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.

Ian rolled his eyes, but a smile escaped his chapped lips from the cold. The cheerful expression, however, was replaced by a sudden shadow, and Ian averted his gaze again, his face taken over by a clear melancholy.

"I just..." he began, his explanation lost in the tense silence. "I knew this moment would come, Oliver. I just didn't imagine it would affect me this much," he confessed, his eyes meeting Oliver's with unexpected vulnerability.

Ian had the peculiar habit of metaphorizing his feelings, and Oliver often had to decipher the nuances.

"This moment? What are you talking about?"

"The day you'd find your future wife," he responded directly. Oliver could feel the frustration in his words, as if each syllable were a fragment of his broken heart.

Oliver rolled his eyes, dramatically.

"Wife? Ian, I just met Princess Sofia and have no plans to marry her."

"Please, Oliver, you know the succession rules. And she was the only one you really talked to," Ian retorted, his intense gaze piercing Oliver. "You even flirted!"

"Ian," Oliver released his hand, a mix of irritation and strange satisfaction at seeing him jealous. "Have you ever seen me flirt?"

"I don't think I've had the opportunity," Ian replied, his cheeks blushing violently, as if caught in a lie.

"Exactly," Oliver affirmed with a shy smile. "I usually throw myself into the laps of half-naked counselors on deserted rural roads."

Ian's eyebrows arched in surprise, and then the blush on his cheeks intensified, creating a lovely contrast with his scowling expression. An involuntary smile curved Oliver's lips as he approached, fascinated by his transparent vulnerability.

"It's not funny," Ian murmured, simulating a reproach that sounded more like a childish lament, his lips forming an irresistible pout that made Oliver want to touch them.

Oliver delicately touched his arm, watching the movement of his fingers over the rough, sturdy fabric of the coat, feeling the tension in Ian's body begin to dissipate. The warmth of his skin radiated, awakening a warm sensation within Oliver.

"You know I have no interest in this marriage business, Ian. And you heard the princess; she doesn't care about it either."

"She only said that not to seem desperate," he countered with certainty, making Oliver reflect if he was being naive. "I saw how she looked at you," his voice then reduced to a reluctant murmur. "I see how everyone looks at you."

Oliver looked up, finding a sad glint in Ian's deep brown eyes, like a dry leaf floating in a clear lake.

"I only care about how you look at me," Oliver said, and Ian seemed to melt his wall, turning to face him. The rustle of his coat echoed softly as the cold wind blew through his dark hair. Noting the effect of his words, Oliver decided to make his final move. "How do you see me, Ian?"

In the dim light of the terrace, Ian's eyes roved over Oliver, capturing a moment that transcended time. The cold seemed to fade, giving way to latent warmth that quickened Oliver's breath in anticipation. The silver glow of the moon reflected in Ian's eyes, creating a hypnotic dance of light and shadow on his face.

"Do you really want to know?" He whispered, his voice hoarse and alluring like the purr of a feline, his close presence intoxicating Oliver with the woody scent of his skin. His warm breath brushed Oliver's face, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Of course," Oliver responded in a whisper, his eyes shining with expectation.

"You were... unexpected, I can say that," Ian began, as if unraveling his thoughts aloud. "I can't lie about how absurdly attractive you are. It would be outrageous to deny it. But now I feel like you are something precious, something I didn't know, and now that I do, I sincerely wish I had never discovered." He paused, letting his words hang like smoke. "Because it will be hell trying to live without it."

"Ian," Oliver sighed, closing the slight gap between them by wrapping his arms around Ian's shoulders in a loose embrace. "I already told you, you don't have to give up anything," he assured, though his eyes silently contradicted him, deep wells of repressed emotion. "I don't plan on going anywhere."

Ian reluctantly yielded to Oliver's embrace, as if the momentary fusion could erase the inevitable dividing lines between them. His body gradually relaxed against Oliver's, and he could feel Ian's accelerated heartbeat against his chest.

"You have to," Ian stated with subtle resignation, bringing his arms around Oliver's waist, his hands resting at the base of his back. The warmth of his palms burned through the fabric of Oliver's shirt.

"Look," Oliver began, between an impatient sigh, feeling the rarefied air between them. "You were the one who came into my life out of nowhere with this fixed idea of marriage." The accusation came exasperatedly, and Ian rolled his eyes at the irony that permeated their conversations. As he brought Oliver closer, it was as if the physical distance compensated for the closeness of their truths, their bodies fitting into a tight embrace. "You are the one pushing me into a reality I didn't ask for and don't want to accept."

His eyes, mysterious and unfathomable, studied Oliver.

"I know what you are thinking," Ian stated with somber certainty. "You were filled with hope when you met the princess, because she seemed like a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean, weren't you? As if she were altruistic enough to accept a sham marriage while we stay together in secret," he narrated Oliver's thought process with almost brutal precision. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, Your Royal Highness, but I guarantee you that Princess Sofia is interested in much more than a title."

"Well, I'm not," Oliver cut in, lifting his chin in defiance. Their faces were so close that Oliver could feel the heat radiating from Ian's skin, like the ember of a crackling fire. Ian's eyes were two pools of liquid amber, reflecting the flickering light of the surrounding lamps. Their breaths mingled, creating small clouds of condensation in the cold night air. "Ian, nothing in this argument makes sense," Oliver stated, determined. His lips almost brushed Ian's with each word spoken. "You know exactly how I feel about you, about the princess, about this whole stupidity." Something still bothered Oliver about Ian's speech, like an out-of-tune string in a perfect symphony. "Besides, you can't just say you like me and then try to push me away as if it weren't the most contradictory thing in the world."

Ian, surprising Oliver, moved even closer. 

His face was so near that Oliver could count every long lash framing his mesmerizing eyes. His lips, soft as rose petals, curved into a brief and unexpectedly sweet smile.

Calmly, his velvety deep voice reverberated between them: "I never said I liked you."

A disbelieving laugh escaped Oliver's lips, the audacity of those words leaving him astounded.

"Oh, right," Oliver agreed, his voice laden with sarcasm. "Sorry for assuming."

In a fluid motion, Ian leaned in, his lips grazing Oliver's ear in a ghostly caress. His warm breath sent shivers down Oliver's spine as he whispered, "I think I misled you."

His fingers gently pressed against Oliver's back, sending sparks of electricity throughout his body.

But before Oliver could respond, form any smart retort, his feet tangled in the uneven deck, and in an instant, gravity betrayed them. They fell backward, plunging into the icy pool water like two stones tossed into a crystal-clear lake. Waves formed around them, enveloping them in a whirlwind of bubbles and scattered droplets.

For an endless moment, they completely lost their sense of up and down, suspended in that aquatic limbo. The world went silent, only the bubbling of the water in their ears.

Then, as quickly as the fall, Ian surfaced, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, but his eyes shining like hazel gems polished by the clear water. Struggling to maintain his dignity after that unexpected plunge, Oliver followed, emerging with a gasp.

An involuntary smile blossomed on Oliver's lips at the sight of Ian there, as beautiful as a Greek god carved in marble.

Their panting breaths were the only audible sound in the nocturnal silence. Trembling from cold and anticipation, Oliver moved closer, nestling in Ian's arms. Ian received him in his embrace, his lips, purple from the cold, stretching into an easy smile.

"Fucking fuck," Oliver repeated emphatically. 

But the final lament drowned in his throat as Ian's warm mouth climbed his wet skin, leaving a burning trail where his soft lips passed. A hoarse whisper of satisfaction escaped Oliver's lips when Ian sucked the sensitive skin below his ear.

Without hesitation, Oliver wrapped his legs around Ian's waist, wanting to eliminate any remaining space between their bodies. The biting cold of the water no longer mattered — all Oliver could feel was the scorching heat radiating from Ian, consuming him from within.

Oliver didn't understand why they were still in that freezing pool, but when Ian's strong hands invaded the heavy fabric of his pants, holding him firmly against his hip, all intentions of leaving the cold water vanished like smoke in the night air.

With a voice trembling with anticipation, Oliver teased, "You should keep your word for once, you know?" He tilted his head back, offering full access to his neck, shoulder, jaw. The bare skin tingled from the kisses Ian distributed leisurely. "In the palace, behind a locked door, it was inappropriate, but in an open-air pool, it doesn't seem out of bounds for you."

Ian laughed against Oliver's skin, and he automatically shivered with the contrast of his warm breath on his cold body. His lips traced a seductive line along Oliver's collarbone, making his heart race.

"You may or may not have opened a portal," Ian joked, his deep and seductive voice resonating in Oliver's ears. Oliver brought a finger to Ian's angular chin, lifting his face to level with his own.

"A fearless Ian?" Oliver whispered, his lips a millimeter from Ian's, feeling his warm breath like a caress. "I gladly accept him."

When they finally kissed, it was as if the world around them disappeared. Oliver forgot about the pool's cold, the strange argument from minutes before, the inescapable situation they were in. In that moment, all that mattered were Ian's lips on his, his tongue spreading the reminder of the wine they drank at dinner across Oliver's palate in such a subtle and irresistible way that it left him dizzy.

Oliver's hands roamed Ian's back, feeling every tense muscle beneath the wet clothing. Their breaths mingled in a panting cadence of desire when they parted slightly.

"We should go to my room," Oliver suggested with a contained moan.

But Ian just walked to the edge of the pool and pressed Oliver's back against the tile, colder than the water itself.

Oliver moaned in protest, but the sound was lost in the night air when Ian's hand slid inside the wet pants, wrapping him in a warm, firm grip. An electric shiver ran down Oliver's spine as Ian began a slow torture, touching him with experienced and precise movements.

Oliver's head fell back in a silent sigh, exposing the sensitive line of his neck to Ian's hungry lips and teeth.

"You were saying?" Ian's husky voice reverberated against Oliver's skin. His hand moved with more urgency, alternating between delicate caresses and firm squeezes that elicited stifled moans from Oliver.

"Keep going," Oliver whispered, surrendered and inexplicably warm against Ian's body despite the cold. He seemed to know exactly what to do, skillfully guiding Oliver to pleasure with each touch. "You're good at this," he admitted with a trembling voice, and Ian laughed softly, his warm breath caressing Oliver's tingling skin.

"Actually, I have extensive experience in this area," Ian teased with a mischievous tone, and a blush of embarrassment threatened to cover Oliver's face — but he could always blame the weather. Ian fitted his lips over Oliver's in a slow kiss, his tongue gliding smoothly against Oliver's. "I never imagined I'd find such... practical applications for this skill set," he murmured against Oliver's mouth.

Oliver would have laughed at Ian's suggestive tone, at his deliberate choice of words, if he weren't so completely lost in the waves of pleasure enveloping him. His attention was focused solely on the point where Ian's hand caressed him, sending incandescent sparks throughout his body.

"I'm still surprised you've never done this before," Oliver responded, completely distracted.

Ian captured Oliver's lower lip between his own, dragging it deliberately, his gaze burning like embers. Oliver felt the heat of Ian's panting breath, the gentle pressure of his soft lips, as he swallowed Oliver's soft appreciative sighs.

"Can I be completely honest with you?" Ian murmured, his voice so low it was almost imperceptible between the roar of blood pulsing in Oliver's ears. He nodded silently, unable to form coherent words. "If I'd known what it's like to see you like this, lost in pleasure from my hands, I would have done this a long time ago."

Ian's words hit Oliver, triggering an inevitable reaction.

His entire body surrendered to the delicious ecstasy that coursed through him in trembling waves, a muffled cry escaping his lips as Ian silenced him with a cheeky, smiling kiss.

Oliver allowed himself to completely give in, surrendering to the sensations.

For a brief moment, the public setting, the biting cold of the water, and the dangers seemed insignificant. When he opened his eyes, he was confronted by Ian's penetrating gaze, his irises darkened with desire, his jaw tense and lips trembling. But Ian's gaze was unique, as if he could decipher every layer of Oliver's skin, unravel his essence with a single touch.

His voice caught in his dry throat, and the cold began to seep back into his bones, but he managed to articulate: "Let's get out of here. I don't want to freeze to death before we finish this." 

A mischievous smile curved Ian's lips at the implicit promise.

They hurriedly left the pool, their soaked coats leaving a trail of water across the stone floor to the elevator and, from there, to Oliver's room. The first thing that occurred to them upon crossing the threshold was to run to the shower, and they did so between low laughs, stripping each other's wet clothes with barely contained urgency.

Under the scalding torrent, Oliver managed to calm down considerably, and Ian seemed more at ease with his presence.

Ian's strong arms enveloped Oliver again, and a relieved sigh escaped Ian's lips as he was wrapped in the comfort of Oliver's embrace. Oliver brought his hands to Ian's face, leaning in to capture his mouth in a deep kiss, and he responded immediately. Ian's large hands explored every inch of Oliver's body as he pushed him against the shower wall, driven to merge with him completely.

Oliver pulled back with a subtle sigh, watching Ian with barely contained desire as his long, wet lashes slowly opened, revealing his smoldering gaze.

"I still owe you one," Oliver reminded with a smile, which Ian returned as he watched him kneel, fixing his knees on the cold marble.

◃───────────▹

Ian's lazy voice broke the silence between them as his torso nestled against Oliver's back, his chin resting on his shoulder.

Oliver's fingers played with Ian's, creating a thin boundary between reality and unconsciousness.

Ian's question roused him slightly, but Oliver kept his eyes closed.

"You never told me what you were doing in Paris," he remarked, and Oliver's response flowed smoothly, matching the tranquility of the moment.

"Well, I was doing a PhD in English Literature at the Sorbonne," Oliver explained. "It's what I always wanted to do, actually."

"Literature? I haven't realized you were a romantic," Ian teased, a perceptible smile in his tone.

"Incurable," Oliver emphasized, feeling Ian's muffled laughter against his hand as he gently turned to face him.

"Do you write about me?" He asked almost shyly.

Oliver understood the reluctance to sleep, the desire to prolong the moment.

"I might have written something," Oliver responded enthusiastically, making Ian raise his eyebrows in surprise.

"Really?" He insisted.

Oliver remained silent for a moment, trying to conjure some witty reply in his sleep-addled mind.

"Something about your eyelashes while you go down on me," he half-joked, eliciting laughter from Ian.

"Seriously, Oliver," he scolded, and the warmth in Oliver's chest persisted every time Ian said his name. "Not that I don't appreciate a good erotic story," Ian joked, making him laugh again, "but I wanted to be more than just another one of your French girls."

That was the Ian Oliver had fallen in love with. The humble Eton boy, with his silly jokes and a smile that could dissolve wars.

"I promise to give you more credit in the future," he said, feeling a broad hand press against the center of his back, bringing them closer. Oliver sighed involuntarily when Ian rested his forehead against his, their calm breaths mingling.

"Don't fall sleep," Ian whispered, and a smile bloomed on Oliver's lips.

"Okay," he agreed, opening his eyes only to find that Ian's had been closed the whole time, fighting off sleep. "What do you want to know about Paris?"

"Did you have someone?" Came the simple, but unexpected question.

"No," Oliver replied with the same simplicity, and Ian murmured something, indicating he was listening. "I had a few casual dates, yes, but none lasted more than a night."

"Fear of commitment?" Ian teased, his tone light and non-accusatory. "Doesn't quite fit the profile of an incurable romantic writer."

Oliver shrugged. "Well, I just never found anyone worth having in my chaotic personal space."

"I'm kind of doing that now, aren't I?" Ian's observation was like a push to the edge of reality.

Oliver hadn't been avoiding getting involved until then, but with Ian, everything was so natural, so easy, like he had never experienced before.

He let his eyes wander over Ian's face, almost asleep.

"Yes, you are," Oliver replied, without elaborating or questioning.

"What makes me different?" Another unfair question, and Oliver found himself without answers. "Please don't say my eyelashes or my majestic blowjobs."

Oliver chuckled softly, letting himself be enveloped by Ian's warmth under the soft sheets, a comfort he never expected to feel.

"Nothing, you're just... you."

"Is that good?" Ian's voice was almost inaudible, and Oliver didn't even know if he was fully conscious at that moment.

"It is..." Oliver kissed his lips briefly, feeling Ian's breathing become longer and more even. He had fallen asleep. "Terrifying."