied by a middle finger. “Can you go back to Bucharest, please? Or somewhere further away. I hear Australia is nice this time of year.”
Clearly feeling as if it’s been too long since her last contribution, Vanessa joins in again. “Would you believe me if I told you it gets even better.”
Ivan would argue that actually, it gets much, much worse.
“I feel like nothing you say can surprise me anymore,” Mihael sighs, as if he’s the one struggling the most with this conversation.
Because Vanessa has suddenly regained some semblance of awareness for Ivan’s feelings, she turns to him. “Ivan, I think you should probably tell him this bit,” she says solemnly, but there’s still a slight quirk to her lips.
“I’m alright, actually.” Ivan would quite like to go home now.
“Please? I have to know what tipped this guy off.” Mihael pouts and, because it’s apparently ‘Piss Off Ivan Day’, bats his eyelashes. “Ooh, did you bite him? That would definitely give it away.”
Reluctantly, Ivan tells him everything, maybe because a part of him thinks that saying it out loud again will make it make sense, will suddenly spark some idea of how to fix it. He tells Mihael about how it started, in a bar over a drink he couldn’t taste and in the dark of the men's room. He tells him about how it grew into something stronger that Ivan couldn’t run from, and tells him about where it all went wrong, about misunderstandings and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He tells him about how Lovro has every right to hate him, because if Ivan had been in his position, he would have drawn the same conclusions and felt the same betrayal, straight through the heart as if he was the one who could be killed with a stake.
Mihael’s mockery and laughter fades to something softer, genuine sympathy and concern, his lips pulled into a taut line. “And he still doesn’t know what really happened?”
Ivan shakes his head.
“Have you tried to tell him?”
Ivan shrugs. “It’s too late. It’s pretty hard to explain anything when you have a knife to your throat. Besides, the damage is done. He’s made up his mind.”
“Shit,” Mihael says, and that’s exactly it, really. “I’m sorry, Ivan.”
Ivan waves him off. “Don’t be. It’s my own fault, so I have to deal with the consequences. Taking responsibility or whatever.” His words hang in the air, an uncomfortable silence that neither Mihael or Vanessa seem to want to break, and Ivan realises that if he wants the conversation to move forward, he’s going to have to be the one to do it.
“You never answered my question,” Ivan says, looking up at Mihael. “Why are you here? What made you come back?”
Mihael’s eyes sparkle. “I genuinely missed you guys. I wanted to see what you were up to.” He tilts his head. “I’m leaving at the end of this month. Might head somewhere new. Norway, maybe. You should come with me.”
“What?”
“Come on, Ivan. You’ve been here your whole life, even your parents have moved away. There’s nothing tying you to Zagreb anymore.” Vanessa makes a noise of offence at the last part, but Mihael ignores her. “It might be good for you. At least there wouldn’t be anyone trying to kill you.”
“You never know,” Ivan says, “I tend to piss people off quite easily. I’m sure that wherever I go, it won’t be long before someone else is after me.”
Mihael gives him a stern look. “Well as long as you don’t fuck any more hunters, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just think about it.”
Ivan gives him the finger, but he nods. “Yeah. I will.”
He can understand Mihael’s point. For most people, if there was someone hunting them down and wanting them dead, leaving the country would be the logical next step, and surely much preferred than the alternative. But, for some reason, it only makes Ivan more inclined to stay. Because Mihael is wrong; there is something, or someone, tying Ivan to this city. Multiple someones, in fact. Maybe Ivan likes the thrill of the chase, craves the adrenaline of knowing that the one person he always wants to see is about to jump out at him and attack him. All Lovro has to offer him is violence, and it sustains Ivan as much as blood does, but at least the violence is something Ivan is more than happy to need. Something he wants. He’s more than willing to let Lovro treat him badly if it means he’ll treat him at all, and that can’t happen if he’s in a different country.
Though a part of him wonders if he did leave, if Lovro would follow him. He hopes he would. It’s said that distance makes the heart grow fonder, and if Lovro was any further away from Ivan, Ivan worries that he wouldn’t be able to survive having the space and time to think about how much he loves him. He needs him close so that he can be reminded that whatever he still feels for him is unrequited.
“I’ll think about it,” Ivan says again. Vanessa and Mihael look at him with matching folded arms and narrowed eyes, and Ivan knows that they know he’s lying, but no one says a word.
On his way home, with a backpack full of bloodbags and a head like the air before a storm, Ivan finds himself sitting on a bench next to the cathedral.
He doesn’t go inside.
The myths and suggestions that vampires can’t enter places of worship like this one are false, but Ivan still holds onto the lingering fear that if he stepped through the doors, he’d go up in flames. So he doesn’t. He sits outside, arms folded across his chest as he stares up at the colossal, Gothic structure that has changed and grown and moulded itself to the ever-changing city just as he has.
There are a plethora of reasons why it would be ironic and entirely pointless for Ivan to believe in any kind of god, but he’s always been curious. If heaven exists, he can almost guarantee that he won’t end up there, but it’s sometimes nice to fantasise about it. In heaven, everyone is equal. In death, your life doesn’t define you, and you can be made anew, which is all Ivan has ever wanted, really. Sometimes, he instead turns to the slightly more comforting concept of reincarnation, and holds onto the hope that when he eventually dies, he’ll be reborn as a human or, at the very least, a vampire who doesn’t hate that part of himself.
Maybe, in a parallel universe, that version of him already exists. Maybe he’s not a vampire, or maybe Lovro isn’t a hunter, or maybe both of these circumstances coexist. Maybe, somewhere in the cosmos, Ivan doesn’t hurt him, or if he does, he can at least fix things. Maybe Lovro forgives him, and Ivan isn’t sitting on holy ground and praying to a god he doesn’t believe in, and who doesn’t believe in him, that things were different.
Ivan pulls his jacket tighter around himself, even though the cold doesn’t affect him enough to warrant it, and suddenly becomes aware of the presence of another not far away. A human, to be precise, but not one he recognises.
He looks up to see a man sitting beside him. Ivan notices his face first, content though lined with age and experience, then his impeccable posture, and, finally, his clerical collar. God must be real, Ivan decides, and he must be thoroughly entertained right now.
“You look troubled,” the priest says, and Ivan almost laughs. He carefully lifts his backpack from next to him on the bench and places it underneath, just to be safe.
Ivan can’t help but wonder what the man next to him would be most disgusted by: the human blood he’s carrying around with him, the reason why he’s doing so, or the fact that he’s thinking about a boy he loved. A boy he still loves, if he’s being entirely honest. That’s certainly the part that makes Ivan’s skin crawl, the fact that he fucked things up beyond repair, the fact that Lovro wants him dead, and the fact that whenever Ivan sees him, whenever he finds himself at the end of Lovro’s wrath and weapon of choice, the first thing he thinks of is how much he’s missed him.
“I get that a lot.”
If the priest is surprised by Ivan’s blunt turn of phrase, he doesn’t show it. He clasps his hands in his lap. “Is there anything you need to get off your chest?”
About seven centuries worth, Ivan thinks, but he just smiles. “I’m not looking for someone to hear my confession, if that’s what you’re asking. No offence.”
Ivan has been to confession a few times, in another era where everyone went, when it was the done thing and not going would draw attention and spark rumours that his family didn’t need any more of. He would kneel on the floor of the booth, fingers linked as his gaze caught on the dried blood under his nails, and internally debate how he was going to navigate the level of honesty that confession requires.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed someone this morning whilst my mother watched me. I can still taste her blood in my mouth. She didn’t scream. She was as beautiful in death as she was in life. My mother smiled at me when I drained her. I don’t think I like killing humans very much. It makes my stomach twist. Sometimes my stomach also twists when the altar boy smiles at me, but I don’t mind that as much.
The priest shakes his head with a wry smile. “None taken.” He looks at Ivan with the kind of careful consideration that can only come from someone who truly believes they have the power to help, the unwavering confidence that no problem can be left unsolved. He has kind eyes, and he gives Ivan the kind of easy-going smile that accompanies older people imparting what they believe to be their life-altering wisdom onto the younger generations, which is darkly ironic given that Ivan is older than most of his bloodline. “If you need it, though, I can just be a listening ear.”
Ivan raises a sceptical eyebrow. “I hurt someone I cared about. Someone I loved.”
The priest hums. “And you’re desperate enough to turn to God about it?”
“Pardon?”
“Forgive me,” he looks at Ivan expectantly, waiting for an answer that Ivan sees no harm in providing.
“Ivan.”
“Forgive me, Ivan, but I get the impression that this isn’t somewhere you come regularly, and that assumption is only furthered by the fact that you won’t step inside. To me, that suggests desperation. I’ve seen it enough to recognise the signs. I’ve been doing this a long time.”
Me too, Ivan thinks. You wouldn’t believe it.
“Let’s just say I’m running out of options. I’m not expecting God to do anything about it. There’s nothing I can do to fix it. He hates me and it’s my fault and I deserve to suffer for it.”
Ivan stills, and the priest gives an almost imperceptible twitch of his eyebrow at the pronoun before sighing. “There are worse sins than love, Ivan.”
And I’ve probably committed most of them. Ivan looks at the man sitting next to him, drinks in his blissful naivety, and just shrugs.
“I know,” he says. Loving Lovro may have been self-destructive and cruel and wrong, but when compared with the other atrocities Ivan has committed throughout his life, it’s still the best and most honest thing he’s ever done. Every day, Ivan scolds himself for how he handled things, for the way things fell apart, but no amount of regret and bitterness and self-loathing can erase the fact that Lovro gave him something worth living for, something like the first glimpse of sun after a storm, breaking through the clouds of his existence and showing him something he didn’t know he’d been missing. Sunlight is supposed to harm vampires, but not Lovro’s. Never Lovro’s.
The thing that hurts the most is the eternal rainy day Ivan has lived through since, trapped in the shade of Lovro’s hatred and vitriol, but Ivan makes no attempt to move.
How ironic it is, how heartwrenchingly ridiculous, that Ivan is sitting in cathedral grounds next to a man who has devoted his life to a god that is said to hate everything about Ivan, in a country that doesn’t yet have the space for people like Ivan and Lovro, and yet that’s only half of the reason why they can’t be together. It’s the reason the priest will pick out of Ivan’s confession, but it’s far from the whole picture. Ivan is almost certain that if the man knew the whole story, he’d retract his statement.
Ivan thinks about all of the star-crossed lovers throughout history and art and literature, thinks of Romeo and Juliet, and thinks about how easy they had it. They only had one thing standing in their way, whereas it feels like Ivan and Lovro have all of the possible odds stacked against them. And even if they didn’t, Lovro still hates him.
“It’s not my job to pry,” the priest continues, “but I find it hard to believe that there’s nothing to be done to fix things. If you love him, and if he loves you, you don’t need God’s help with that. He’ll find it in himself to forgive you.”
“I admire your optimism, Father, but it’s not that simple.”
The priest seems to accept that no amount of rationale or convincing will change Ivan’s mind, and he stands up, likely preparing to go and find another soul to try and save, one who’s actually looking for salvation and might have a shot at getting it. “Whatever happens,” he says in parting, “You don’t deserve to suffer. You’re not a monster, Ivan.”
Oh, but I am, Ivan almost says, but settles for a nod and a small smile instead. “Thank you, Father.”
The first thing Ivan does when he gets home is flick on the lights, illuminating the modest attic apartment that has been his home for the last few months. He has to move around fairly often so that neighbours and landlords don’t notice the fact that he never seems to get any older, but it’s a shame. He quite likes this place.
He walks past the kitchenette that is almost entirely for decoration purposes, although he does use it occasionally if he has guests or if he really wants to indulge in human pastimes such as eating. In recent years, he’s started drinking non-blood beverages, hence frequenting the cafe where Sonja works and buying coffees that vampire hunters end up spilling before he can drink them, but it’s for entertainment rather than necessity, and more often than not he has to come home and lean over the sink with his fingers down his throat to bring it back up again.
The walls are plastered with peeling beige wallpaper that contrasts horribly with the yellow linen curtains over the windows, but he’s inexplicably attached to the latter and has no desire to change them. He’s tried to deal with the wallpaper by steadily covering up the available wall space with his own drawings, each one taking on a similar form that Ivan tries not to dwell on. It’s second nature, the act of putting charcoal or pencil or paintbrush to paper and watching as a familiar face emerges from hastily drawn lines and ink smudges. Lovro watches him from his walls, and Ivan lets him, because at least he isn’t trying to kill him.
There’s the sound of movement coming from Ivan’s bathroom, but he isn’t surprised by it, not when he knew he wouldn’t be alone in his apartment before he even entered the building. He lies down on the couch, backpack dropped to the floor beside him, and closes his eyes.
“You’ve got to stop appearing in my apartment when I’m not home,” he calls out. “It’s fucking weird.”
There’s a huffed laugh, a sharp exhale of breath, before the distinctive sound of footsteps gets louder and stops suddenly. Ivan cracks one eye open to find someone standing next to the couch and staring down at him, hair falling into his eyes as he grins. “You said I was always welcome.”
Ivan groans. “It’s a turn of phrase, you idiot. You can’t just break in.”
The intruder gestures around. “Clearly I can.” He winks, and Ivan kicks him. “What’s up with you, anyway? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Funny,” Ivan says, rolling his eyes. There’s a tightness in his chest, suddenly, the kind that only relieves itself when you tell the truth, so he sits up. “I did see Lovro, though. The other day.”
The teasing smirk that Ivan was on the receiving end of is replaced with wide eyes and a tight-lipped frown that does little to hide the genuine concern that accompanies it. “Oh.” He swallows harshly, and Ivan’s chest clenches at it. “How was he?”
“Oh he was great. Still hates me. Still trying to kill me.”
“Well, he’s always been determined, that one,” is the very unhelpful attempt at consolation. “Very good at holding grudges.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you? Since you’re his best friend and all.”
Jakov sits down in an empty space on the couch, pulling his knees to his chest and leaning back against the armrest. “I was his best friend. I know he fucking hates you, but you still see him more than I do. I haven’t spoken to him in five years, Ivan.”
Ivan knows this, because it’s the same amount of time in which Lovro has wanted him dead. It’s not Jakov that Lovro is angry at, though. Jakov, unluckily for him, is collateral damage in the natural disaster that was Ivan and Lovro’s breakup, though he was also inadvertently the reason for it. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I think you still are,” Ivan argues. “I think that’s why he’s still trying to kill me. It’s all for you, at the end of the day.”
Jakov hums, picking at the frayed sleeve of his flannel shirt, the same kind he always wears, because some things never change. “And you still haven’t told him the truth?”
“I’ve tried,” Ivan says through gritted teeth, because he isn’t sure how many times in one day he can have the same conversation. “But he was going to end up hating me eventually no matter what happened. It’s not like I can change anything.”
“Ivan the martyr,” Jakov says, unable to keep the contemplative tone out of his voice. Even after everything, he’s still a philosophy student at heart. “You really don’t make it easy for yourself, do you?”
Ivan sight with a self-mocking smile. “Where’s the fun in that?” He hoists his backpack up onto his lap, unzipping it to reveal the blood that Vanessa had ever-so-kindly provided him with earlier. “Now, do you want a drink?”
Jakov nods with a grateful, but small, smile, and Ivan stands up to go and busy himself in the kitchen, as Jakov is one of his usual guests who makes it necessary for him to use it, or at the very least, make use of his pointlessly extensive crockery collection.
He returns to the couch with a blood bag for himself - a swirly pink plastic straw stuck into it because, Vanessa, he can have fun straws too - and an almost full mug for Jakov. Jakov takes the mug with a small grimace that he tries to hide from Ivan but doesn’t manage to.
Ivan keeps telling him that it’ll get easier, but he’s waiting for Jakov to believe him. He watches as Jakov takes a sip, before pulling the mug away from his mouth and grinning. His lips and the tips of his fangs are stained blood-red, and he raises an eyebrow at Ivan. “Did you give me this mug on purpose?”
When Ivan takes a closer look at the mug that Jakov has cradled in his hands, because he still can’t face blood bags and their blatant reminder of what he’s drinking, Ivan notices that it’s blue and slightly chipped. It’s one that Lovro bought for him as a gift, before he found out that Ivan had no real use for it, one that almost perfectly matches the colour of the eyes Ivan loves and misses so desperately when they’re not on him.
“Not on purpose,” Ivan says quietly. “It’s just the first one I reached for.”
Jakov chortles, before picking up a cushion and throwing it at Ivan’s chest. “You’re pathetic, man.”
And doesn’t Ivan know it.
“Shut up and drink your blood,” Ivan tells him, but he can’t fight his smile.
Jakov winces, putting the mug down on the coffee table and using his middle finger to push it further away from him. It makes a screeching noise as it moves across the wood. “Can you please stop reminding me what it is?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck, I might be the worst vegan ever.”
Ivan shrugs. “At least it’s not animal blood! So, technically, you’re still keeping in line with your diet.”
“Oh, yeah, because human blood is so much better on the ethics front. Whose even is it?”
“I’ll check.” Ivan picks up the empty bag from the kitchen counter and squints at the label. God, Vanessa’s handwriting is truly appalling. “Filip Gudelj? I think that’s what it says.”
Jakov pulls a face. “It tastes like shit.”
“You say that about all blood, Jakov.”
“So what if I do?” Jakov absent-mindedly scratches at the scar on his neck. It’s fully healed, barely visible, but sometimes Jakov treats it like it’s a fresh wound, and Ivan can’t really blame him. Then, Jakov raises an eyebrow and smirks, before giving Ivan a ridiculously over-the-top wink. “Yours was better.”
Ivan rolls his eyes before settling back down on the couch. He reaches across to wipe away a bead of blood at the corner of Jakov’s mouth, there because it’s really not the right consistency to be drunk out of a mug, and flicks the side of his face when Jakov pretends to bite him.
“Well, you know what they say,” Ivan muses as he licks the stray blood from his finger, “Nothing compares to your first time.”
Jakov looks affronted. “I thought that saying was about sex.”
“Well obviously not in this case,” Ivan points out.
In response, Jakov leans closer and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “There’s still time.”
Ivan scoffs before pushing his face away and turning back to his drink. “In your dreams.”
They remain in comfortable, companionable silence until their drinks are done, Jakov taking significantly longer than Ivan to finish, and Ivan lets himself sit with the fact that not everyone hates him, even though it’s arguably Jakov who should want him dead more than anyone else.
Ivan leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes, and when he listens to Jakov telling him about his day, he can almost let the voice morph into someone else’s and pretend that it’s five years earlier, and he hasn’t ruined anyone’s life yet.
It’s a futile fantasy, but it’s all he has left.