<div style="background-color:#353535; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">"But you never know when a caravan is going to come," says Ivan. He's whining, and he knows it, but he feels justified at least in this situation. Caravans are irregular at best, the chances of them having what you need even slimmer, and even then, there is no guarantee that someone won't get to it before you. He stirs the soup absentmindedly, watching Vlad read. Ivan only barely knows how to. Vlad patiently taught him the letters and how to write his own name, but Ivan never much saw the point in learning how to read. For one thing, books are rare, for another, Vlad already tells him the most amazing stories all the time. Why would he need to know how to read well, much less write himself?<br/><br/>Ivan squirms. Vlad doesn't sound irritated, just a little tired. "I just want to see if it's as good as they say," he mumbles, licking the soup from his spoon. It tastes like nothing as always. "You've seen everything already, Vlad. I haven't. I've only seen театральная." He turns to him, his grey eyes large and pleading. "Please can we go? We don't have to stay there if you don't want to. We can come back to театральная again when we're done seeing. We can find more people to travel with. Come on, Vlaaaad."<br/><br/>His voice is breaking and he clears his throat in disgust at the even lighter notes it's taking on. Damn. <span style="font-style: italic">Maybe Vlad wouldn't be so stubborn if I were a real man</span>, Ivan thinks bitterly, even if he knows that it is completely unfair of him. Vlad has accepted him, time and time again, in ways he never would have dared hope for.</div></div>