Unchosen Crown

HEAD OVER HEELS

The clock struck two in the morning with its silent tick-tock, as an amber glow danced on the polished floor of the meeting room.

Oliver's pen moved over the mahogany, the only witness to his restlessness. Frustration simmered within him as he faced the challenging blankness of that sheet, a mirror of his creative block.

Hours dragged on in this mental paralysis, his brow furrowed in fruitless concentration. He sought the perfect words for the speech he would deliver in the halls of Buckingham Palace on the occasion of launching his first literary work.

He intended to weave the threads of his existence, from the improbable moment he found himself thrust onto the throne as a child. He would share, in an intimate tone, the struggles, joys, duties, and limitations inherent to the millennia-old tradition of the Fitzwilliam-Somerset family.

Reluctantly, he had given in to Ian's persuasive pleas to make this event happen. Ian had taken the reins of organization, inviting illustrious figures, world leaders, and inevitably, the voracious press.

Anxiety gnawed at him, as he was about to reveal a fragment of his life that would reflect not only resilience and tenacity but also, and above all, the hope that propelled him. Yet the words eluded him, refusing to entwine in a way that captured his essence.

So he remained, bathed in the warm light of the ancient chandelier casting flickering shadows over the blank paper, as he delved into his inner self in search of the inspiration capable of giving life to the elusive words.

The absolute silence was broken by soft footsteps on the waxed floor. He looked up from the untouched page to find Ian standing before him.

Ian's strong arms were casually crossed, a peculiar smile playing on his lips — a smile that said "I love you madly," but also "I don't know what to do with you anymore."

His bare feet rested on the Persian rug, contrasting with the loose plaid pants hanging low on his sculpted hips. A tight, improvised T-shirt highlighted the defined muscles of his torso.

Oliver's heart raced, and the air left his lungs for a moment.

"Hi?" he managed to whisper, trembling.

But Ian didn't stay still. He moved slowly around the table, walking toward Oliver. His tousled curls swayed with each step, his sleepy gaze fixed on Oliver's with magnetic precision.

"Why are you up at this ungodly hour?" His voice was a rough murmur of sleep and concern as he stopped beside Oliver, examining the empty page.

"I can't sleep," Oliver admitted, turning his chair to face him. Ian leaned on the table, attentive. "I need to write the speech for tomorrow's launch."

"Ollie," Ian began, a compassionate smile spreading on his lips as he gently massaged Oliver's shoulders. The instant touch brought a wave of relaxation, encouraging Oliver to close his eyes and savor the simplicity of the contact. "It's your book, you wrote it, you know it inside and out. Presenting it shouldn't be torturous for you."

"I know," Oliver sighed, reopening his eyes as Ian stepped back, still watching him with sweet affection. "But I don't want it to seem like I'm using my own platform for self-promotion. I want people to genuinely care."

"Oliver, there's nothing wrong with using your influence to leave your mark where you want to be seen," Ian countered, wisdom emanating from his words. Oliver's hands found Ian's thighs, covered by soft flannel, appreciating the texture under his fingers. "You're talented, your book is amazing, and you can present it to the world with confidence. You might be the king or whatever, but you're much more than that too."