Unchosen Crown

BITTERSWEET MISTAKE

Lying side by side, the bed still rumpled around them, Oliver felt the lingering warmth that filled the grand royal chamber in Windsor.

The scent of lavender and candle wax mingled with the sweat on Ian's skin, creating a contrast between the calm atmosphere and the intensity of the moments before. The memory of Ian's touch was more like a phantom sensation than a clear recollection — as if his body was still a map of where Ian's hands had passed, firm and demanding, commanding every inch with a precision that made time bend around them.

He could still taste the salt of Ian's skin on his lips, feel the heat of that body, worn by exertion, the steady rhythm of their bodies meeting, and those amber eyes holding him captive with their intensity. Oliver's breathing was still heavy, out of sync, the sound of muffled moans echoing in his mind like something that couldn't be left behind. He couldn't tell where the warmth of their physical contact ended and the inner flame, that spark Ian ignited every time he touched him, began.

When he turned his head, his eyes followed the line of Ian's body, sculpted by the faint light slipping through the curtains. There was no urgency now, just an inescapable presence, as if the earlier intensity had dissolved into the air, transforming into something calmer, but no less powerful. Ian looked at him with that slow, lazy smile that seemed to vibrate something inside Oliver, making him certain that this connection, so improbable, had changed him in ways he never imagined. Without realizing it, he smiled too, while his fingers moved of their own accord, sliding through Ian's damp curls, feeling the soft texture, the moisture still clinging there. And there was a softness in that touch that spoke more than any words.

"On our first night together," Oliver began, his voice low and languid, like the gentle touch of a breeze at the end of the day, "you mentioned that it took you some time to reach this kind of comfort." His eyes followed his fingers, almost distracted, as he finished, "I've been thinking about that."

Ian, without taking his eyes off Oliver, adjusted slightly, resting his arm behind his head. His muscles, once tense, now relaxed. He nodded, unhurried, listening to each word Oliver spoke, almost as if he had been waiting for them, but without the pressure of an immediate response. Ian took a deep breath, and there was something different in the sound, a depth that made Oliver pay attention.

"What I meant is that nothing was easy. I never had doors opened without effort. Every space I've claimed was at the cost of a lot of sweat." The words were direct, without embellishment, but they carried an honesty that cut through the room like an invisible current.

Oliver tried to bring some lightness to the conversation. "I've always wondered where my grandmother found you," he said, letting a smile sneak onto his lips. Ian smiled back, but it was the kind of smile that made Oliver's mind struggle to get used to the absence of a sharp retort.

"Don't get me wrong, we weren't miserable," Ian clarified. "My family was always wonderful, we just had a very simple life. Until college, I shared a room with Ivy."

Oliver laughed, more at the surprise of the image than anything else, but there was something in his eyes that showed his empathy was real. "I imagine it must have been..."

"Torture." Ian's reply was quick, to the point, without hesitation, but the expression on his face had more layers than the word itself could suggest. "The highest imaginable form of torture."

Without thinking much, Oliver shifted on Ian's body. It wasn't something planned, and the intimacy of the contact was as unexpected as the way Ian's body reacted to the touch. The laugh that escaped Ian was brief, interrupted by a slight sigh as Oliver pressed harder than he intended, and Oliver's stomach fluttered.

"And Ivy? Was she as unsufferable as her brother?" Oliver asked, his voice laced with mild teasing as his fingers traced invisible lines across Ian's chest, feeling the calm beat beneath the bare skin. Ian rolled his eyes, exaggerated, but there was a spark of humor, or perhaps something more enigmatic. It wasn't the kind of look that's easy to forget, especially when the distance between them was so small it barely seemed to exist.