Oliver hurried through the castle corridors, taking longer routes than necessary.

With each new turn, he cast furtive glances over his shoulder, ensuring no unwanted observer caught him before he reached Ian's room.

Time was pressing. A handful of minutes remained until Oliver was due to sit at that ornate table for dinner with Princess Sofia and Queen Charlotte.

As he walked, the sounds of his footsteps resonated, deliberate and intense, against the polished wooden floor. He could feel droplets of sweat tracing a damp path down the center of his back, creating discomfort beneath his pristine white shirt and that particularly ill-fated blue jacket.

Then, all his efforts to evade detection abruptly crumbled when the imposing figure of a security guard emerged, a silhouette crossing his path in the north wing corridor. The pompous greeting of "Your Royal Highness" heightened Oliver's irritation. He took a deliberate breath before returning the nod, striving for a tone embodying decorum.

"Good evening. Do you need any assistance?" the guard asked, as formal as a bow.

"No, no," Oliver replied, adorning his response with an exaggerated gesture and a fake smile. "Everything is under control. But thank you for your attention."

Oliver made a subtle move to resume his course, but the guard interrupted his escape with an interjection that made his heart leap like a startled deer.

"Oh, here to see Ian?" Oliver hesitated, feeling the knot in his throat tighten a bit more. The guard's gaze was impassive, and for a moment, silence stretched between them. "He's in a meeting with Her Majesty, the Queen," the guard continued, with a calmness that made Oliver even more uneasy. "I received express orders to summon him recently."

Oliver's expression slightly furrowed at the information. A secret meeting called hastily by the monarch on the very day of the Swedish princess's visit? That was certainly no coincidence.

With dinner approaching, there was no time to lose. Oliver readjusted his jacket, which suddenly seemed heavier than it should, and walked to the grand halls where the event would take place.

He crossed the threshold of the dining room with slow steps, feeling the weight of each movement. His eyes wandered over the dark wood-paneled walls and ancient tapestries without really seeing them.

At the place of honor sat the Queen, her posture stoic and firm, as if her throne were an extension of her regiment. Beside her, Sofia, a vision of elegance, displayed a restrained smile, her beauty complemented by the warm glow the crystal chandelier above her cast on her skin.

Oliver forced a smile as he made a brief nod, a gesture of respect, before approaching for the formal greeting. His hands rose in a smooth, reverent motion, and his lips lightly brushed the backs of the Queen's and Princess Sofia's hands. How many times had he repeated these same formal gestures, he wondered.

Oliver looked up and found Sofia's blue eyes watching him with curiosity. He quickly looked away.

"Sit down, Oliver, my dear," said the Queen, her voice radiating satisfaction. Her eyes, as pure and radiant as the princess's, gleamed with expectation.

Taking his place at the table, Oliver felt the cold weight of the silver cutlery in his hands. They seemed strangely cold, despite the warmth of the candles and the crackling fireplace. Stirring the soup without wanting to taste it, his stomach knotted—a mix of tension and nausea as he tried to decipher what was to come.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Princess," Oliver said, with a cordial tone but a slight falseness. Sofia smiled in response, her gaze fixed on him with unexpected intensity.

"Thank you for the invitation, Prince Oliver. It's an honor to be here," she added, and Oliver looked away again, focusing on adjusting the napkin in his lap.

"Sofia was telling me it's her first time visiting the castle," the Queen initiated the conversation, and Oliver nodded, keeping a plastic smile on his face.

"What do you think?" he asked, striving to appear present, but his thoughts were distant, focused on a pair of hazel eyes he hadn't seen since the previous night.

"Oh, it's splendid!" she replied, with evident admiration. "The gardens are my favorite part. The Queen has impeccable taste in flowers."

"Yes, she does," Oliver agreed, succinctly, but before he could say more, the double doors opened and Laura, the castle's head chef, entered the room.

She walked toward them with quick, precise steps, her white uniform impeccably pressed. Laura made a brief curtsy before greeting the Queen with a cordial smile.

"Your Majesty, Your Highnesses," Laura said, addressing Sofia and Oliver with a nod. Her hazel eyes, identical to Ian's, met Oliver's for a moment.

Oliver felt a pang at the resemblance and looked away, suppressing the question weighing on his mind. Where was Ian? Why hadn't he come to dinner as planned? The possibilities multiplied as he struggled to maintain composure.

Laura held Oliver's gaze for a few seconds, a shadow of regret crossing her face. She knew how torturous this dinner was for him but also understood she couldn't show anything but professionalism in front of the Queen and the Princess.

"For the main course, we have a filet mignon medallion with Burgundy wine sauce, accompanied by delicate truffle mashed potatoes and a bouquet of grilled green asparagus with lemon and fine herb butter," Laura announced, her upright posture contrasting with the empathetic look she cast at Oliver from time to time.

The Queen nodded, satisfied. "Excellent. Proceed, Laura."

"With great pleasure, Your Majesty," Laura signaled to the servants waiting near the door.

The waiters entered in sync, serving elaborate dishes with mechanical efficiency. Laura wished them a good meal and discreetly exited — but not without casting a challenging glance at Oliver.

Sofia sat beside the Queen with a posture that defied expectations. Her gaze was keen, analyzing every detail of the environment.

"Prince Oliver," she began, ignoring usual formalities, "what do you think of Jung's theory of the collective unconscious?"

Oliver, caught off guard, choked on his wine. "I... don't have a formed opinion on that."

Sofia continued, undeterred. "Jung argued that there is a deep layer of the human psyche shared by all cultures. Fascinating, isn't it? Especially considering our positions as public figures."

The conversation jumped from topic to topic — neuroscience, international politics, experimental literature—with Sofia leading each discussion with an almost feverish intensity. She talked about cognition and emotion with the same ease she discussed opera or a Shakespeare play.

"Freud had his flaws," Sofia commented, "but his theories on psychic structures are still useful for analyzing power dynamics, even in monarchies."

The Queen, until then silent, intervened: "Interesting. How would you apply these theories to our current governmental structure?"

Sofia promptly replied, starting a discussion on tradition versus modernization in the monarchy. Oliver observed, noticing how the princess subtly challenged royal conventions with each argument.

As the meal came to an end—the last cup of tea served, the last piece of peach tart savored — the Queen rehearsed a farewell, but her subtle touch on Oliver's shoulder suggested he should make the final honors of the night, accompanying the princess to the car that had arrived to take her away.

Walking from the glorious dining room to the grand entrance of the castle, Sofia surprised Oliver:

"Forgive my boldness," she began, a half-smile on her lips, her voice echoing softly against the ancient stones of the corridor. "But you, Prince Oliver..." A strategic pause, a measured look at the ground, then her eyes met his again. "Well, you certainly don't have the demeanor of those nobles who only want another title, I believe."

Oliver tilted his head in gratitude, breaking some of the formality with the gesture.

"Oliver, please," he requested, returning the friendly smile. "And that sounds strangely like a compliment."

She laughed, a sound so unrestrained that it didn't resemble the rehearsed laughter Oliver was used to hearing at all.

"Indeed, it is," the sincerity in her voice walked hand in hand with a frankness he hardly expected. "I tend to think this whole marriage thing is nonsense, but inevitable for both of us, isn't it? It's a script we received at birth, but..." She spoke lightly about marriage, something Oliver couldn't share, not with the weight he carried in his heart. And despite his reality already being tainted by an unspoken truth, she continued, perhaps more to herself than to him. "Even so, despite the script, it wouldn't be bad to have you as a co-star."

Each word was a reminder of Oliver's internal battle, a war between duty and desire, between honor and the heart.

"I am... grateful for that, Princess," Oliver replied, his speech hesitant, honestly not knowing how to react to such a declaration.

"Sofia," she corrected him. "Call me Sofia. And how about a coffee some day? A break from this..." She waved to the towering structures behind them, almost as if asking for a time out from the play, "whole theater?"

Her tranquility made Oliver think that perhaps, just perhaps, they could help each other make this idea less unbearable.

"Sounds like a necessary truce," he agreed, finally letting a friendly smile escape. "We can arrange that."

◃───────────▹

As he approached his room door, Oliver noticed a soft golden beam of light emanating from the frame, tracing thin streams of brightness in the dark corridor.

Ian was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, the black silk jacket fitting snugly to his broad shoulders and elegant silhouette. Oliver smiled as he approached, his hand gently resting on one of Ian's shoulders, feeling the tension in the muscles under the fabric.

Leaning in, Oliver rested his chin on Ian's other shoulder and touched the tip of his nose to the side of Ian's neck, inhaling the musky scent of his cologne mixed with a slight essence of sweat.

Ian had just arrived.

"I'm going to need to install a tracker on you," Oliver murmured, tracing invisible circles with his fingertip on Ian's warm skin, trying to preserve the intimacy of the moment. Ian sighed, his warm breath caressing Oliver's face as he turned to place a lingering kiss on his temple. However, his silent presence and the stillness of his body alarmed Oliver. "Is everything okay?" The question escaped, fragile, as the night sky painted with solitary stars through the window seemed to swallow him into an abyss widening between them.

Ian's response came in the form of silence — a monster devouring Oliver's hopes.

"How was dinner?" Ian's voice was emotionless, as if it lacked any inflection, while Oliver hugged him tightly, trying to connect with him—as if he could heal his wounds with the warmth of their bodies.

"Strange," Oliver replied, allowing the intimacy of the gesture to unite them against the shadows that seemed to spread around. "I missed you," he whispered against the soft fabric of Ian's jacket, realizing he had been repeating this phrase more often than usual in recent days.

Then, Ian slowly disentangled himself from Oliver's arms.

The footsteps Ian took as he moved away echoed through the room like the ticking of a relentless clock. He walked to Oliver's bed, where a black folder rested alone on the mattress. Extending the stack of documents in his hands, Ian retreated, avoiding Oliver's now confused and bewildered gaze.

"I've spent the last few days reviewing documents, gathering information about you, from your birth," he said, his hands nervously fumbling in his pockets. Ian took a deep breath, as if to gather strength for what he was about to say next. He finally looked up at Oliver, and the dull amber of his gaze seemed to reveal his exhaustion, though it wasn't all they were showing. "Today, the Queen tasked me with preparing the complete documentation for your marriage to Princess Sofia."

Hearing these words, Oliver felt the world collapsing beneath his feet.

Oliver stood still, processing the information. "What?"

"The documents include the prenuptial agreement, property and title arrangements, and succession terms... They're all ready, awaiting only your signature and formal consent."

The words echoed through the room, ricocheting in Oliver's mind. The impact of this sudden knowledge made him waver, searching for meaning in the cover of the documents he held.

"The Queen was clear: the moment you agree, the ceremony will take place on the same day, leaving no room for regrets or objections. The announcement to the kingdom will be immediate," Ian continued.

Oliver looked up at Ian, seeing in his eyes the same devastating feeling that threatened to suffocate him.

"They can't do this," he said in a whisper, too weak for more. Ian shrugged, biting his lower lip nervously as he looked at him with apprehension. His expression indicated it could get worse. "Isn't there more?"

"It seems she's tired of waiting, Oliver," Ian replied, his voice carrying a clear tone of sorrow. "All processes are being moved to be finalized by next month."

"This... this isn't right," Oliver said, feeling a mix of anger and despair. "They can't just plan and decide my future without even consulting me!" He began to pace back and forth, his fists clenched. He knew his duties as heir to the throne, but this was too much, even by royal standards. "What if I refuse to sign, Ian?"

His tone was almost pleading, desperately seeking a way out.

"Legally, you can. But the consequences would be significant. The court's, parliament's, and public opinion's pressure would be intense. It could even lead to a constitutional crisis," Ian responded, sincere. "The Queen and the Council would never accept a refusal that jeopardizes the succession, Oliver."

"They don't have that right," Oliver articulated with difficulty, while indignation and devastation clashed within him. "They can't force this marriage. Can they?"

Ian sighed, his gaze showing frustration and helplessness.

"Theoretically no, Oliver, but considering your position as the last living direct heir, the alternatives are quite limited," he paused, his words flowing smoothly like a river of molten metal. "If you refuse the marriage, we'll be entering uncharted territory. The Queen would definitely resist the idea of passing the throne to someone who isn't a direct heir, making the transition process incredibly complicated and very likely triggering a scandal of epic proportions. Two heirs renouncing would be unprecedented, and she simply wouldn't allow it to happen."

Faced with such absurdity, Oliver laughed.

Ian frowned, confused. But Oliver's laughter didn't stop. Instead, it turned into a nervous giggle that made his body tremble and tears form in his eyes. Oliver realized he was falling apart when the laughter turned into sobs and he collapsed on the edge of the bed, his uncertain hands spreading tears across his face as he struggled to breathe, to pull himself together.

The Queen demanded nothing less than his essence — his life, his freedom, his sanity — all formally requested with official document seals.

Oliver didn't notice when Ian approached, but his arms wrapped around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly, and brought him back to reality. Ian's embrace was a refuge amid the storm, a calm in the chaos. His affection was like the eye of a hurricane, a safe place in a world falling apart.

"I never wanted this, Ian," Oliver let his soul's expression escape, the feeling of being imprisoned by a destiny he never chose. "I never wanted the throne."

The words came out like a defeated sigh, loaded with a sadness that seemed to soak every fiber of his being. He felt like a caged bird, watching the vastness of the free sky through the bars, unable to soar.

"I know, my love," Ian sighed, resigned, gentle fingers curling in the hair at Oliver's nape — a temporary balm for his shattered soul. "I wish there was something we could do."

That's when the idea hit Oliver—wild, reckless, spectacular. A spark of hope ignited in his chest, lighting his eyes with a determined gleam.

Lifting his tear-streaked face, Oliver met Ian's curious gaze.

"What if," he ventured, his voice choked with boldness and despair, "we ran away?"

A clouded smile, mixing pain and affection, appeared on Ian's lips as his fingertips slid over Oliver's skin, gently drying his cheeks.

"Where to?" he asked, pressing his forehead against Oliver's in an intimacy so deep they seemed to be seeking shelter in each other.

"We could go to Cuba on an economy flight," Oliver let slip between a smile that was both a challenge and a daydream, as Ian's laughter filled the air, light and gentle as a coastal breeze's caress. It was almost possible to hear the whisper of the waves with his breath, a silent invitation to an imagined freedom. "I could sell coconuts on the beach, and you... well, you could be a bartender at some local club."

Ian closed his eyes, and Oliver knew he was there, truly, in the vivid colors of his mischievous mind.

"You and the sun would be enemies in two minutes," he joked, his smile widening at Oliver's loving gaze. "However," he confessed with a touch of pride, "I must admit I have a talent for flambéing oranges and balancing bitters."

"I didn't know that," Oliver murmured, surprised and enchanted by this new facet of Ian.

He focused on the serene cadence of Ian's breaths, and it was as if they were already there, already free, already escaping this oppressive reality. His mind filled with images of the two of them, laughing and dancing under the Cuban sun, with the turquoise-blue sea as a backdrop.

"There are many things you don't know about me, Your Highness," Ian said, and his voice was a journey through time, to the first time he teased Oliver with that phrase.

It seemed like years ago—but it wasn't. Time had a strange taste of eternity when it was filled with Ian.

"But I know you love me," Oliver threw the tease, half joke, half confession — entirely true. "Although not as much as I love you."

"That would lead to an endless debate," Ian smiled, his fingers trailing down Oliver's skin, moving to his neck. "And I have a better idea for how we can spend this time," he proposed, his low voice drawing Oliver effortlessly, their lips so close that Oliver could feel them moving as he spoke.

Ian's kiss, when it finally landed on Oliver's lips, was gentle and bittersweet — a suspended moment, perhaps a quintessence of their could-have-beens and still-can-be's.

◃───────────▹

"How would she react, do you think, if I told her everything?" Oliver's voice broke the symbiosis of silence and comfort they had woven in the room. Ian lay on his back on the mattress, an arm draped protectively over Oliver's torso, while Oliver's head nestled on his shoulder. Ian wore one of Oliver's pajamas, and still, the scent that emanated from him was intoxicating, an essence that enveloped Oliver like a seductive mist. The subtle tilt of Ian's face in the dim light was enough for Oliver to see the constellation of worries mapped in his eyes. "About me. About us."

"She'd push you straight to the altar with the first woman she could find, with or without your consent," Ian replied with blunt honesty, without any beating around the bush.

However, Oliver wasn't referring to the Queen.

"No. Sofia." Oliver corrected, focusing on Ian's gaze that now intensified, curiosity and caution sculpting his features as he stared at him.

"Did you consider telling her?" The inflection in Ian's voice carried a note of concealed accusation, and Oliver could sense that the tone didn't reveal everything Ian wanted to say.

A discomforted cough, and Ian returned to staring at the black veil above them. Under the cold weight of the tension that spread over him, his shoulders turned to stone, and his hand on Oliver's hip loosened.

"She invited me for coffee," Oliver confessed, his voice tinged with an almost childlike innocence, and the grave, drawn-out response that reverberated made him oscillate between frustration and resigned laughter. "I considered telling her the truth then."

"Oliver," Ian sighed, a long and heavy breath, locking eyes with Oliver with an intimidating intensity. "You barely know her. Information of this magnitude isn't something to be distributed to just anyone."

Oliver's grunt was the precursor to a confession of defeat. The idea, even fleetingly plausible, crumbled in the light of reason.

"But I fear," Oliver hissed, a secret he dreaded revealing, "that she might want... more."

"Did she suggest she might?" Ian countered, scrutinizing him intently.

"Not exactly," Oliver chewed on his words hesitantly. "I just don't want to prolong the spectacle of this farce any further."

He swallowed hard, and the sound was like lightning cutting through the nocturnal tranquility.

"Oliver, this farce could become reality," Ian murmured, and the frankness in his tone hit Oliver like an unexpected blow. "Once married, you will indeed be husband and wife," he continued, emphasizing words already known, "with all the obligations and commitments that union imposes."

"Ian, that's..." the laugh that escaped Oliver's lips carried not even a hint of amusement, it was a gray echo. "Impossible. Some things simply don't... happen, you know."

Ian closed his eyes tightly, as if trying to block out the words or the images they invoked.

"Can we please change the subject?" The request came haltingly, each word imbued with visible effort. "Thinking about it is eating me up inside."

"Alright," Oliver yielded without argument, though his mind stubbornly spun like a compass pointing only to his troubles.

They leaned into a new silence that spread between them like toxic smoke.

The quiet was broken when Oliver least expected it.

"Did you accept the invitation?" Ian's question finally opened a breach in the wall of the unspoken between them. The forced casualness in his tone was almost comical in its transparency. "For the coffee. Did you say yes?"

"Yes," Oliver admitted, and some part of him knew that Ian wanted to say more than he was willing to admit openly. "You might as well ask me to refuse," he suggested.

Ian shot an impassive look at Oliver.

"I'm not your owner, Oliver," he retorted, with a dose of acidity in his voice. Oliver rolled his eyes, not giving him a reply that might lead to an unnecessary argument, but after reflecting for a second, Ian relented. "Sorry," he redeemed himself, bringing his arm back to wrap around Oliver's torso, "I really hate all of this."

"Both of us," Oliver agreed, his words a caress in the form of sound, and he left a kiss on Ian's shoulder, a signature of his silent promise. "But let's not turn against each other, alright?"

The sigh Ian exhaled was as if he had released his very fears, and within the serenity of that moment, he allowed himself to say:

"I don't want you to go," his words were whispers, hums in the dark, confessions that perhaps only found courage in the absence of light. "I'm consumed by jealousy," he punctuated, but it wasn't enough. "The very thought of you with her makes me want to... build a castle, lock you in it, and it be just us, away from the rest of the world."

Oliver laughed, a soft melody to lighten the weight of Ian's speech.

"That sounds a bit... extreme," he teased, feeling the tension between them begin to dissipate.

"And totally irrational, I know," Ian admitted, and his nervous laugh joined Oliver's as he pulled Oliver's body closer, until his heart could feel its beat. "I had no idea I could feel something like this for anyone. It's terrifying. As if just the thought of losing you could destroy me."

"I love you," more than words, it was a solemn vow, whispered in the space between them. "You will never lose me, understood? Never."

The response came in a kiss, their lips meeting in a sweet collision.

Oliver's fingers found Ian's curls, damp from the recent bath, as they caressed the graceful line of his neck.

When their lips finally parted, Ian looked at him, his eyes brimming with fragile hope.

"Promise?" he whispered.

Oliver cupped Ian's face in his hands, his heart restless.

"With everything I am," he affirmed.

And he said it with conviction.