Unchosen Crown

SINK OR SWIM

On that frigid night in Stockholm, the hotel's cotton sheets wrapped around Oliver's body like a cold and indifferent caress, incapable of soothing the turmoil consuming him from within.

His gaze wandered over the ceiling ornaments, but the image became just a blurred, lifeless smear.

The cell phone, silent and still on the nightstand, seemed to mock his anguish, reminding him of Ian's absence, a void that tore at his chest like sharp blades. The digital clock, with its relentless red numbers, already showed past two in the morning — evidence of the endless waiting that was eroding his sanity.

In a nervous impulse, Oliver slid out of bed, quickly donning his winter pajamas and a coat that barely shielded against the biting cold. He hastily put on his only pair of sneakers from his suitcase and ventured through the silent hotel corridors, his footsteps echoing like the heartbeat of a heart accelerated by worry.

Gentle knocks on Ian's door revealed an anxious ritual. The prolonged silence dug a hole in his chest, while the cell phone's light broke the darkness, reflecting his desperate message:

Where the hell did you go?

The reply never came.

Seeking a momentary escape from his anxiety, Oliver entered the elevator, guided by curiosity and the need for space to breathe.

However, upon reaching the terrace after a few minutes, a surprising sight froze his heart for a fraction of a second: a tall silhouette, wrapped in a dark overcoat, stood by the pool, a slight smoke dancing around it in the biting cold of the European winter.

He approached Ian with cautious steps, fearing his reaction. Even trembling, both from the cold and apprehension, he stopped behind him, his accelerated heartbeat echoing in his ears.

"What are you doing here?" He asked softly, trying not to startle him. Ian turned abruptly, his eyes shining under a veil of sadness that left Oliver breathless.

Ian barely looked at him for more than a second before turning his back again, as if wanting to protect himself.

"Thinking about how life has a particular way of screwing me over," he replied with evident bitterness in his rough voice, each word seeming to tear at Oliver's chest.

"Well, doesn't it have a specific way of screwing all of us?" Oliver forced a trembling smile, taking another step closer, his chest brushing Ian's shoulder blade timidly and hesitantly. "What's specifically bothering you?" His voice carried sincere concern, eager to understand what was tormenting him.

"Nothing that should worry you," Ian replied vaguely, his posture rigid and distant.

Oliver walked to his side, attentively observing his profile, as if he could read in his features what Ian refused to tell.

"Did I say something wrong?" He risked, almost like a child in trouble, his insecurity evident.

Ian finally directed his gaze at Oliver, and he could see the mixture of frustration and sorrow in his beautiful brown eyes.

"No, Oliver, you didn't say anything wrong," he replied, the tension in his voice easing a bit.

"So?" Oliver insisted, a whining tone in his complaint. "I waited for you all night." His hand slid gently to find Ian's, tracing the lines of his palm lightly with the tip of his finger.

With a sigh, Ian turned to Oliver, the pain in his eyes piercing Oliver's heart.

"Remember that night I shut myself off from you, and you bugged me until I said what I was feeling?" Ian said, noticing the subtle dimple in his cheek in a hint of a smile. "How about not making me insist?" Oliver's touch on Ian's hand became firmer, a silent plea for him to open up.