Unchosen Crown

ROYAL CHOKEHOLD

The flight to Brussels on that rainy afternoon felt endless.

The gray sky unleashed its fury against the small window beside Oliver, raindrops dancing furiously on the glass. But he barely registered the storm outside. His eyes were captivated by a much more powerful force — the sight of Ian.

Ian's voice sounded melodious to Oliver's ears, though he hardly registered what Ian was saying. He was more focused on the cadence, the deep tone punctuated by occasional laughter.

Oliver's eyes roamed shamelessly over every nuance of Ian's expressions — the way his dark eyebrows arched when pondering a thought, the mischievous dimple that formed at the corner of his cheek whenever a smile escaped.

Ian's curls were tousled that day, and the dark strands mingled with his long eyelashes from time to time, hiding his caramel-colored eyes in the warm cabin light.

Ian was probably rambling about his favorite comics — Archie and Jughead, which Oliver had discovered was his childhood passion — or any other topic that escaped his attention.

The last confrontation between them had torn down the walls that separated them, and a new dynamic was emerging from the ashes. The mask of arrogance that Ian used to wear had dissipated, revealing much more intimate and captivating layers in his features.

They still disagreed on many points, of course, and their arguments were often heated. But Oliver's visceral need to rid himself of Ian's presence had evaporated.

In fact, he even appreciated Ian's company most of the time.

Oliver couldn't discern if his perception was distorted or if Ian had truly undergone a genuine transformation before his eyes. This new sense of comfort in each other's presence was both disconcerting and intriguing, as if they were redefining the parameters of their relationship.

Ian interrupted Oliver's reverie with a light touch on his arm.

"Hey, are you still with me?" His deep voice sounded amused, not irritated.

Oliver met his warm amber gaze. "Sorry, Ian," he confessed, sincerity permeating his words, "I was distracted."

Ian nodded with a sympathetic smile, his fingers briefly sliding over Oliver's wrist in a comforting gesture. It was a habit of Ian's, this subtle physical contact, which had initially surprised Oliver, but he soon grew to secretly appreciate.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Ian asked gently.

Oliver shook his head. "Actually, I wasn't thinking about anything specific. I guess I'm just a little anxious about the trip." He leaned back in the soft seat, closing his eyes briefly, as he always did when risking a lie. "But I'm listening, I promise."

Ian resumed the conversation in a calm voice. "I was talking about how the De Courcelle family has important ties to the English crown. A marriage could be a powerful symbol of unity between the two houses."

Oliver rolled his eyes slightly, massaging his temples. "Ian..." There was a veiled plea in his tone. "Can we not talk about that right now?"

"Oliver." His name came out velvety from Ian's lips, almost like a caress. Ian sighed. "We aren't going to Brussels just for a stroll."

"I know, I know." Oliver frowned. "But I never said I'd be entirely willing with this." He watched Ian's dark eyebrows arch slightly. "Why Brussels, anyway?"

"Because apparently no girl in the entire England was good enough for you." Ian shrugged. "If I'm not mistaken, you've rejected dozens in the past few months."

Oliver narrowed his eyes at Ian, but without malice. "Would you marry someone you don't love?"

"Love isn't something instantaneous, Your Highness," Ian replied gently, but his voice was muffled by turbulence that shook the jet, making Oliver shudder. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the arms of the chair. "It's something that is mutually built with time."